Today’s post will be a catch up of what is going on with me, because I just can’t keep up with all the emails from back home with questions.
First, I moved from Cuadra Dos today, after spending my first month back in Cuenca there. I will miss it. The site at night, in particular, I enjoyed; and there is still some mountain scenery to behold. At $850.00 per month, it’s less than $30.00 per night, and includes everything, nicely furnished, and all utensils, appliances, bedding, everything. This 1,200 sq. ft. apartment is a beautiful three bedroom, two bath, with living, dining, and separate laundry room with washer and dryer. Another nice feature in this seventh floor penthouse is the balcony that extends across the living room and two of the bedrooms. Cuadra Dos is nicely located, and only about a mile and a half from Parke Calderon, the heart of El Centro and the city of Cuenca. Try to find a deluxe hotel room for less than $30.00 a night in Cuenca, let alone an entirely furnished condo with twenty-four hour security.
The apartment is currently available on Cuenca Real-Estate.com
http://www.cuencarealestate.com/Listings.aspx?type=2
Today I temporarily moved into a studio apartment across from the San Francisco Market in the heart of El Centro until I find an unfurnished apartment to my liking. The studio has been completely refinished from an office space, and with all new furnishings. I am the first to use the studio and furnishings. I am on the quiet side of the building facing of all things a large square composed of an extensive garden of vegetables, fruits, and flowers. The garden is part of a monastery, which completely surrounds three sides of the square. I believe the order of nuns who live in the monastery are cloistered, which means they do not have contact with the outside world. While I have no balcony, I do have a view of the New Cathedral which is angled less than a block from me. At night the view is most impressive as the towers and the three large domes which are the hallmark of Cuenca are all flooded in lights. It will be interesting to see what it will be like to live in El Centro and only a block away from the beautiful Parke Calderon. I hope my close proximity does not curtail all the walking I have been doing. I want to continue my five to eight mile walks on most days, although lately we have been getting a great deal of rain. March and April are on average the highest precipitation months in Cuenca during the year.
Martha Abril San Pedro is the young woman who was responsible for helping me find the apartment, as well as having done the nice interior design herself. Martha is working on a similar apartment just below my current studio. Martha speaks fluent English and Italian. Her email is jos_amy@hotmail.com, and her phone number is 089 489 541, if you should need assistance in finding living accommodations, or help in purchasing furniture and applicances. She is warm, honest, and wanting to please her clients. I highly recommend her for assistance.
I have been adding to a restaurant list a friend shared with me, and already I’ve added a half a dozen more restaurants to it. We just had a three day festival celebrating the 449th year of the founding of Cuenca under the Spaniards. So yes, I’m basically eating my way through Cuenca with friends; doing some searching for a permanent residency; and walking and exploring the sites, furniture, and appliance stores. No, I still haven’t eaten cuy. I did have a sample of the pork at Feria Libre, but not with the sizzling skin. The pork was exceptionally juicy and flavorful.
No, I have not taken any photos, sorry. My new camera is still sitting in the luggage unopened. My Kindle is still sitting in my luggage untouched in its original package. I don’t have time to read right now, and I have been so happy with minimal electronic mayhem in my life with which to deal. The cell phone down here has been enough to figure out. If you buy minutes from one phone company, then you need to buy additional minutes to make calls to numbers using different phone companies, which cost more when one calls the number of someone who has a phone company different from the company you may be using. Not to mention, every time a recording comes on, I have no idea what the computerized voices are saying in Spanish. At least I was able to set the date and time on my phone all by myself. I now know how to put my contacts in the phone. When I’m not completely forgetful, I can almost remember how to retrieve my messages.
My cell phone has no camera, but it does have an A.M./F.M. radio with ear plugs. Yes, you’ve already guess, “hell will freeze over” before I figure how to make the radio work, and I would have to be nuts walking the streets of Cuenca with sound blasting in my ears as crazy as many drivers fly through intersections in this city. I don’t need to be bopping along the streets to “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” one minute, and after stepping off a curb to the screeching of brakes hearing, “Ain’t That a Shame” the next.
I did take my Franklin, English/Spanish Translator out. After three battery changes, I still could not get it to work. I don’t feel too bad about my not getting it to operate, however. It took a highly intelligent, Ivy League grad to figure out what the problem was. When I moved in to my new pad today, the T.V. worked, and hallelujah, the WIFI worked without a hitch. I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. The Kindle and Nikon can sit in the luggage for a while longer.
That’s about it for now. Oh, I am plugging away with my Spanish on my own, which would be just fine, if I would just discipline myself to be consistent daily with my lessons. My son, Chris, finishes his second tour of duty in Iraq in early June. Whether or not he intends to visit family at all during that time in the Chicago area before reporting to Hawaii will affect whether I come home to visit in late June/early July. Otherwise, I will probably not make a trip to the states until August. Cui’date! Life in Cuenca has been good-very good. Jim Mola
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The Rememberances of Another Time Found in Cuenca
When I first came to Cuenca in the summer of 2010, I often heard expats who had lived here for a time say that Cuenca is like living in the United States in the 1950’s. One couple in their 70’s compared Cuenca with living back home in the 1940’s. I had always wanted to explore in what ways modern day Cuenca compares with the United States or Canada back in the 40’s and 50’s, but I never found or made the time until now to do so. Obviously, I can reflect back to what I remember of that time period, and also, keep in mind, that I am writing from the perspective of my experiences as a young boy.
I was born in 1946, which was the first year of the beginning of the onslaught of the baby-boomers. The oldest of three boys, my life began by living in an apartment above my paternal grandparents, both of whom were immigrants from Sicily. My dad’s sister and her family lived next door in a home also owned by my grandparents. My dad’s oldest sister lived a block down from my grandparents, and his youngest brother and sister were living at home with my grandparents and were in their mid and late teens at the time of my birth. My dad’s youngest brother lived at home with his parents until he married in his 30’s. My dad’s youngest sister would never marry, and lived at home taking care of my grandmother until her passing in 1970. My dad’s two married sisters both wedded men who were born in Italy. My dad and his two brothers, on the other hand, all married non-Italian girls. His older brother, Tony was the only sibling who when I was born did not live in the Italian neighborhood, but lived on the other side of town in the Polish neighborhood, which was the ethnic background of his wife, Julie.
Like in Ecuador today strong family ties and close-by living proximity of parents and their adult offspring was typical and expected. My grandparents took that proximity a step further, because there were two sets of Molas. We were the Olcott Mola’s, because we lived on Olcott Avenue. Then there were the Todd Avenue Mola’s who lived on the opposite side of the block across the alley from my grandparents. My grandmother’s sister and my grandfather’s brother were also married to each other and they constituted the Todd Avenue Molas. Each time my grandmother’s sister had a child, then when my grandmother had a child, my grandmother would give the same sex child the same name. Therefore, the Molas had two Jimmy’s, two Rosies, two Carmelas, etc. Since I was named after my father that made three Jimmys, and yes as I grew older all the same names at times became confusing for people.
Living in an industrialized satellite city of Chicago, all the ethnic neighborhoods were staunchly Catholic and life was centered around the church. The Italians built their church during the depression, and they built it themselves. They named it the Immaculate Conception. The pastor of the church was from the old country, and while the Italians were late comers to other ethnic groups in the city to building their own grade school, by 1952 they had opened a new school and the Pastor had brought nuns from an order in Italy to the United States to staff the new facility.
What I remember most about the church, which made it unique not only to Catholic churches in Cuenca, but also to Catholic churches in the United States was the fact that when the church was built the parishioners also built a bowling alley behind the sanctuary. The alleys had pin boys whose job it was to remove the bowling pins that had been knocked over in the previous roll. From what I can remember, the pin boys would brace themselves above the pins with both feet on side beams, and after the roll they would jump down, and clear the felled pins. I imagine that although not exactly the Italian lawn bowling game known as Bocce, which originated with the Romans, there were cultural carryovers that led to the church’s construction of the bowling alleys.
On an occasional Sunday morning, at the age of four or five, I would sneak into mass by myself. I would look back and up at the choir loft, and wave to my aunt who sang in the choir. There was a round stain glass window above the choir loft, and I remember on a sunny day the eastern sun radiating through the glass and into the church. When my mother found out from my aunt that I had been to church, my mother scolded me because I was dirty from playing, and from wearing only my play clothes, which were not exactly the proper “going-to-church on Sunday” attire. I guess my mom was concerned about what the neighbors would think. I think God was just glad to see me in Church,
Some of the immigrant Italians made efforts to learn English, and some like my grandparents chose not to. Unlike Ecuadorian homes here in Ecuador where grandkids can communicate with their grandparents without a problem. I was rarely close to my Italian grandparents in part because of language barriers. A mixture of English and Italian was always used in my grandparent’s home. My uncles and aunts used Italian to communicate with their parents, and they used it with one another when they didn’t want us kids to understand what they were talking about.
Whenever my grandmother would talk to me, I would hope my dad or one of my Italian uncles or aunts would be close by to translate for me. However, when the occasions arose as they inevitably would when I was on my own with my grandmother, all I could do was smile and nod my head and say yes to whatever she appeared to be asking me. My grandmother would smile and whatever I was agreeing to was certainly making her happy, and she would grab me by my cheek (sometimes both cheeks) as she continued in Italian. I was always nervous because I knew it would just be a matter of time when I would respond to something with yes when I should have responded with a no. Nana’s smile would disappear, the tone of her voice would change, and here it comes, the slap across the face.
In Cuenca, I can see cows grazing on open lots; walk pass goats grazing in front yards; or occasionally observe goats being herded along the streets to possibly other grazing lands, or to market, or possibly to shelter. I may spot chickens in the front yards of Cuencano homes, sometimes of breeds unfamiliar to me in the states, or I listen to the howl of dogs at night and the crow of roosters in the morning. Not all of this domestic animal excitement existed in my Italian grandparent’s community. However, my grandmother and I would go down to the next block and enter a store filled with live chickens each in its separate cage stacked upon one another--just stack after stack of live hens. My grandmother would buy one chicken, take it home and feed it until it became nice and plump. Although her next action was never done in front of me, my grandmother would make the hen an offer it must have refused; because suddenly in typical Italian style, my grandmother would ring its neck, pick the feathers, gut the bird, clean the chicken, cook it, and serve it for dinner.
