Overalls seem like an apt subject for The Desk Chair as they have long been synonymous with hard work and general toil. (Since about 1891, in fact.) This request comes from my friend Bill, professional Guy Who Does Crazy Things Like Suggest You Write About Overalls.
For reference, here is a link to the surprisingly helpful Wikipedia page about the overall.
Read that, and then peruse these pictures (not at all in chronological order) of people in overalls. I'm not even going to bother with captions because it's pretty obvious why most of them are hilarious.
Turns out it's hard to write a new post every day. It requires a pretty monumental effort. This is probably an important lesson for me given that I still harbor pipe dreams of travel writing (as if that career still exists) and journalism (also on the wane). Granted, part of the problem today is that I'm very tired from staying up late eating popcorn and watching election coverage. Though I hesitate to take a strong political stance on so public a forum, I do have one important point to share. When it comes to the manual popping of corn, I have emerged from this election firmly pro-vegetable oil. At first, I came under a lot of pressure from the powerful olive oil lobby which, until my friend Seth went to the store, had a complete monopoly over the apartment's oil supply. But, in the end, vegetable oil's superior ability to pop a vast majority of its kernel allotment in a timely fashion won the day.
Anyway, I've managed to do a lot of things today that weren't writing a hilarious and informative post about Hugo Chavez or climate change (neither of which are very hilarious), and I'd like to share that list with you now:
Watched YouTube videos of singers... without audio
After yesterday's post, I'm feeling pretty good about my prospects in a hypothetical post-apocalyptic Satan pit ("Satan pit" is an alternative to "hellscape" that I'm trying out).
There are only two more items of absolute necessity:
The first is a container of Clorox wipes. Practical, given that we'll all be stewing in our own filth and excrement in a matter of weeks? Probably not. But I think they will help ease the transition.
The second item is more controversial: one of the many photos of the permanent receptionist's daughter. Why? So I can pass her off as my own missing child and thereby gain access to extra sympathy and supplies. I think it's a stroke of genius.
So, here's the final list:
iPhone
Charger
Sunglasses
Coat
Sharpie
Ibuprofen
Alcohol Wipes
Superglue
Groceries
Caution tape
String
Letter openers
Scissors
Screwdrivers
Compressed air
Clorox wipes
Photo
Technically, I no longer have the Trader Joe's bags in which I was planning to carry all of these things. But I think we can safely pretend it's yesterday. I also have my small, over-the-shoulder purse and a canvas tote bag, so I think I'm set. Ideally, I would duct tape the weapons to my body (duh) but there doesn't seem to be any duct tape in my vicinity. Scotch tape would almost certainly be a disaster.
If I managed to get all this together in under two minutes, which of the following would you recommend I do:
1. Run to the kitchen to try to grab a trash bag or two for minor protection against the elements.
2. Run to the IT department to steal that one guy's skateboard so I can wheel my supplies along behind me. (Obviously, this will be easy to rig up since I have a ball of string.)
Let me know what you think and best of luck to us all...
Today's inspiration comes from the incomparable Sally Ronald, constant Gchat companion, former Jeopardy contestant, and friend in real life:
"The world is about to descend into some sort of post-apocalyptic chaos. Riots in the streets, etc. You have 2 minutes to gather supplies that you can carry with you from the office. What do you take?
GO."
Now, I happen to know that Sally has been watching a lot of The Walking Dead lately. But she assures me this is not meant to have anything to do with zombies. That's good, because I know nothing about zombies.That's one corner of nerd culture I'm happy to have avoided thus far, apart from somehow knowing that you need to get them in the head in order to "kill" them. Actually, is there really anything else to know? Maybe that's it. Never mind, I'm a zombie expert.