One time, my grandmother bought a goose, which she kept in the basement. I being only four or five years old was scared to death of the bird. It was as big as me. I thought it was an ostrich, and if I so much as entered the basement that goose would take after me hissing. I’m embarrassed to admit how old I was before a relative enlightened me that that bird was no ostrich.
My grandparents had a small back yard, which was used exclusively for growing garden vegetables and fresh herbs. There was also either one or two cherry trees, which radiantly blossomed in the spring, and were resplendent with cherries in the summer. When my grandparents were not working in the garden, my grandmother would be busy working in the kitchen; baking, peeling potatoes, making sauces, doing the myriad of things that was required for her to feed her family for each of the three meals per day. She particularly would be busy preparing for the Sunday meals when all of the family would generally be present. Like any good Italian mother, she took delight in her family enjoying what she had prepared. Much of life and celebration was centered around food. No matter how much one ate, Nana, was always there to encourage everyone to eat more. To say no, to her solicitations, would bring out of her one of those rare phrases of English, "What, you no like"? I was an adult before it was finally explained to me that in an Italian home one never completely clears one's dish. Always leave a small portion on the plate to indicate you are finished eating. Somehow I'm not sure if that practice would have stopped my grandmother from encouraging more, "You like? Have some more."
My grandmother developed stomach cancer in the summer of 1970. In the final months she lied in bed as family members would take turns staying with her. On a few occasions, I was with my grandmother, just the two of us. The barrier of language could not stand in the way of empathy that existed in her last months. That little lady, who had endured so much during her life, would continuously rise off of her bed and stacked pillows with a hacking cough from the cancer. Yet she would still be able to smile at me and say to me whatever she would be saying in Italian. It didn’t matter what it was or that I didn’t understand hardly a word. Just the tone in her voice denoted to me that whatever she had to say was pleasing. It was at these times when I was closest to my grandmother. We buried her on New Year’s Eve, 1970.
The primary point of interest in my grandfather’s basement was the fact that he had his own wine cellar. I can still till this day remember the aroma of the wine, the vats and kegs, and how the aroma had permeated itself into the very wood of the structures. My grandfather died at the age of 76 in 1958, so if there was any chance of learning how to make my own wine the old fashion way, it died with him.
My grandfather’s generation of men, most of whom worked in the brickyards of the railroads, spoke little if any English. They would gather outside the local corner grocery store of Mr. Morelli’s. I would hang out with them, running about, listening to all the conversation swirling about me in Italian and never understanding a word, except the occasional word of English, or "capish" (you understand) and “you son-of-a-bitch” (pronounced "you son of a beech"); which believe me when the appropriate emphasis is placed upon the vowels as only Italians can do, and the fingers come together on the one hand, raised, and shaking in the direction of the intended, the latter becomes a very Italian word.
There was only one day a week during the warm seasons when the old Italian men, each in their caps that distinguished them from their sons’ generation, would abandon the corner. That was the one day each week when the Salvation Army band came to play and sing praises to the Lord on the corner. These “Onward Christian Soldiers”, the men in their military style uniforms, and the women with their long skirts and blue bonnets that tied into a bow along the side of their faces would play music with their drum, guitars, bass, and brass horns. The sound of this band and the singing of the “old time religious hymns” had to be so foreign to the ears of this Italian community that was cultured in the pop music of the likes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Rosemary Clooney, and Julius LaRosa, on one hand; and Gregorian Chant, and Enrico Caruso and Mario Lanza on the other. Yet in a sense that Salvation Army band was a part of that community just by the fact that it was faithfully there on that corner in front of Mr. Morelli’s store that one day a week, week after week, and year after year during the warm seasonal months performing what they felt called to do.
I remember the sticky fly paper strips hanging from the ceiling on our enclosed sun porch at the back of the apartment. The small screens that opened horizontally and were placed between the open window and the window ledge to let in whatever breeze could be found among homes that were only a few feet apart from one another, and which did a poor job of keeping out the mosquitoes. The closeness of the homes in the summer also made family arguments the neighbor’s business whether neighbors chose to listen or not. I remember my mother heating water on the stove in a huge galvanized bucket, so we could have hot water for bathing, and how the sunlight reflected off the water and onto the ceiling and bounced about the ceiling as the water came to a boil. I remember the junk man coming down the alley with his buckboard and horse to accumulate whatever junk people had for him. I remember the milkman daily delivering milk in reusable glass bottles, the mail man who everybody knew by name, and the insurance man who came to personally collect his monthly premium. I remember the knife man, who came to the corner with his knife sharpening cart which had one wheel that allowed him to lift his cart like a wheel barrel and move it from place to place, clanging a bell to get the neighborhood’s attention that the knife man was ready to ply his trade. He would pedal, and the straps and grinders began to move as he held the knife handles and their blades in place for sharpening. The iceman would arrive to bring the large blocks of ice for the iceboxes of neighbors who had yet to own a refrigerator. I remember the occasional visits of the coal man. The back of his truck filled with coal as he cranked it up, and the coal would slide down the shoot into a huge pile on the basement floor. I remember my grandfather shoveling coal into the roaring fire of the monstrous furnace during the winter months. I also remember the lickings I would get when I was covered with coal dust from playing in the pile.
Many of these jobs may not exist in Cuenca today, but there are many comparable jobs that allow Cuecanos to have jobs in this society—jobs that could quickly disappear in Ecuador as they already have over the generations in the United States as technological change not only altered employment shifts, but also made the need particularly for massive numbers of unskilled labor obsolete. In the 50’s in the United States all a man needed was a strong back. He could find gainful employment, and with that the dignity of being a breadwinner for his family. It appears to still be that way in Cuenca.
The sense of community was also there in the 1950s. People knew their mailman, the milkman, their insurance man, their doctor. These were people who came into their homes on a regular basis, and in a sense became an extension of the family, and definitely were a part of the community.
As I see Cuencanos make their way to the cabinas, the local barber or beautician, the little neighborhood family-owned stores and bakeries, or just watching neighborhood women gathering to chat; I see the kind of community that once existed in the United States. Today, the local folks have their amuerozo (mid-day meal and usually the main meal of the day) and cena (supper) in the small local neighborhood restaurants or at home. The midday breaks from school and work offer families the opportunity to be together for a couple of hours, as many Ecuadorian businesses close for about three hours in the afternoon. A tradition that for the most part still continues to a large extent throughout Ecuador. I watch as the mothers pick up their young ones from school or meet them at the bus; and it reminds me of living in a community as a child where we could walk home for lunch, our mother there to greet us and have lunch ready, talking with family, and as we got older maybe some T.V. watching before a return to school.
The local ice cream man who bicycles his ice cream carriage through the current neighborhood where I live in Zona Rosa is reminiscent of the ice cream boys who bicycled down the streets without the built-in umbrellas the Cuenca bicyclers have today. The boys would pedal and while pedaling would ring by hand the bells built into their handles. I always marveled as a kid as to how the inside of the casing was cold and all this smoke would come out of the casing that held the stored ice cream, and yet it didn’t melt the ice cream. Later, I would come to understand the phenomena of dry ice.
Like most families in the 1950’s we were a one car family. When my mother wanted to go shopping to larger business districts than our local downtown; the bus, just like in Cuenca, was the main means of transportation. The buses were often very crowded especially during rush hours, and it was not unusual to find ourselves standing during much of the trip, particularly when homeward bound from a day of shopping. And just like in Cuenca, the bus left behind its calling card of exhaust fumes. Disembarked passengers or those waiting for a different numbered bus may shrivel their noses in a pinched-type manner or look away in the aftermath of the fumes. However, no one in the 1950’s and 60’s expected it to be any other way. Exhaust fumes were just something you endured.
As I observe kids play in the neighborhoods and out on the streets of Cuenca. Sometimes I have been surprised at how much they can be on their own with little supervision. Yet that was exactly the way it was for me growing up. I had the run of the neighborhood. My mother often did not know where I was as she was in the upstairs apartment. This is no criticism of my mother. She was and is a wonderful mom. It was just the way it was for most kids in the neighborhood. We could be gone for hours on our bikes as we became older and no one worried. One day in Cuenca I saw a little guy who didn’t look any older than four years old standing behind a parked pickup truck on Avenue of the Americas, a very busy street. The adults were talking and obviously loss sight of him. Yet, it reminded me of when I was that age and would walk one block over to a street as busy as Avenue of America. The neighbor lady would call my mother and inform her of my whereabouts. Everybody knew everybody in the neighborhood, and everybody felt a responsibility for everyone, particularly for the kids in the neighborhood. Crime was so low that people did not lock their cars and often did not lock their homes when they were away. Why, one could grab hold of the lip on the ignition and start the car without a key. I know. I did it many times.
When I was on the street, I was everywhere in the neighborhood. I was across the street from my grandparent’s visiting with Frank the shoemaker, or upstairs above the shoe shop visiting with my baby-sitter, Jean, and her dad, who made a living hanging wall paper. I might be down the block talking to one of the parish priests with whatever conversation a four or five year old had on his mind. There were my frequent trips to Mr. Morelli’s store talking with him and his wife, and buying some penny candy. I might be down the block at my uncle’s bar and restaurant. My Uncle Al was always good for an eight ounce bottle of coke, and my favorite, Hershey bar with almonds. The booze was off limits to me. Above his bar and restaurant lived my Uncle Mike and Aunt Carmela and my three cousins. My uncle and aunt had at one time owned the restaurant below. I can still remember one day of studiously focusing my attention on the picture of the mammy on the box of Aunt Jemima pancake mix, as my aunt went about her business making me a stack of pancakes. Why that image would become imprinted on my little mind, I have no idea. I would hang out at the Ricardi’s. My parents would tease me that the Ricardi’s youngest daughter, Catherine, who was much older than I, was my girl friend; because I spent so much time with her. Catherine’s younger brother, Joey, who after returning from one of his local fishing expeditions would bring the fish home—blue gills, bass, sun fish. He couldn’t get me to gut them, but I would try to help Joey scrape the scales off the fish with a knife. Just in living everyday as a kid, there was so much to learn from the adults and older kids around us. Like osmosis, I took in the culture around me without ever thinking of it as learning. I was just simply being.
I don’t know what kind of festivals and processions my grandparents left behind in Italy in the early part of the twentieth century. Nor do I know to what extent these events are as prevalent in Italy today as they are in Ecuador. I do know that our Italian neighborhood, outside of the annual church carnival and rides that are so prevalent in Catholic churches even today in the United States of any ethnic background or none at all, did not have the festivities and religious processions so common in Ecuador.
However, holidays like Christmas and Easter were big celebrations. The family gathered at my grandparent’s. The tree covered in lights, ornaments, and silver metallic ice cycles. Typical of a distinctively Italian flavor was the large Nativity scenes of stable, manger, and statues of all the characters of the Nativity story that were portrayed prominently in the home.
Of course while turkey and dressing were served, an Italian Christmas dinner would not be complete without pasta, a huge platter of meats that had simmered in the sauce, and no one made meatballs better than my grandmother, and there was still the Italian bread, and Italian-styled potatoes and all the trimmings.
The dining room buffet was enshrouded from one end to the other with Italian cookies and pastries. All made fresh by my Italian aunts—hard as rock genuine, Italian style biscotti (twice-baked cookies), which were made for dunking in hot beverages or in wine; an incredible assortment of cookies and cakes of various kinds, cannoli (stuffed with ricotta cheese), chocolate and vanilla pudding- filled cream puffs that my Aunt Rose would make, and which were always one of my favorites. Carbs and sugar were definitely the hallmark of the day of feasting.
Of course, those meat dishes of my childhood were the prosperous years of the post-war era. My father would remind me that gourmet meals of simple pasta cooked in garlic and olive oil, which had become a rage in restaurants in the 1990’s, and for which people were paying big bucks, were the depression meals upon which my dad and his siblings grew up and were glad to have.
At the age of five as I was about ready to begin school, my parents moved from the apartment above my grandparent’s home, and bought their first home on the other side of town in the very heavily Irish neighborhood. Although we were only a mile from my grandparents, and my other aunts and uncles had or would also leave the old neighborhood in search of their own homes, which eventually would lead to the movement out into the suburbs. A movement that began in the 50’s, but would accelerate in the 60’s. By the end of the 70’s the old timers had passed on, and the younger generation had moved on to be replaced by new waves of immigrant groups. Today, the Catholic church is still a church, but no longer Catholic. The school was closed in the 90’s, and two years ago the last family associated with the old neighborhood finally moved away. A neighborhood which was once so safe is now so dangerous.
The people living in this once Italian neighborhood today have no inkling of the life and community of people that once lived there. Nor would they care. This vibrant community of my early childhood exists today only in the memories of a dwindling number of souls, and in the cemeteries where one can see so many of the Italian names of those who once lived their lives out in this diminutive neighborhood of a by-gone era. I wonder how much longer, the aspects and values of Cuenca that are similar to that time period in my early childhood neighborhood will endure in Cuenca, itself?
I was born in 1946, which was the first year of the beginning of the onslaught of the baby-boomers. The oldest of three boys, my life began by living in an apartment above my paternal grandparents, both of whom were immigrants from Sicily. My dad’s sister and her family lived next door in a home also owned by my grandparents. My dad’s oldest sister lived a block down from my grandparents, and his youngest brother and sister were living at home with my grandparents and were in their mid and late teens at the time of my birth. My dad’s youngest brother lived at home with his parents until he married in his 30’s. My dad’s youngest sister would never marry, and lived at home taking care of my grandmother until her passing in 1970. My dad’s two married sisters both wedded men who were born in Italy. My dad and his two brothers, on the other hand, all married non-Italian girls. His older brother, Tony was the only sibling who when I was born did not live in the Italian neighborhood, but lived on the other side of town in the Polish neighborhood, which was the ethnic background of his wife, Julie.
Like in Ecuador today strong family ties and close-by living proximity of parents and their adult offspring was typical and expected. My grandparents took that proximity a step further, because there were two sets of Molas. We were the Olcott Mola’s, because we lived on Olcott Avenue. Then there were the Todd Avenue Mola’s who lived on the opposite side of the block across the alley from my grandparents. My grandmother’s sister and my grandfather’s brother were also married to each other and they constituted the Todd Avenue Molas. Each time my grandmother’s sister had a child, then when my grandmother had a child, my grandmother would give the same sex child the same name. Therefore, the Molas had two Jimmy’s, two Rosies, two Carmelas, etc. Since I was named after my father that made three Jimmys, and yes as I grew older all the same names at times became confusing for people.
Living in an industrialized satellite city of Chicago, all the ethnic neighborhoods were staunchly Catholic and life was centered around the church. The Italians built their church during the depression, and they built it themselves. They named it the Immaculate Conception. The pastor of the church was from the old country, and while the Italians were late comers to other ethnic groups in the city to building their own grade school, by 1952 they had opened a new school and the Pastor had brought nuns from an order in Italy to the United States to staff the new facility.
What I remember most about the church, which made it unique not only to Catholic churches in Cuenca, but also to Catholic churches in the United States was the fact that when the church was built the parishioners also built a bowling alley behind the sanctuary. The alleys had pin boys whose job it was to remove the bowling pins that had been knocked over in the previous roll. From what I can remember, the pin boys would brace themselves above the pins with both feet on side beams, and after the roll they would jump down, and clear the felled pins. I imagine that although not exactly the Italian lawn bowling game known as Bocce, which originated with the Romans, there were cultural carryovers that led to the church’s construction of the bowling alleys.
On an occasional Sunday morning, at the age of four or five, I would sneak into mass by myself. I would look back and up at the choir loft, and wave to my aunt who sang in the choir. There was a round stain glass window above the choir loft, and I remember on a sunny day the eastern sun radiating through the glass and into the church. When my mother found out from my aunt that I had been to church, my mother scolded me because I was dirty from playing, and from wearing only my play clothes, which were not exactly the proper “going-to-church on Sunday” attire. I guess my mom was concerned about what the neighbors would think. I think God was just glad to see me in Church,
Some of the immigrant Italians made efforts to learn English, and some like my grandparents chose not to. Unlike Ecuadorian homes here in Ecuador where grandkids can communicate with their grandparents without a problem. I was rarely close to my Italian grandparents in part because of language barriers. A mixture of English and Italian was always used in my grandparent’s home. My uncles and aunts used Italian to communicate with their parents, and they used it with one another when they didn’t want us kids to understand what they were talking about.
Whenever my grandmother would talk to me, I would hope my dad or one of my Italian uncles or aunts would be close by to translate for me. However, when the occasions arose as they inevitably would when I was on my own with my grandmother, all I could do was smile and nod my head and say yes to whatever she appeared to be asking me. My grandmother would smile and whatever I was agreeing to was certainly making her happy, and she would grab me by my cheek (sometimes both cheeks) as she continued in Italian. I was always nervous because I knew it would just be a matter of time when I would respond to something with yes when I should have responded with a no. Nana’s smile would disappear, the tone of her voice would change, and here it comes, the slap across the face.
In Cuenca, I can see cows grazing on open lots; walk pass goats grazing in front yards; or occasionally observe goats being herded along the streets to possibly other grazing lands, or to market, or possibly to shelter. I may spot chickens in the front yards of Cuencano homes, sometimes of breeds unfamiliar to me in the states, or I listen to the howl of dogs at night and the crow of roosters in the morning. Not all of this domestic animal excitement existed in my Italian grandparent’s community. However, my grandmother and I would go down to the next block and enter a store filled with live chickens each in its separate cage stacked upon one another--just stack after stack of live hens. My grandmother would buy one chicken, take it home and feed it until it became nice and plump. Although her next action was never done in front of me, my grandmother would make the hen an offer it must have refused; because suddenly in typical Italian style, my grandmother would ring its neck, pick the feathers, gut the bird, clean the chicken, cook it, and serve it for dinner.
One time, my grandmother bought a goose, which she kept in the basement. I being only four or five years old was scared to death of the bird. It was as big as me. I thought it was an ostrich, and if I so much as entered the basement that goose would take after me hissing. I’m embarrassed to admit how old I was before a relative enlightened me that that bird was no ostrich.
My grandparents had a small back yard, which was used exclusively for growing garden vegetables and fresh herbs. There was also either one or two cherry trees, which radiantly blossomed in the spring, and were resplendent with cherries in the summer. When my grandparents were not working in the garden, my grandmother would be busy working in the kitchen; baking, peeling potatoes, making sauces, doing the myriad of things that was required for her to feed her family for each of the three meals per day. She particularly would be busy preparing for the Sunday meals when all of the family would generally be present. Like any good Italian mother, she took delight in her family enjoying what she had prepared. Much of life and celebration was centered around food. No matter how much one ate, Nana, was always there to encourage everyone to eat more. To say no, to her solicitations, would bring out of her one of those rare phrases of English, "What, you no like"? I was an adult before it was finally explained to me that in an Italian home one never completely clears one's dish. Always leave a small portion on the plate to indicate you are finished eating. Somehow I'm not sure if that practice would have stopped my grandmother from encouraging more, "You like? Have some more."