So anyway, no zombies... just a barren hellscape (I think I'm starting to overuse "hellscape") with wandering bands of violent sub-humans. Or at least a bunch of increasingly crazed regular humans that will eventually descend into sub-humanity. As I only have two minutes and it's likely the office itself will have erupted into chaos (which I already experienced once during The Great Coffee Changeover of 2011: Pots to Pods), I'm going to limit the parameters even further to just the reception area and nearby supply closet.
A couple things are pretty obvious. I would certainly take my iPhone and charger (which I brought in to work with me today, fortuitously), my new aviator sunglasses (so I can look cool while I defend myself against Piggy and the gang), and my coat. I would also start by replacing unnecessary purse items with more useful small supplies. For example, a black sharpie in place of my Dior mascara, ibuprofen and alcohol wipes in place of gum, and super glue in place of my checkbook.
In another fortuitous twist, I went to Trader Joe's today for lunch and decided to stock-up on some work food. Here's what I have immediately on hand:
- 1 Apple
- 2 packages of 100 calorie dark chocolate bars (9 bars in total- I ate one).
- 15 ounces of dry roasted, unsalted almonds
- 16 ounces of crunchy almond butter
- 11 individually wrapped string cheeses (ate one of those, too)
- 2 Greek yogurts
- 2 Kind bars
- Organic popping corn
- Half a Thai style pasta salad
On the one hand, it seems impractical to burden myself with all that food, but on the other hand, having that much ready sustenance seems like it could give me a real leg up. So, bag of groceries also makes the list.
In the tools and weapons category, I'm also doing pretty well. Here's the run-down of options:
- 4 pairs of scissors
- 3 screwdrivers (2 Phillips heads and a flat-head)
- A random piece of metal piping I found in the closet, light enough to carry but heavy enough to incapacitate.
- 2 staplers
- What looks like 200 staple removers
- 1 three-hole punch
- Calculator
- Tape measure
- Letter opener
- Velcro
- Batteries
- 2 compressed air dusters
- A role of caution tape
- A ball of string
Sally insists I don't need the caution tape ("It's the apocalypse, Julia"), but I think it could come in handy. I could set up a bunch of fake hazards around my hide-out to throw people off. Sure, the roving bands would eventually be like, "Wait, it's the apocalypse, why are we worried about a little bit of caution tape?" but people are pretty deeply conditioned to follow rules, so I think it could at least buy me some time.
The ball of string is a must. Didn't Frodo and Sam have a ball of twine that came in handy a few times? Or am I thinking of something else? Regardless, I'm bringing the string.
I will also take the letter opener. Sharp, lightweight, and in the event that the postal service survives the nuclear winter, I will avoid paper cuts.
Two pairs of scissors should suffice. When one gets dull I can sharpen it with the letter opener, then I'll always have a sharp pair of scissors.
I'll take two of the three screwdrivers: one Phillips, one flat. If I can find an Allen wrench, I'll be totally set if we need to build Ikea furniture to survive.
(Update: I found a second letter opener. I will take both.)
And finally, the cans of compressed air will also come along, mostly because they're highly flammable. Seems useful.
I think that's a good start. Tune in tomorrow for Part II.
My friend Jessi's suggestion to write something (anything) about food is particularly apt in this, the treat-filled holiday nightmare that is the American workplace from about October 30th to February 15th. In fact, not five minutes ago, I was told enthusiastically, "There are FULL SIZED candy bars in the break room!" I hung my head. It was hard enough surviving this week's onslaught of miniature Snickers and boxes of Munchkins without having to deal with anything bigger. Speaking of Munchkins ("doughnut holes," if you're some kind of freak who's never been to a Dunkin Donuts), are there people out there who genuinely enjoy them? Every time I have one, I'm disappointed... and then inexplicably want five more. Might as well just have a whole doughnut and experience the disappointment only once.