My grandmother developed stomach cancer in the summer of 1970. In the final months she lied in bed as family members would take turns staying with her. On a few occasions, I was with my grandmother, just the two of us. The barrier of language could not stand in the way of empathy that existed in her last months. That little lady, who had endured so much during her life, would continuously rise off of her bed and stacked pillows with a hacking cough from the cancer. Yet she would still be able to smile at me and say to me whatever she would be saying in Italian. It didn’t matter what it was or that I didn’t understand hardly a word. Just the tone in her voice denoted to me that whatever she had to say was pleasing. It was at these times when I was closest to my grandmother. We buried her on New Year’s Eve, 1970.
The primary point of interest in my grandfather’s basement was the fact that he had his own wine cellar. I can still till this day remember the aroma of the wine, the vats and kegs, and how the aroma had permeated itself into the very wood of the structures. My grandfather died at the age of 76 in 1958, so if there was any chance of learning how to make my own wine the old fashion way, it died with him.
My grandfather’s generation of men, most of whom worked in the brickyards of the railroads, spoke little if any English. They would gather outside the local corner grocery store of Mr. Morelli’s. I would hang out with them, running about, listening to all the conversation swirling about me in Italian and never understanding a word, except the occasional word of English, or "capish" (you understand) and “you son-of-a-bitch” (pronounced "you son of a beech"); which believe me when the appropriate emphasis is placed upon the vowels as only Italians can do, and the fingers come together on the one hand, raised, and shaking in the direction of the intended, the latter becomes a very Italian word.
There was only one day a week during the warm seasons when the old Italian men, each in their caps that distinguished them from their sons’ generation, would abandon the corner. That was the one day each week when the Salvation Army band came to play and sing praises to the Lord on the corner. These “Onward Christian Soldiers”, the men in their military style uniforms, and the women with their long skirts and blue bonnets that tied into a bow along the side of their faces would play music with their drum, guitars, bass, and brass horns. The sound of this band and the singing of the “old time religious hymns” had to be so foreign to the ears of this Italian community that was cultured in the pop music of the likes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Rosemary Clooney, and Julius LaRosa, on one hand; and Gregorian Chant, and Enrico Caruso and Mario Lanza on the other. Yet in a sense that Salvation Army band was a part of that community just by the fact that it was faithfully there on that corner in front of Mr. Morelli’s store that one day a week, week after week, and year after year during the warm seasonal months performing what they felt called to do.
I remember the sticky fly paper strips hanging from the ceiling on our enclosed sun porch at the back of the apartment. The small screens that opened horizontally and were placed between the open window and the window ledge to let in whatever breeze could be found among homes that were only a few feet apart from one another, and which did a poor job of keeping out the mosquitoes. The closeness of the homes in the summer also made family arguments the neighbor’s business whether neighbors chose to listen or not. I remember my mother heating water on the stove in a huge galvanized bucket, so we could have hot water for bathing, and how the sunlight reflected off the water and onto the ceiling and bounced about the ceiling as the water came to a boil. I remember the junk man coming down the alley with his buckboard and horse to accumulate whatever junk people had for him. I remember the milkman daily delivering milk in reusable glass bottles, the mail man who everybody knew by name, and the insurance man who came to personally collect his monthly premium. I remember the knife man, who came to the corner with his knife sharpening cart which had one wheel that allowed him to lift his cart like a wheel barrel and move it from place to place, clanging a bell to get the neighborhood’s attention that the knife man was ready to ply his trade. He would pedal, and the straps and grinders began to move as he held the knife handles and their blades in place for sharpening. The iceman would arrive to bring the large blocks of ice for the iceboxes of neighbors who had yet to own a refrigerator. I remember the occasional visits of the coal man. The back of his truck filled with coal as he cranked it up, and the coal would slide down the shoot into a huge pile on the basement floor. I remember my grandfather shoveling coal into the roaring fire of the monstrous furnace during the winter months. I also remember the lickings I would get when I was covered with coal dust from playing in the pile.
Many of these jobs may not exist in Cuenca today, but there are many comparable jobs that allow Cuecanos to have jobs in this society—jobs that could quickly disappear in Ecuador as they already have over the generations in the United States as technological change not only altered employment shifts, but also made the need particularly for massive numbers of unskilled labor obsolete. In the 50’s in the United States all a man needed was a strong back. He could find gainful employment, and with that the dignity of being a breadwinner for his family. It appears to still be that way in Cuenca.
The sense of community was also there in the 1950s. People knew their mailman, the milkman, their insurance man, their doctor. These were people who came into their homes on a regular basis, and in a sense became an extension of the family, and definitely were a part of the community.
As I see Cuencanos make their way to the cabinas, the local barber or beautician, the little neighborhood family-owned stores and bakeries, or just watching neighborhood women gathering to chat; I see the kind of community that once existed in the United States. Today, the local folks have their amuerozo (mid-day meal and usually the main meal of the day) and cena (supper) in the small local neighborhood restaurants or at home. The midday breaks from school and work offer families the opportunity to be together for a couple of hours, as many Ecuadorian businesses close for about three hours in the afternoon. A tradition that for the most part still continues to a large extent throughout Ecuador. I watch as the mothers pick up their young ones from school or meet them at the bus; and it reminds me of living in a community as a child where we could walk home for lunch, our mother there to greet us and have lunch ready, talking with family, and as we got older maybe some T.V. watching before a return to school.
The local ice cream man who bicycles his ice cream carriage through the current neighborhood where I live in Zona Rosa is reminiscent of the ice cream boys who bicycled down the streets without the built-in umbrellas the Cuenca bicyclers have today. The boys would pedal and while pedaling would ring by hand the bells built into their handles. I always marveled as a kid as to how the inside of the casing was cold and all this smoke would come out of the casing that held the stored ice cream, and yet it didn’t melt the ice cream. Later, I would come to understand the phenomena of dry ice.
Like most families in the 1950’s we were a one car family. When my mother wanted to go shopping to larger business districts than our local downtown; the bus, just like in Cuenca, was the main means of transportation. The buses were often very crowded especially during rush hours, and it was not unusual to find ourselves standing during much of the trip, particularly when homeward bound from a day of shopping. And just like in Cuenca, the bus left behind its calling card of exhaust fumes. Disembarked passengers or those waiting for a different numbered bus may shrivel their noses in a pinched-type manner or look away in the aftermath of the fumes. However, no one in the 1950’s and 60’s expected it to be any other way. Exhaust fumes were just something you endured.
As I observe kids play in the neighborhoods and out on the streets of Cuenca. Sometimes I have been surprised at how much they can be on their own with little supervision. Yet that was exactly the way it was for me growing up. I had the run of the neighborhood. My mother often did not know where I was as she was in the upstairs apartment. This is no criticism of my mother. She was and is a wonderful mom. It was just the way it was for most kids in the neighborhood. We could be gone for hours on our bikes as we became older and no one worried. One day in Cuenca I saw a little guy who didn’t look any older than four years old standing behind a parked pickup truck on Avenue of the Americas, a very busy street. The adults were talking and obviously loss sight of him. Yet, it reminded me of when I was that age and would walk one block over to a street as busy as Avenue of America. The neighbor lady would call my mother and inform her of my whereabouts. Everybody knew everybody in the neighborhood, and everybody felt a responsibility for everyone, particularly for the kids in the neighborhood. Crime was so low that people did not lock their cars and often did not lock their homes when they were away. Why, one could grab hold of the lip on the ignition and start the car without a key. I know. I did it many times.
When I was on the street, I was everywhere in the neighborhood. I was across the street from my grandparent’s visiting with Frank the shoemaker, or upstairs above the shoe shop visiting with my baby-sitter, Jean, and her dad, who made a living hanging wall paper. I might be down the block talking to one of the parish priests with whatever conversation a four or five year old had on his mind. There were my frequent trips to Mr. Morelli’s store talking with him and his wife, and buying some penny candy. I might be down the block at my uncle’s bar and restaurant. My Uncle Al was always good for an eight ounce bottle of coke, and my favorite, Hershey bar with almonds. The booze was off limits to me. Above his bar and restaurant lived my Uncle Mike and Aunt Carmela and my three cousins. My uncle and aunt had at one time owned the restaurant below. I can still remember one day of studiously focusing my attention on the picture of the mammy on the box of Aunt Jemima pancake mix, as my aunt went about her business making me a stack of pancakes. Why that image would become imprinted on my little mind, I have no idea. I would hang out at the Ricardi’s. My parents would tease me that the Ricardi’s youngest daughter, Catherine, who was much older than I, was my girl friend; because I spent so much time with her. Catherine’s younger brother, Joey, who after returning from one of his local fishing expeditions would bring the fish home—blue gills, bass, sun fish. He couldn’t get me to gut them, but I would try to help Joey scrape the scales off the fish with a knife. Just in living everyday as a kid, there was so much to learn from the adults and older kids around us. Like osmosis, I took in the culture around me without ever thinking of it as learning. I was just simply being.
I don’t know what kind of festivals and processions my grandparents left behind in Italy in the early part of the twentieth century. Nor do I know to what extent these events are as prevalent in Italy today as they are in Ecuador. I do know that our Italian neighborhood, outside of the annual church carnival and rides that are so prevalent in Catholic churches even today in the United States of any ethnic background or none at all, did not have the festivities and religious processions so common in Ecuador.
However, holidays like Christmas and Easter were big celebrations. The family gathered at my grandparent’s. The tree covered in lights, ornaments, and silver metallic ice cycles. Typical of a distinctively Italian flavor was the large Nativity scenes of stable, manger, and statues of all the characters of the Nativity story that were portrayed prominently in the home.
Of course while turkey and dressing were served, an Italian Christmas dinner would not be complete without pasta, a huge platter of meats that had simmered in the sauce, and no one made meatballs better than my grandmother, and there was still the Italian bread, and Italian-styled potatoes and all the trimmings.
The dining room buffet was enshrouded from one end to the other with Italian cookies and pastries. All made fresh by my Italian aunts—hard as rock genuine, Italian style biscotti (twice-baked cookies), which were made for dunking in hot beverages or in wine; an incredible assortment of cookies and cakes of various kinds, cannoli (stuffed with ricotta cheese), chocolate and vanilla pudding- filled cream puffs that my Aunt Rose would make, and which were always one of my favorites. Carbs and sugar were definitely the hallmark of the day of feasting.