Obviously, this won't be a post about healthy eating, even though I could say a lot of great things about the Whole Foods Cafe we're lucky enough to have at this office complex. That kind of thing is best left to Gwyneth Paltrow or Jessi Haggerty. Instead, as armchair temporary receptionists, I would like you to follow me on a brief and informal journey of exploration into the candy habits of the North American office worker. The following are three of my personal observations:
1. If you build it, they will come.
Until yesterday, we had horrible candy at the reception desk. I mean, Smarties? Sure, that one IT guy loves them (he would), but everyone else walked by and said, "Ugh, no chocolate?" And yet, mysteriously, almost all of them would take something anyway. To me, suffering through a package of Smarties or, God forbid, a Tootsie Roll, is far worse than no candy at all. Not so for the people of this office. If it's there, someone will eat it. Granted, that's just true everywhere, always.
2. That one intern will take all the Peanut Butter Cups.
When delicious candy magically appeared in the reception bowl yesterday (which was November 1st, so obviously somebody had been hoarding the good stuff), I was eagerly anticipating a mid-afternoon Peanut Butter Cup. But then they disappeared, presumably into the gullet of the intern who covers my breaks. I've since discovered that he's also dipped into my desk walnuts. I sincerely hope they make his throat feel weird.
3. Candy will continue to appear, even on November 2nd when you thought you were safe.
When I started writing this post, the reception bowl was gone. I don't know how it happened, but somehow... it's back. I was ticked off. Then someone stopped to grab a piece and felt compelled to tell me my hair looked nice. Maybe the candy bowl isn't so bad.
It's hard to feel inspired staring at a bank of elevators in an office building. Granted, of all the jobs I've had in my life, temporary receptionist is probably the least soul-crushing. It's nothing like the neon hellscape of a Kohl's dressing room or the chaos and mass hysteria of a Panera at lunch time. (Chips, Apple, or Baguette?) Still, it inspires its own particular brand of agitated ennui, best fought by coffee, Gchat, and giving your co-workers secret nicknames. My friends affectionately refer to my adventures as #templife, which is a lot like Thug Life, but with more Post-Its. (Unless Tupac wrote his raps on Post-Its, which is certainly a possibility.)
Still, even with Internet wanderings and crossword puzzles and (occasionally) actual work, I wind up with a lot of time on my hands- time I'd like to use in a way that at least feels productive. So, allow me to introduce a new temporary series I'm going to call The Desk Chair. For every weekday spent in the office, a new post- and you suggest the subject matter.
We're free-wheelin' here. No boundaries. (Well, some boundaries. I'm at work.) What would you like to know more about? Ending sentences with prepositions? Sure, I'll Google that for you. And then I'll synthesize whatever information I find into a few manageable chunks of text for you to skim while you wait for the bus. The modern age.
So get crackin! What should I write about tomorrow?
...is what I would say if I were super lame. Poor, neglected Armchair. All of these months without attention and now I'm dusting her off with a post about corn.
I recently spent 3 weeks singing in the cornfields of rural Illinois. It was a beautiful experience, both personally and professionally. But this isn't a blog about my musical life (or really anything at all in particular at this point), so what do you care? And if you do care, too bad, because I'm cultivating my ability to tie a mental bow on a great experience and attempt to move forward with some degree of speed. Onward and upward. On to tomorrow (shout out). Or maybe, in the immortal words of Doris Day (who I recently learned is still alive and planning to release a new album, hence this song being stuck in my head for days), Que Sera, Sera. After all, the alternative to forward motion is wallowing. And wallowing, as evidenced by my junior high school diary, generally results in terrible writing. Or worse, poetry. So instead, to tie the metaphorical mental bow and honor my genuinely lovely experience in Illinois (and satisfy my little writing itch), I present to you a ridiculous tribute to corn. It makes sense to me.
Corn has been a friend of mine for a while now. Do you ever think of things in terms of how you'll remember them when you're 100? The six years I spent living in the Midwest will probably be distilled into two or three main ideas. And one of them could very well be the image of the cornfields. My grandkids will ask, "So what was Earth like at the turn of the century, Gran?" Elderly me will say, "What? I don't know. Corn, I guess. Corn everywhere. What's it to you, anyway? Why is this space pod so cold? SOMEBODY GET ME A SWEATER." Obviously, this will all take place on Mars in some kind of colony that we created after Oprah died and society on Earth imploded.
But it's true. Corn has been a powerful, if unassuming, presence in my life for the last few years. And you know what? I don't know much about it, apart from the fact that I like to eat it, it's supposed to be "knee-high by the Fourth of July," and it's generally inhabited by frightening children. So let's learn something.
First of all, the more globally-oriented/technical/agriculturally precise term for "corn" would be "maize." Most of us are familiar with its origins. It was first cultivated by native Mesoamericans something like 7,000 years ago. People who study these kinds of things are apparently pretty interested in its domestication. Nobody (I guess these people are generally archaeobotanists and the like) is sure how or why it happened the way it did. They use a lot of technical lingo like "intercrossing teocinte" and frankly, I don't have the patience to sift through it all for you. Know that a wild plant was domesticated, spread across the Americas, and rapidly became the most important staple crop for the indigenous population. Then the Europeans stopped by and grabbed a few ears for themselves. And the rest is history. Once again I'm reminded of how I really need/want to get around to reading Guns, Germs, and Steel.
Technically, corn is a grain. It seems obvious now, but if someone had asked me yesterday I probably would have said "vegetable." Sweet corn, the type we eat fresh, has a higher sugar content and is harvested earlier. So-called "field-corn" is used mainly for things like animal feed. Yum. For a plant with such a hum-drum reputation, it certainly finds itself in the middle of a lot of socio-economic and political issues. Pesticides, growth hormones, biofuels...meth. And it's right in the middle of our big ol' global food issue. (Thank you, National Geographic, for the frightening Population 7-Billion series.)
I've always been curious about the mechanics of corn harvesting. I mean, those fields are big. I looked into it. Then I got mind-numbingly bored. Then I found this video of a corn harvest in action accompanied by the Carmen Fantasy. Which doesn't make any sense. But still, jackpot!
Had I grown up in the cornfields, I probably would already have known how it worked. Perhaps I would have even seen it done. What little I do know of adolescence in the cornfields, I know thanks to my dear friend and once-roommate, Sally. Sally grew up in a wee town called Portland, Indiana. You might be inclined to think they have some kind of "port" and therefore a significant body of water. You would be wrong. They do, however, have a lot of corn. Also, lest you lovable East Coast elitists think otherwise, a cornfield upbringing is not to be scoffed at. Sally, it must be said, has been on Jeopardy.
Anyway, as I am nothing if not a diligent researcher, I recently said to Sally, "Hey, I'm writing a blog post about corn. Say some stuff about it." She supplied me with a couple of excellent anecdotes, my favorite of which was a story about a childhood friend of hers who, upon finding herself in a car making its way down a road surrounded by the high corn of late summer, would yell, "CORNCAVE! CORNCAVE!" There was also the young cousin who was manipulated into helping shuck corn by adults who told her each ear was a "gift" that needed to be "unwrapped." So, naturally, every time she successfully shucked an ear she would yell gleefully, "IT'S ANOTHER CORN!" I have memories of shucking corn, too, but it was New England corn. Whole different thing.
Sally was also the first person to introduce me to the urban legend about thieves and bandits jumping out from the corn at four-way stops on country roads. They would then smash your windows and steal your stuff I guess? I think she told me this actually happened to a friend of hers, but I'm skeptical. She's a tricky one, that Sally.
More Facts about Corn
50% of U.S. corn is grown in Iowa, Illinois, Nebraska, and Minnesota
Some corn can grow to be 39 feet high. 39 feet! ...but most of it is bred to be about 8 feet.
The "Corn Belt" includes Iowa, Illinois, Nebraska, Minnesota, Indiana, Ohio, Wisconsin, South Dakota, Michigan, Missouri, Kansas, and Kentucky.