Of course, those meat dishes of my childhood were the prosperous years of the post-war era. My father would remind me that gourmet meals of simple pasta cooked in garlic and olive oil, which had become a rage in restaurants in the 1990’s, and for which people were paying big bucks, were the depression meals upon which my dad and his siblings grew up and were glad to have.
At the age of five as I was about ready to begin school, my parents moved from the apartment above my grandparent’s home, and bought their first home on the other side of town in the very heavily Irish neighborhood. Although we were only a mile from my grandparents, and my other aunts and uncles had or would also leave the old neighborhood in search of their own homes, which eventually would lead to the movement out into the suburbs. A movement that began in the 50’s, but would accelerate in the 60’s. By the end of the 70’s the old timers had passed on, and the younger generation had moved on to be replaced by new waves of immigrant groups. Today, the Catholic church is still a church, but no longer Catholic. The school was closed in the 90’s, and two years ago the last family associated with the old neighborhood finally moved away. A neighborhood which was once so safe is now so dangerous.
The people living in this once Italian neighborhood today have no inkling of the life and community of people that once lived there. Nor would they care. This vibrant community of my early childhood exists today only in the memories of a dwindling number of souls, and in the cemeteries where one can see so many of the Italian names of those who once lived their lives out in this diminutive neighborhood of a by-gone era. I wonder how much longer, the aspects and values of Cuenca that are similar to that time period in my early childhood neighborhood will endure in Cuenca, itself?
Friday, March 25, 2011
The Moments of Our Lives: Part II
It was a cloudy Saturday afternoon as I was taking a walk back to Parke Calderon from both the Flower Market at the San Francisco Square in front of the San Francisco Church, and from another open market nearby the square. I was walking along the side of the New Cathedral, which was built in the 1800’s and which is the largest church in Cuenca. Along the walkway, I saw some flute players, who I assume where taking a break. I immediately thought back to Chicago, when beginning back in the 1990’s we would hear what started out as Peruvian flute players, who played street music to the passersby who strolled through Grant Park along Lake Shore Drive.
I approached a young man who stood at the forefront of the four instrumentalists. He obviously handled the marketing and selling of the C.D.’s. The young man, possibly in his late teens, was perfect for the job, with a respectful attitude so common in Ecuador, and with a winning smile, and charm. I asked him if the players standing behind him were from Peru. He stated that only one of the musicians was from Peru. As he pointed to the musician, the musician waved back at me and extended a greeting, and then each of the other three musicians did likewise. The young man and I stood by an instrumental lectern which allowed him to place four different recordings before me. As I prepared myself for the upcoming sales pitch, the players picked up their instruments and began playing. I had no intention of buying any of the C.D.’s. I had bought one from the flute players in Grant Park many years ago. I no longer wanted more of what I thought would be the same type of Andean flute composition.
Much to my surprise, these Andean flute players began playing Simon and Garfunkel’s, “Sound of Silence”, one of my all time favorite soundtracks from one of my all time favorite movies, “The Graduate”. I could not believe that they were playing “Sounds of Silence” in that place, at that time, while I was standing there. As the musicians played, my mind went back to the memories I associated with 1967 and the things I was doing when that soundtrack was constantly being played.
Meanwhile, a nun wearing a short veil and a habit that covered her knees came up next to me, and began to look at the C.D.’s as well. I noticed that the four C.D.’s laid out before me and the sister were all flute compositions of contemporary music. The young man was not about to let this moment pass without opening a large plastic bag filled with many C.D.’s of their music, some of which were more traditional compositions of Andean flute music. About this time as a larger crowd began to gather around the playing musicians, it began to sprinkle. I opened my umbrella, and held it over the young man, the gray-haired sister, and myself. The sister said to me “gracias”, and although I did not understand the Spanish discussion going on before me; it was obvious sister had no intentions of being fleeced by the young man. I saw him open the C.D. cover, take out the C.D. and show the nun that there was no scratches on the under surface of the C.D. I waited to see what the sister was going to be charged, and then I would know exactly what it would cost me for the two C.D.’s I now intended to buy.
I saw sister open up her small change-purse, as she then clutched the top of each side of the tiny purse. Inside her purse, as I continued to hold the umbrella over our heads, she had a carefully folded-in-four parts, solitary bill of five dollars. She extracted the five dollar bill and meticulously unfolded the bill before handing it over to the young man. He thanked the sister, placed the C.D. in a small plastic bag and handed it to her. She looked up at me, and extended another “gracias” before she went about her business.
I then concluded my purchase with the young man by giving him the ten dollars for two of the C.D.’s, “Only Melody” and the “Melodies of the Soul”. Now I listen to beautiful flute renditions of “Romeo and Juliet”, “Hotel California”, “Color of the Wind”, “The Power of Goodbye”, “Let it be”, ”Imagine”, “The House of the Rising Sun”, some of the compositions may also be from South American pop music, and of course, “Sound of Silence”. I proceeded on my way around to the front of the Cathedral and across the street to Parke Calderon. I heard the flutes for another fifteen minutes before the playing stopped again.
Three people who had never met each other before, who may never meet each other again; and yet for a brief encounter they were brought to that place at that time. They shared what they had to share in the way that they shared it, and then went about their business. A mundane event, in an ordinary day, repeated an inordinate number of times throughout the day by countless numbers of people throughout the world--an event, which is soon forgotten, if not already out of mind as soon as the transaction is completed. Yet, the most ordinary can be extraordinary when consciously lived. It only appears ordinary, when we fail to heed the sound of silence--the sound of conscious awareness.
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
I approached a young man who stood at the forefront of the four instrumentalists. He obviously handled the marketing and selling of the C.D.’s. The young man, possibly in his late teens, was perfect for the job, with a respectful attitude so common in Ecuador, and with a winning smile, and charm. I asked him if the players standing behind him were from Peru. He stated that only one of the musicians was from Peru. As he pointed to the musician, the musician waved back at me and extended a greeting, and then each of the other three musicians did likewise. The young man and I stood by an instrumental lectern which allowed him to place four different recordings before me. As I prepared myself for the upcoming sales pitch, the players picked up their instruments and began playing. I had no intention of buying any of the C.D.’s. I had bought one from the flute players in Grant Park many years ago. I no longer wanted more of what I thought would be the same type of Andean flute composition.
Much to my surprise, these Andean flute players began playing Simon and Garfunkel’s, “Sound of Silence”, one of my all time favorite soundtracks from one of my all time favorite movies, “The Graduate”. I could not believe that they were playing “Sounds of Silence” in that place, at that time, while I was standing there. As the musicians played, my mind went back to the memories I associated with 1967 and the things I was doing when that soundtrack was constantly being played.
Meanwhile, a nun wearing a short veil and a habit that covered her knees came up next to me, and began to look at the C.D.’s as well. I noticed that the four C.D.’s laid out before me and the sister were all flute compositions of contemporary music. The young man was not about to let this moment pass without opening a large plastic bag filled with many C.D.’s of their music, some of which were more traditional compositions of Andean flute music. About this time as a larger crowd began to gather around the playing musicians, it began to sprinkle. I opened my umbrella, and held it over the young man, the gray-haired sister, and myself. The sister said to me “gracias”, and although I did not understand the Spanish discussion going on before me; it was obvious sister had no intentions of being fleeced by the young man. I saw him open the C.D. cover, take out the C.D. and show the nun that there was no scratches on the under surface of the C.D. I waited to see what the sister was going to be charged, and then I would know exactly what it would cost me for the two C.D.’s I now intended to buy.
I saw sister open up her small change-purse, as she then clutched the top of each side of the tiny purse. Inside her purse, as I continued to hold the umbrella over our heads, she had a carefully folded-in-four parts, solitary bill of five dollars. She extracted the five dollar bill and meticulously unfolded the bill before handing it over to the young man. He thanked the sister, placed the C.D. in a small plastic bag and handed it to her. She looked up at me, and extended another “gracias” before she went about her business.
I then concluded my purchase with the young man by giving him the ten dollars for two of the C.D.’s, “Only Melody” and the “Melodies of the Soul”. Now I listen to beautiful flute renditions of “Romeo and Juliet”, “Hotel California”, “Color of the Wind”, “The Power of Goodbye”, “Let it be”, ”Imagine”, “The House of the Rising Sun”, some of the compositions may also be from South American pop music, and of course, “Sound of Silence”. I proceeded on my way around to the front of the Cathedral and across the street to Parke Calderon. I heard the flutes for another fifteen minutes before the playing stopped again.
Three people who had never met each other before, who may never meet each other again; and yet for a brief encounter they were brought to that place at that time. They shared what they had to share in the way that they shared it, and then went about their business. A mundane event, in an ordinary day, repeated an inordinate number of times throughout the day by countless numbers of people throughout the world--an event, which is soon forgotten, if not already out of mind as soon as the transaction is completed. Yet, the most ordinary can be extraordinary when consciously lived. It only appears ordinary, when we fail to heed the sound of silence--the sound of conscious awareness.
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The Moments of Our Lives: Part I
When one has had a career in education as I have had as both a teacher and an administrator, and when one cares about what one is doing; if an individual does not enter the career of education as anal retentive and a Type A personality, one will certainly leave the career as both. Any time when large group management is involved, when a myriad of activities and interruptions keeps one frequently distracted with a need to refocus one's self and the class back to the lesson again, and when one attempts to engage students even when they are cooperative with the learning process; these factors can be wearing on a teacher. Not to mention how wearing it can be on a teacher when students passively or actively choose not to be engaged. Not to mention the drain brought on by educational politics, and a management style that may range from pro-active to simply "putting out fires". All these factors can take their toll and provide a high pressure work environment. It is not surprising to the typical American educator, to discover that psychological studies and surveys conclude that teaching in the United States is a more stressful occupation than being a police officer.