Corn is produced on every continent. Except Antarctica, obviously. Isn't it annoying how you have to say that every time something is on "every continent?" Can't we just stop including it as a continent and just have it be its own thing?
Archaeologists have popped 1,000 year old popcorn. Gross. And awesome.
If conditions are right, corn can sometimes grow 3-4 inches in one night. I know because I sat and watched one time. Just kidding.
Further Corn Research
The Great Corn Adventure (Please, please click on this. It's for children, but it sums it all up so nicely. And it's goofy.)
You know, what I'd really like to do with this blog is chronicle my adventures in an actual traveling armchair. You know, rig-up a La-Z-Boy with a set of wheels. Maybe motorize it. Put in some cup-holders. I'm sure it's already been done. The "car" comes to mind. Or the Jazzy. Or Roundhouse (1:46).
Wheeled upholstery, believe it or not, isn't unprecedented in my life. My high school boyfriend, Andrew, once put wheels on a couch. It's a simple story. Andrew had a friend, Dave. Dave's parents had a couch. One day, they decided they wanted to get rid of it. So they put it on the front lawn by the side of the road. Andrew and his buddies, lit by some kind of divine spark, decided this would be the perfect place to gather for beers and late-night sh**-shooting. It quickly became a phenomenon. Rules were established, a television was brought out, and, most importantly, wheels were added to the couch's bottom, mainly to facilitate swift movement back to the house in the event of inclement weather and/or something non-couch related demanding the boys' attention, like work... or throwing a brick of lard at a Wendy's (true story). Really, I think everyone just liked the idea of having a couch on wheels. Over time, The Couch came to represent something greater than the sum of its parts. It encouraged the ridiculous, fostered the unexpected, and most importantly, answered the question, "Why?" with a resounding, "Why not?" All quite Hawksian, really.
Anyway, there you have it. Wheeled upholstery. I want some. Also, don't you like the word "upholster?" Upholster? I don't even know 'er! ...Am I right?
Unfortunately, most of the exploring I did on my most recent trip abroad was done on my own two feet. This is where I was:
Quito, Ecuador. Most of which is south of the Equator. Obviously, you have a single burning question: Which way did the toilets flush?
Answer: I don't really know. I looked once and was sure I saw it going the "wrong" way, per the myths and legends. But now I'm not sure. In addition to receiving differing reports from my peers, I've read that it's all a bunch of nonsense. Apparently, the Coriolis Effect doesn't come into play at all in the realm of flushing. Something I read said that if there is a difference in flush direction, it's just the way that particular toilet was manufactured. Which, I suppose, makes sense. But still raises some questions: Why wouldn't toilet manufacturers in this day and age have established a standard flush direction? Do they actually manufacture toilets differently depending on geography? What about imported toilets? And how about regular drains? (Why didn't I observe the drains??) And if it is the Coriolis Effect, what happens when you're directly on the Equator? Does it go straight down?? Or worse...straight up?? Who knows. So what brought me to Ecuador? Believe it or not, a singing gig. And, as if that weren't awesome enough, some of my best friends came along, too. Pretty incredible.
Like so many epic adventures, ours began in Indianapolis. All in all, it was an uneventful journey. In a good way. The most exciting moment was probably when one of my earplugs got stuck and I had to pull it out with tweezers.
It was misty and cool when we landed in Quito, not unexpected conditions in a city that stands at 9,000 feet in an Andean river basin. We had gotten ourselves pretty worked up worrying about altitude sickness, so it was a pleasant surprise when we didn't instantly crumple to the ground upon exiting the aircraft. At baggage claim, my friend Bill and I admitted our disappointment with the colorless stamps in our passports. Talk about a first-world complaint.
Culture finally slapped me across the face when we left the arrivals gate. It was crowded and chaotic and we stuck out like big, sore, Gringo thumbs. Outside, waiting for the vans that would take us to our hotel, we were approached by a beautiful little girl, baby on her back, trying to sell us gum and candies. She was the first of many youngsters who would pull at our strings, both heart and purse.
Nobody admitted it at the time, but I think we were all a little nervous when we pulled up to our hotel. The street was grimy, graffitied, and ominously quiet. But Los Quipus turned out to be as lovely an accommodation as we could have asked for. We learned quickly that in Quito, outward appearances say little about the quality of what lies behind. You adapt quickly to the litter and graffiti, or miss a lot of what Quito has to offer.
My favorite plant in the courtyard of Los Quipus.
You can find sterile and manufactured in Quito if you know where to look. A good place to start might be the "Dining" section of my Rough Guide: Ecuador, which inevitably led us to overpriced, "western-style" restaurants in the Mariscal district, many of which were described as "authentic" or "traditional." Mariscal (named for Mariscal Sucre, famous freedom fighter) is home to most of Quito's hotels and hostels and is described by locals as "Gringoland." But it's by no means all bad. When you're tired and hungry and sick of pretending you know what you're doing, it's nice to go to a Tex-Mex place with an English menu and a guy in a sombrero. (Speaking of hats, there's something important you should know before we go any further. Prepare yourself. The Panama Hat is, in fact, Ecuadorian. Not Panamanian. It's true!)
Gringoland
Tourism in Quito does require a certain amount of savvy. It can be exhausting. First and foremost, there's the water issue. In addition to abstaining from tap water generally, there are tap-rinsed fruits and vegetables to consider and tap-created ice to be avoided. The trickiest adjustment is brushing your teeth with bottled water. More than once I unthinkingly rinsed my brush in the sink. So I boiled some bottled water and rinsed it again. Probably unnecessary, but I won't advocate one way or the other because I don't want to be blamed for your hypothetical future parasites. I'll just say that our group exercised varying levels of caution and by and large, we were all relatively okay. It seems to be kind of a crapshoot.
Another potentially unpleasant surprise is the fact that one can't really flush one's toilet paper. Quito's plumbing is a wee bit too delicate. So to speak. Instead, there are bins by every toilet for paper disposal. I frequently forgot, and honestly, there were no discernible consequences. But I don't know, I wouldn't want it to be my toilet paper that destroyed an entire city's sewage network. So, again, I'll leave it up to you.
Then there's crime to consider. Quito is certainly not the world's safest destination. My advice would be to apply the requisite amount of common sense for travel in any larger city, and then up-it by a couple of degrees. We were, in fact, witnesses to some small-scale crime. One afternoon, one of the women in our group was taking a photo with her phone when a man ran up and tried to pry it right out of her hand. He ran away too quickly for anyone to stop him, but luckily her phone (and her person) came away unharmed.
Taxis were also a bit of an adventure. A friend of mine insisted that there's a ring of unlicensed cab drivers who execute faux-abductions to scare their fares into handing over money and valuables. I wouldn't be surprised. Cabs are plentiful, cheap, and easy to hail, but it probably is safest to have your hotel call for you. And if you do hail one, make sure you can see a four-digit registration number on the sides and top of the car. Our only incident occurred when a driver tried to charge us $5 for what we knew to be a $3 ride, maximum. A simple, "No, muy caro" was all it took and we patted ourselves on the back for being awesome non-suckers. So I can vouch for the real threat of rip-offery.
On the issue of money, here's a fun fact: Ecuador uses the American dollar. You'll find, though, that because most things are relatively inexpensive, you'll wind up using a lot of Ecuadorian coinage. They mint the coins themselves (same denominations plus a $.50 piece) but use U.S. issue bills. They also use a heck of a lot of $1 coins, which I wish we used more often here because they're golden and make me feel like a pirate.