The "American Way of Life" in the Estados Unidos, not only in teaching but also in many other fields is a pressure-cooker existence for many Americans. Not to mention the barrage of images and noise that we and our children almost from the time of birth are constantly subjected. The life styles of many Americans are further compounded by the constant need for activity and distraction. For better or worse, the American Way of Life is not a culture that encourages reflection or that provides very many opportunities to savor the minutes of our lives.
Retirement has provided me with two mundane events in my life in one day in Cuenca that would normally transpire and quickly be forgotten in the rush to the next activity, and to the next scheduled and not so scheduled outcome. These are two events that simply by reflecting on them, and by taking the time to post and share them become moments I will remember for many years. These are events of ordinary things done by ordinary people that have meaning when we have the time, take the time, make the time to be fully aware and conscious in the moment.
I was in need of a telephone. I decided that I would purchase one in the neighborhood where I live. I thought that possibly phones would be less expensive than in the shops in the high rise type of buildings where I currently live or in the Cabanas directly in El Centro. I had no idea if my assumption was true. However, coming from Chicago. I know that upscale stores in upscale neighborhoods charge more; not just because the clientele have higher incomes, but also because the shops are paying pricey rents. I also factored in my decision that as long as I was living in this neighborhood, I was a part of the neighborhood. Therefore, if the products and service were reasonably priced and adequate the local vendors deserved my patronage.
I entered a local cabana west of El Centro on Simon Bolivar. The lady spoke hardly a word of English. On the other hand, I am highly fluent in Spanish, now approaching maybe 150 words in the language. Well what can I say, Spanglish was going to be difficult. Luckily through demonstration, and some pictures she was able to to communicate to me what phones she had available, and I was able to communicate to her what phone I wanted. From this point on the transaction began to break down as language became a greater obstacle. I loved this lady because she was so patient with me, and we would laugh and smile our way through the miscommunication and frustrations of attempting to understand one another.
Suddenly a guardian angel appeared and came to our rescue. A man entered the cabina, who understood some English and he was able to serve as a translator between the two of us. Her body language, facial expressions, and intonations expressed to me how she now understood the varying things I tried to communicate to her. I imagine as the gentleman explained to me what the lady was attempting to say, that I reflected back to her an understanding of what I was trying to communicate to her. So we agreed that I was to come back in a couple of hours. I was to leave her with a ten dollar deposit, and after whoever did whatever had to be done to the phone, I would return to pickup the phone and pay the balance. She asked me if I lived in the neighborhood, and I told her that I did. There were these surprising moments when our limited capacities for one another's language where overcome, and we both were like gleeful little kids when we succeeded in successfully communicating with each other.
When I returned at the appropriate time, the lady had the phone with its card and batteries installed and whatever else had to be done to provide me with a number. She checked out the phone to be sure it was working, but she was having a problem. I had no idea what the problem was that she encountered. I just simply waited while she played around with the phone. They she signal for me to open up the phone cabina door directly behind where I was standing. At first I thought she was going to call me with my phone, and that she wanted me to answer when the cabina phone rang. She motioned, however, that I should be seated rather than in effect continue to just stand there waiting. I assumed at this point, that if she wanted me to take a seat, then this wait was going to be awhile.
At this point, another guardian angel appeared as a neighborhood teen male entered the cabina. I assumed he was from the neighborhood, because the lady seemed to know him. He helped the lady with my phone, and after a few minutes he left. Then the next thing I knew the phone rang, and I assumed that the teen had called her to be sure the phone worked. She laughed and smile with that success, and she then encouraged me to call my friends as I had requested earlier, so I could be certain the phone worked and I could make contact. I suppose the lady was very happy with the sale. I have no idea what profit she made from it. I think we were both quite happy that together and no doubt with some help we pulled this sale and purchase off, much to each of our own satisfaction.
It was in that moment of jubilation of shared success as we smiled and laughed; that this lady who was simply a neighborhood lady--a lady who was matronly, older middle-age, and free of sophistication--that for one moment I saw in her eyes and in her smile as she looked at me, the young girl that she once was and was no more. I think in that moment of connection she saw the same in me. The young man who once was but was no more. As I paid her for the phone, and she gave me my bag. I thank her for her time and trouble, and in so doing I impulsively touched her upper arm just for a moment to demonstrate my appreciation. We made our goodbyes, the moment passed, and I was on my way.
The "American Way of Life" in the Estados Unidos, not only in teaching but also in many other fields is a pressure-cooker existence for many Americans. Not to mention the barrage of images and noise that we and our children almost from the time of birth are constantly subjected. The life styles of many Americans are further compounded by the constant need for activity and distraction. For better or worse, the American Way of Life is not a culture that encourages reflection or that provides very many opportunities to savor the minutes of our lives.
Retirement has provided me with two mundane events in my life in one day in Cuenca that would normally transpire and quickly be forgotten in the rush to the next activity, and to the next scheduled and not so scheduled outcome. These are two events that simply by reflecting on them, and by taking the time to post and share them become moments I will remember for many years. These are events of ordinary things done by ordinary people that have meaning when we have the time, take the time, make the time to be fully aware and conscious in the moment.
I was in need of a telephone. I decided that I would purchase one in the neighborhood where I live. I thought that possibly phones would be less expensive than in the shops in the high rise type of buildings where I currently live or in the Cabanas directly in El Centro. I had no idea if my assumption was true. However, coming from Chicago. I know that upscale stores in upscale neighborhoods charge more; not just because the clientele have higher incomes, but also because the shops are paying pricey rents. I also factored in my decision that as long as I was living in this neighborhood, I was a part of the neighborhood. Therefore, if the products and service were reasonably priced and adequate the local vendors deserved my patronage.
I entered a local cabana west of El Centro on Simon Bolivar. The lady spoke hardly a word of English. On the other hand, I am highly fluent in Spanish, now approaching maybe 150 words in the language. Well what can I say, Spanglish was going to be difficult. Luckily through demonstration, and some pictures she was able to to communicate to me what phones she had available, and I was able to communicate to her what phone I wanted. From this point on the transaction began to break down as language became a greater obstacle. I loved this lady because she was so patient with me, and we would laugh and smile our way through the miscommunication and frustrations of attempting to understand one another.
Suddenly a guardian angel appeared and came to our rescue. A man entered the cabina, who understood some English and he was able to serve as a translator between the two of us. Her body language, facial expressions, and intonations expressed to me how she now understood the varying things I tried to communicate to her. I imagine as the gentleman explained to me what the lady was attempting to say, that I reflected back to her an understanding of what I was trying to communicate to her. So we agreed that I was to come back in a couple of hours. I was to leave her with a ten dollar deposit, and after whoever did whatever had to be done to the phone, I would return to pickup the phone and pay the balance. She asked me if I lived in the neighborhood, and I told her that I did. There were these surprising moments when our limited capacities for one another's language where overcome, and we both were like gleeful little kids when we succeeded in successfully communicating with each other.
When I returned at the appropriate time, the lady had the phone with its card and batteries installed and whatever else had to be done to provide me with a number. She checked out the phone to be sure it was working, but she was having a problem. I had no idea what the problem was that she encountered. I just simply waited while she played around with the phone. They she signal for me to open up the phone cabina door directly behind where I was standing. At first I thought she was going to call me with my phone, and that she wanted me to answer when the cabina phone rang. She motioned, however, that I should be seated rather than in effect continue to just stand there waiting. I assumed at this point, that if she wanted me to take a seat, then this wait was going to be awhile.
At this point, another guardian angel appeared as a neighborhood teen male entered the cabina. I assumed he was from the neighborhood, because the lady seemed to know him. He helped the lady with my phone, and after a few minutes he left. Then the next thing I knew the phone rang, and I assumed that the teen had called her to be sure the phone worked. She laughed and smile with that success, and she then encouraged me to call my friends as I had requested earlier, so I could be certain the phone worked and I could make contact. I suppose the lady was very happy with the sale. I have no idea what profit she made from it. I think we were both quite happy that together and no doubt with some help we pulled this sale and purchase off, much to each of our own satisfaction.
It was in that moment of jubilation of shared success as we smiled and laughed; that this lady who was simply a neighborhood lady--a lady who was matronly, older middle-age, and free of sophistication--that for one moment I saw in her eyes and in her smile as she looked at me, the young girl that she once was and was no more. I think in that moment of connection she saw the same in me. The young man who once was but was no more. As I paid her for the phone, and she gave me my bag. I thank her for her time and trouble, and in so doing I impulsively touched her upper arm just for a moment to demonstrate my appreciation. We made our goodbyes, the moment passed, and I was on my way.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Getting Settled In
I’ve been busy getting settled in, so this is my first post since arriving in Cuenca last Wednesday. I’ve been hoofing the pavement trying to get reacclimated to the sights, sounds, and locations. Some locations and directions I remember well, while others I have to re-engage again. I plan to take my time finding an unfurnished apartment. Most of this week, I will be busy with a number of luncheon and dinner engagements with friends. Can some of you back home ever believe that this Monday will be two weeks since we ate out at Aladin’s. I wonder if the time has gone as incredibly fast for you as it has for me? I still have some unfinished business from back home of which to take care. I also need to buy a printer this week.
Today has been slow, which is good. It gives me a chance to post. The day started out absolutely gorgeous; warm, very sunny summer-like day with not a cloud in the sky. By 1:00 p.m. the clouds were rapidly forming, and by 2:00 p.m. it began raining and has been drizzling now for the last five or six hours. I thought, well this weather episode will give me time to finally take out of its new packaging, my Franklin Spanish/English translator, and use it. Oh, but I have no triple A batteries. The triple A's must have gotten dumped with my other overweight cargo at O'Hare Airport. I’m not going back out in the rain, so I just studied Spanish the old fashion way without any electronic gizmos. Much of my time has also been taken with emails to particular individuals and their inquiries, which is another reason to get this post up. I've also been busy buying and getting my phone sort of setup, and getting my phone number distributed. I had my first video-phone communication with my son, Marc, the other day. I was better prepared for it, than he was. As he scrambled around searching for his camera and microphone to hook up to his laptop so he could communicate with me by video, I was amazed that for once, I had my act together when it came to technology.