Quito's highland climate means the temperature is basically the same all year: low to mid-60s. Their "winter" is really a rainy season, with April bearing the brunt. Mornings were consistently sunny and beautiful but around midday, clouds started building over Pichincha, the friendly neighborhood volcano. By mid-afternoon, it was all rain, all the time.
A view of Pichincha
You'll never catch Pichincha looking the same way twice. My guide book described it as "brooding." I'll give that one to the Rough Guide. It did brood a bit.
Our best day in Quito found us at the Basílica del Voto Nacional, a neo-Gothic church built in the late 1800s, following Ecuador's independence from Spain. Its best feature is its general Ecuadorian stamp of originality. The gargoyles are way cool. Instead of grotesque monsters, they're all native Ecuadorian fauna. Birds, tortoises, iguanas... the list goes on. (In case you've forgotten, like I had, the Galápagos Islands are part of Ecuador. All those endemic species help make it one of the world's "megadiverse" countries.)
Rough Guide had mentioned spectacular, "not-to-be-missed" views from the top of the Basílica, alluding slightly to some kind of potentially frightening ascent. When we asked someone how we might get up to the towers, we stumbled into a tour. Our guide was warm, excited, and only spoke Spanish. It was fantastic.
And they weren't kidding about those towers. It's like an Amazing Race challenge getting up there. We're talking tiny metal ladders that allow you to look down hundreds of feet while you're climbing and rickety wooden bridges à la Indiana Jones. Meanwhile, our guide hopped around like Spiderman, pointing things out to us in enthusiastic Spanish. (Short aside: It's said that the Spanish spoken in Ecuador is among the clearest and most easily understood in the world. As a result, Quito is home to a host of language schools and has become a very popular place to learn Spanish. I should mention that I asked one of our Colombian colleagues about this and he shook his head and said that the clearest Spanish is actually spoken in, you guessed it, Colombia. Beats me.)
Basílica del Voto Nacional
View from the Basílica of El Panecillo. El Panecillo means "The Little Bread Roll." Apt, wouldn't you say? It's home to the Virgen de Quito (erected 1976) and serves as the southern boundary of Quito's historic Old Town.
Frightening stairs at the Basílica. The pictures just don't capture it.
Inside one of the clock towers. Great Scott!
El Murciélago Hombre
Quito's Old Town, where you can find the Basílica, is a fascinating area. You expect the winding, narrow streets, the picturesque plazas, and the Spanish Colonial architecture. You don't expect it to have such a lived-in vibe. Your average "Old Town" in, say, Europe, tends to be a bit Disney. Nobody really lives in the "Centro storico" part of Venice. They live in scary mainland areas like Mestre, home to the most frightening hotel I've ever had the pleasure of staying in. Seriously, there were prostitutes on the corner right beneath our window. I didn't sleep at all. Come to think of it, I stayed in a frightening hostel/campsite in mainland Venice once too. We slept in these weird pods things and found out later that the place had bed bugs. None of this has anything to do with Ecuador.
The Old Town area of Quito is different. It certainly isn't the city's residential hub, but you still get the sense that a real community exists. Particularly if you wander a bit off the beaten path because your stupid guide book has a map that's impossible to read. You're more likely to pass a shop that sell tiles or underwear or stereo systems than a shopt that sells souvenirs or touristy trinkets.
La Ronda. A street for tourists, supposedly lined with shops selling traditional goods. When we went, it was completely deserted. Naturally.
Iglesia de Santo Domingo. Plaza Santo Domingo is one of the Old Town's three main squares. The other two are the Plaza de la Independencia and the Plaza San Francisco.
Super-creepy mannequins seem to be a thing in Quito. Perhaps the Guayllabamba River Basin is the actual Uncanny Valley?
Karaoke. Universal.
View of El Panecillo
Teatro Bolívar. As you can probably tell from the picture, it was built in the 1930s. If I remember correctly, a fire destroyed it in the '90s and it's still undergoing restoration. We had lunch at a cafe right across the street. Good old Simon Bolívar has his mitts on just about everything in South America, doesn't he?