Some of you have inquired as to why you no longer get an email from me directly as my post is published. The problem is my blog creator only allows for a maximum of ten names that can receive immediate blog posts when published. Why that is, I have no idea. But since the blog doesn’t cost me anything, who am I to complain. Therefore, now that I am in Cuenca, I keep those immediate postings for family members and a few friends back home. Those of you who live in Cuenca or who have visited Cuenca and at one time were receiving immediate postings from my blog are encouraged to bookmark my blog URL, and just check occasionally to see if I have posted.
Much of what I am experiencing right now in Cuenca I have written about in past posts from my previous visit last summer, so at the moment there is little new to report. For those who wish to learn more about Cuenca and what other bloggers have to say, I encourage you to click on to any of the links in the right hand column of my blog page to see what other expats are experiencing. A number of them have taken really beautiful pictures. Particularly take note of the "South of Zero" blog, which provides the viewer each day with a synopsis of many of the latest posts in Cuenca and in Ecuador. I will blog occasionally when I have something to say, or have had a new experience to share with you. In the meantime, those of you north of the Equator, God bless and keep you. Those of you south of the Equator, let’s get to know one another better. Cuidense.
Today has been slow, which is good. It gives me a chance to post. The day started out absolutely gorgeous; warm, very sunny summer-like day with not a cloud in the sky. By 1:00 p.m. the clouds were rapidly forming, and by 2:00 p.m. it began raining and has been drizzling now for the last five or six hours. I thought, well this weather episode will give me time to finally take out of its new packaging, my Franklin Spanish/English translator, and use it. Oh, but I have no triple A batteries. The triple A's must have gotten dumped with my other overweight cargo at O'Hare Airport. I’m not going back out in the rain, so I just studied Spanish the old fashion way without any electronic gizmos. Much of my time has also been taken with emails to particular individuals and their inquiries, which is another reason to get this post up. I've also been busy buying and getting my phone sort of setup, and getting my phone number distributed. I had my first video-phone communication with my son, Marc, the other day. I was better prepared for it, than he was. As he scrambled around searching for his camera and microphone to hook up to his laptop so he could communicate with me by video, I was amazed that for once, I had my act together when it came to technology.
Some of you have inquired as to why you no longer get an email from me directly as my post is published. The problem is my blog creator only allows for a maximum of ten names that can receive immediate blog posts when published. Why that is, I have no idea. But since the blog doesn’t cost me anything, who am I to complain. Therefore, now that I am in Cuenca, I keep those immediate postings for family members and a few friends back home. Those of you who live in Cuenca or who have visited Cuenca and at one time were receiving immediate postings from my blog are encouraged to bookmark my blog URL, and just check occasionally to see if I have posted.
Much of what I am experiencing right now in Cuenca I have written about in past posts from my previous visit last summer, so at the moment there is little new to report. For those who wish to learn more about Cuenca and what other bloggers have to say, I encourage you to click on to any of the links in the right hand column of my blog page to see what other expats are experiencing. A number of them have taken really beautiful pictures. Particularly take note of the "South of Zero" blog, which provides the viewer each day with a synopsis of many of the latest posts in Cuenca and in Ecuador. I will blog occasionally when I have something to say, or have had a new experience to share with you. In the meantime, those of you north of the Equator, God bless and keep you. Those of you south of the Equator, let’s get to know one another better. Cuidense.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Visiting Quito
Hotel Boutique de Sucre is located in the heart of Quito's El Centro, the historic area which like in Cuenca is recognized by UNESCO as an historical preservation area. The hotel was very clean and well kept. It has the furnishings identified with a traditional Ecuadorian hotel. As I began to explore it, the hotel was bigger than I first imagined. The lobby was attractive, and had overhanging balconies encircling it. Throughout the hotel and in the rooms were rich, heavy, beautifully carved doors and closet cabinetry. The hotel had many large paintings on display throughout its foyers and guestrooms, which were also available for purchase. The guestroom draperies were of a traditional style with the multi-layered cornices (panels) at the top of the draperies. The floor in my room appeared to be a wood similar to parquet. I had a very comfortable double bed, with the usual amenities of phone, T.V., hairdryer, WIFI, and a luggage rack. The bathroom was beautiful with very nice ceramic tile that looked like an Italian marble design which went up about a third of all the walls. There is no bathtub; but a large shower, glass-enclosed, which is spacious enough to have a party of three or four, if anyone is so inclined. The tub and sink appear to be relatively new. Included in the price of the room was a buffet breakfast, which included having your eggs prepared as you like them. The hotel is also protected with a gate over its initial entrance. One had to ring for the gate to open. The rooms are sound proof, and the hotel itself was extraordinarily quiet during the day. I thought only three or four people were staying there. However between 8:00 p.m. and 10:00 p.m., I was amazed at how many people were entering from their evening activities. Since my WIFI connection could not be made from my room, I had to sit in the lobby area to make connectivity.
Hanging out in the hotel lobby was also a great way to make connectivity with people as well. I met a lady from Hawaii whose brother is a doctor and has his own health center and blog. The two of us ate Chinese for dinner. There was a young doctor from the states, who was quite knowledgeable of about many things, and he and his family have done a great deal of traveling. He was doing some kind of emergency work in various hospitals. I also met a fellow from North Carolina, who can you guess, is thinking of retiring to Ecuador. Terry Fenny will be arriving in Cuenca this Sunday for about four days. Maybe, you will meet him if you are at the Gringo Night this upcoming Tuesday at the Italian restaurant. Terry lived in Quito fifty years ago, but so far not one thing looks familiar to him. Terry will be staying at the Santa Monica Hotel in Cuenca, since I knew nothing about it; I was no help to him there.
The best feature for me about Hotel Boutique was the location of the breakfast buffet. The room was on the top floor and had a beautiful view of a nearby church steeple and clock tower. From another vista one had a close up view of the large statue of the Blessed Virgin with wings, which was the first time I had ever seen Mary represented with wings like an angel. Her statue is on a high hill top and hovers over the city of Quito as its protector.
What where the negatives about the hotel? Well, like anything, it’s a question of what your budget can afford and what you are accustomed to in the way of amenities. The price was approximately $55.00 a night. First, don’t expect to be greeted by a doorman ready to help you with your baggage. The hotel clerk did help me with my luggage to my room once I managed to get everything to the check-in counter. There were no elevators in the hotel, but there were three floors. On my departure, I called for a “bell-hop” to assist me with my luggage. A young man who appeared to be a teenager responded. I had seen him doing plaster work and other odd jobs in the hotel. I had the feeling he was “volunteered” to bring my bags down. I had to give him a good tip. Each of the two big bags of luggage weighed about as much as he did. He smiled and looked very proud of himself that he had accomplished his task. Whether the tip will be enough to cover his hernia surgery is another question.
The lighting in the rooms and the bathrooms could be brighter. The sink had no vanity, but there were racks above the toilet where toiletries could be placed. Besides the fact that my WIFI would not connect, there was no desk or table in the guest rooms. There was a nice arm chair, but that was it. Finally with all the spacious closet space, which included a safe for personal possessions, there were no hangers in the closet. Certainly the lack of hangers is a minor expense that could readily be remedied.
When I arrived in Quito I was exhausted. I was to meet with Gabriela Espinosa at 11:00 a.m., but she was delayed at immigration, so I was asked to come back in an hour. I walked around for twenty minutes, and then I stopped at an upper floor open terrace restaurant about a block from Gabriela’s office. The restaurant was owned by a Spaniard from Seville, who has lived in Quito for eight years. I ordered a hamburger. I was not expecting much considering what beef generally tastes like in Ecuador. Was I ever surprised. It was exceptionally good, and put most hamburgers back home to shame. Being the lunch hour, the restaurant was attracting a large number of high school students. They were loud, but in a friendly, conversational kind of way. No hijinks. Just kids enjoying their time together.
When I met with Gabriela, she told me everything was in order. There was no need for any other action at this time, and that I was to return in a month and receive my sedula and legal residency. I would be able to complete everything in one day, and I could fly in and out of Quito all on the same day. Gabriela also informed me that after three years of accomplished legal residency, I could apply for dual citizenship and become a citizen of Ecuador as well—no other requirements.
I went to bed at 11:00 p.m. that evening and slept until 1:00 p.m. the next day. I was only interrupted at noon when the house keeping lady knocked on the door and awakened me. I shouted, “Haste Luego a 2:00 p.m.” She said something in Spanish I did not understand, so I put the pillow over my head and tried to go back to sleep. Five minutes later, the telephone rang. The desk clerk said, “Mr. Mola, would you like housekeeping to prepare your room in an hour?” I repeated very graciously, “Please have her prepare my room at 2:00 p.m.”, and I had no problem falling back to sleep for another hour.
I spent my last day in Quito with an older gentleman who stopped me on the street and offered to be my guide. He was a devout Catholic, so I not only saw three architecturally exquisite churches, but came to know the history of every saint of every statue in each of the churches. I enjoyed his sharing his knowledge, but was disappointed that I did not get to see the basilica, whose spired-steeples to the heavens are so impressive from the outside. A little less time on the saints may have given us time to visit the basilica. There were many beautiful paintings in the churches. One church had the sanctuary walls draped opposite each other with magnificent paintings that I was surprised to learn were not done on canvas, but on burlap.
My guide only reminded me a dozen times why did I not bring my camera. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was take photos, not to mention my camera is new and has yet to be taken out of the box. I have not had the time, and I have no inclination at the moment to tackle another piece of electronic equipment. The same is also true for the Kindle sitting in its unopened box in my luggage. The young doctor let me play with his Kindle, but he didn’t know how to use a lot of the features I asked him about. He said, who has time to learn how to use all these gadgets. My response, Amen!
My guide said that Quito’s El Centro is about ten miles long and three miles wide. It is quite impressive. Some blocks are even closed off to traffic, and serve as pedestrian-type open malls that were in vogue in the states back in the 70’s. Only cabs and limos to hotels or delivery trucks are allowed to enter these areas. I don’t know if all the buses are electric in Quito, but the ones I saw in El Centro were. Coming from Chicago and the U.S.A.’s industrial heartland, it is difficult for me to empathize with expats who complain about Cuenca’s bus fumes. However, there is no doubt that such action toward electrical lines would further enhance Cuenca’s already fresh air.
There are many new buildings done in the Spanish Renaissance style being built in El Centro. My guide claimed that a couple of the buildings he showed me were new hotels that cost three to four million dollars to build, and would cost $400-$500 per night. How accurate that is, I have no way of knowing. On the other hand, so much of El Centro dates back to the 1500’s. There were roads that looked like the skeletal remains of the original brick roads. I did not see any cars use these roads, until the next day when my taxi driver went down the block of one of them. How these guys preserve these small taxis with the way they abuse them is astounding. He took this ancient road fast; and no axle broken, no bent rims, no ripped tires, no body knocked off its frame—go figure.
My perception is that more of the buildings in Quito's El Centro are better kept or freshly painted than in Cuenca. There is no doubt that while Cuenca has some very nice churches, Quito's are difficult to beat when it comes to size and design. However, when my guide took me to what was Quito's central square, there was nothing in Quito's El Centro that could compete with Parke Calderon in Cuenca--a magnificent gem. Overall, Cuenca is much cleaner. Less trash is spewed around, and while Quito has more attractive sidewalks that coincide with the architecture and time period, Cuenca's walks are not covered in lots of discarded gum.
What I did not like about Quito is that everywhere I went people were trying to rip me off and overcharge me, except for the fellow from Seville who operated the restaurant. The hotel staff was also very accommodating. It cost me eight bucks to take the taxi from the airport to the hotel, and then the next driver wanted twelve bucks upon my return trip to the airport. He finally settled for ten. Last summer I paid $5.00. I could go on and on about the overcharges and other shifty business practices, but I’m glad to be back in Cuenca, where Cuenca's good people make me want to be better as well. My trip from the airport to Cuadra Dos was ONLY TWO DOLLARS. I’M A CUECANO NOW. VIVA CUENCA!
Hanging out in the hotel lobby was also a great way to make connectivity with people as well. I met a lady from Hawaii whose brother is a doctor and has his own health center and blog. The two of us ate Chinese for dinner. There was a young doctor from the states, who was quite knowledgeable of about many things, and he and his family have done a great deal of traveling. He was doing some kind of emergency work in various hospitals. I also met a fellow from North Carolina, who can you guess, is thinking of retiring to Ecuador. Terry Fenny will be arriving in Cuenca this Sunday for about four days. Maybe, you will meet him if you are at the Gringo Night this upcoming Tuesday at the Italian restaurant. Terry lived in Quito fifty years ago, but so far not one thing looks familiar to him. Terry will be staying at the Santa Monica Hotel in Cuenca, since I knew nothing about it; I was no help to him there.
The best feature for me about Hotel Boutique was the location of the breakfast buffet. The room was on the top floor and had a beautiful view of a nearby church steeple and clock tower. From another vista one had a close up view of the large statue of the Blessed Virgin with wings, which was the first time I had ever seen Mary represented with wings like an angel. Her statue is on a high hill top and hovers over the city of Quito as its protector.
What where the negatives about the hotel? Well, like anything, it’s a question of what your budget can afford and what you are accustomed to in the way of amenities. The price was approximately $55.00 a night. First, don’t expect to be greeted by a doorman ready to help you with your baggage. The hotel clerk did help me with my luggage to my room once I managed to get everything to the check-in counter. There were no elevators in the hotel, but there were three floors. On my departure, I called for a “bell-hop” to assist me with my luggage. A young man who appeared to be a teenager responded. I had seen him doing plaster work and other odd jobs in the hotel. I had the feeling he was “volunteered” to bring my bags down. I had to give him a good tip. Each of the two big bags of luggage weighed about as much as he did. He smiled and looked very proud of himself that he had accomplished his task. Whether the tip will be enough to cover his hernia surgery is another question.
The lighting in the rooms and the bathrooms could be brighter. The sink had no vanity, but there were racks above the toilet where toiletries could be placed. Besides the fact that my WIFI would not connect, there was no desk or table in the guest rooms. There was a nice arm chair, but that was it. Finally with all the spacious closet space, which included a safe for personal possessions, there were no hangers in the closet. Certainly the lack of hangers is a minor expense that could readily be remedied.
When I arrived in Quito I was exhausted. I was to meet with Gabriela Espinosa at 11:00 a.m., but she was delayed at immigration, so I was asked to come back in an hour. I walked around for twenty minutes, and then I stopped at an upper floor open terrace restaurant about a block from Gabriela’s office. The restaurant was owned by a Spaniard from Seville, who has lived in Quito for eight years. I ordered a hamburger. I was not expecting much considering what beef generally tastes like in Ecuador. Was I ever surprised. It was exceptionally good, and put most hamburgers back home to shame. Being the lunch hour, the restaurant was attracting a large number of high school students. They were loud, but in a friendly, conversational kind of way. No hijinks. Just kids enjoying their time together.
When I met with Gabriela, she told me everything was in order. There was no need for any other action at this time, and that I was to return in a month and receive my sedula and legal residency. I would be able to complete everything in one day, and I could fly in and out of Quito all on the same day. Gabriela also informed me that after three years of accomplished legal residency, I could apply for dual citizenship and become a citizen of Ecuador as well—no other requirements.
I went to bed at 11:00 p.m. that evening and slept until 1:00 p.m. the next day. I was only interrupted at noon when the house keeping lady knocked on the door and awakened me. I shouted, “Haste Luego a 2:00 p.m.” She said something in Spanish I did not understand, so I put the pillow over my head and tried to go back to sleep. Five minutes later, the telephone rang. The desk clerk said, “Mr. Mola, would you like housekeeping to prepare your room in an hour?” I repeated very graciously, “Please have her prepare my room at 2:00 p.m.”, and I had no problem falling back to sleep for another hour.
I spent my last day in Quito with an older gentleman who stopped me on the street and offered to be my guide. He was a devout Catholic, so I not only saw three architecturally exquisite churches, but came to know the history of every saint of every statue in each of the churches. I enjoyed his sharing his knowledge, but was disappointed that I did not get to see the basilica, whose spired-steeples to the heavens are so impressive from the outside. A little less time on the saints may have given us time to visit the basilica. There were many beautiful paintings in the churches. One church had the sanctuary walls draped opposite each other with magnificent paintings that I was surprised to learn were not done on canvas, but on burlap.
My guide only reminded me a dozen times why did I not bring my camera. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was take photos, not to mention my camera is new and has yet to be taken out of the box. I have not had the time, and I have no inclination at the moment to tackle another piece of electronic equipment. The same is also true for the Kindle sitting in its unopened box in my luggage. The young doctor let me play with his Kindle, but he didn’t know how to use a lot of the features I asked him about. He said, who has time to learn how to use all these gadgets. My response, Amen!
My guide said that Quito’s El Centro is about ten miles long and three miles wide. It is quite impressive. Some blocks are even closed off to traffic, and serve as pedestrian-type open malls that were in vogue in the states back in the 70’s. Only cabs and limos to hotels or delivery trucks are allowed to enter these areas. I don’t know if all the buses are electric in Quito, but the ones I saw in El Centro were. Coming from Chicago and the U.S.A.’s industrial heartland, it is difficult for me to empathize with expats who complain about Cuenca’s bus fumes. However, there is no doubt that such action toward electrical lines would further enhance Cuenca’s already fresh air.
There are many new buildings done in the Spanish Renaissance style being built in El Centro. My guide claimed that a couple of the buildings he showed me were new hotels that cost three to four million dollars to build, and would cost $400-$500 per night. How accurate that is, I have no way of knowing. On the other hand, so much of El Centro dates back to the 1500’s. There were roads that looked like the skeletal remains of the original brick roads. I did not see any cars use these roads, until the next day when my taxi driver went down the block of one of them. How these guys preserve these small taxis with the way they abuse them is astounding. He took this ancient road fast; and no axle broken, no bent rims, no ripped tires, no body knocked off its frame—go figure.
My perception is that more of the buildings in Quito's El Centro are better kept or freshly painted than in Cuenca. There is no doubt that while Cuenca has some very nice churches, Quito's are difficult to beat when it comes to size and design. However, when my guide took me to what was Quito's central square, there was nothing in Quito's El Centro that could compete with Parke Calderon in Cuenca--a magnificent gem. Overall, Cuenca is much cleaner. Less trash is spewed around, and while Quito has more attractive sidewalks that coincide with the architecture and time period, Cuenca's walks are not covered in lots of discarded gum.
What I did not like about Quito is that everywhere I went people were trying to rip me off and overcharge me, except for the fellow from Seville who operated the restaurant. The hotel staff was also very accommodating. It cost me eight bucks to take the taxi from the airport to the hotel, and then the next driver wanted twelve bucks upon my return trip to the airport. He finally settled for ten. Last summer I paid $5.00. I could go on and on about the overcharges and other shifty business practices, but I’m glad to be back in Cuenca, where Cuenca's good people make me want to be better as well. My trip from the airport to Cuadra Dos was ONLY TWO DOLLARS. I’M A CUECANO NOW. VIVA CUENCA!
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Back to Cuenca
I am almost out of battery power. Long story, but I won't be able to write a post tonight. I just wanted to let everyone know that I will be arriving in Cuenca tomorrow, Wednesday, March 16th. I hope to meet many of you at Zoe's Friday evening. I slept for fourteen hours last night. Oh what a difference a night can make. Hasta Luego. Jim
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