Did I mention we were there during Holy Week? Well, we were there during Holy Week. Which meant we were lucky enough to be there for the Good Friday processionals, one of the most culturally intense experiences I've ever had. Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures. We didn't want to risk bringing anything even remotely valuable since Old Town becomes absolutely packed with people for the event. (I kept what little money I brought in my bra... which seemed like a great idea until I actually had to pay for something. Awkward.)
The procession begins in the Plaza San Francisco and wends it's way through Old Town, up to the Basílica and back, over the course of something like 7 hours in total. It begins with hundreds of penitents in purple hoods (called Cucuruchos) carrying crosses and paintings. Among them are men in tunics and thorny crowns dragging real wooden crosses, stopping periodically to catch their breath and wipe the sweat off their brows. Other men engage in various degrees of self-flagellation, some symbolically and others covering their backs with real and painful-looking red welts.
Eventually, two enormous litters process out of the plaza. The first carries the Virgin of Sorrows and the second Jesus the Almighty. Hundreds of people join the procession and the streets become a sea of humanity as far as the eye can see. Music to accompany the procession is broadcast from the Plaza San Francisco, most memorably a canned version of the same dreary hymn looping endlessly. Many of the spectators lining the streets mouthed the words automatically. Every detail of the ceremony seemed to be deeply ingrained.
While the penitence and faith were clearly quite genuine, the atmosphere surrounding the procession was, it has to be said, pretty festive. Vendors were selling ice cream and balloons, women in tight tank-tops were strutting with their boyfriends, kids were running and playing. It could have been the Fourth of July. Except that we were in Ecuador. And it was April.
I can't leave you without any visuals, so here are some pictures taken by some stranger somewhere:
On the following day, we had an opportunity to take a mini-day-trip to a town north of Quito called Otavalo, home of South America's largest open-air market. Every Saturday, indigenous people from 70 surrounding villages come together to sell their wares. I had saved almost all of my souvenir shopping for this particular excursion. According to my book, The Otavalo Market was the #1 Not-to-Miss place in Ecuador. Once in a lifetime, right?
It started out well. The drive north was beautiful. At some point we crossed the Equator, but wherever it was, there was no fanfare. Close to Otavalo, we stopped at a little tourist shop where people were having pictures taken with llamas and enjoying panoramic views. To our surprise, three young girls in traditional garb hopped on our bus and sang to us in Kichwa, the indigenous language of the region. It was great. But after the driver dropped them off, things took a turn.
Inexplicably, our driver took us past Otavalo into a town called Cotacachi. Unfortunately, our time was limited since we had to get back to Quito for an evening concert. So this little detour cost us precious hours in Otavalo. I was a little ticked. So, unfortunately, the lovely little town of Cotacachi (prized for its leather goods) will forever be the town that wasn't Otavalo. They'll be fine though. Apparently they're quite affluent.
When we did finally get to Otavalo, I almost immediately lost my friends in the sea of color and the din of haggling. So I went on a solo souvenir tear, haggling my little heart out. Haggling, it turns out, is a blast. Granted, they're experts at making you think you're getting a good deal. Still, it's fun and you come away feeling accomplished. Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures of Otavalo, either. In my excitement, I left my camera on the bus.
Vista on the route from Quito to Otavalo
Flora
Yes.
My favorite picture from the trip. It would be in Cotacachi. .
Cotacachi's main square.
They were having some kind of festival in Cotacachi. And no festival is complete without Barney, obviously.
Want to know more things? Iglesia de la La Campañia A gilded Baroque church and one of Quito's major highlights. Some History, Courtesy of Lonely Planet Worth a read, mainly because there was an important Incan ruler named Tupac. Yes, Tupac. Rough Guide Ecuador Despite my complaining, it wasn't all bad. I've just come to trust Rough Guide implicitly so this one let me down a bit with its terrible maps and disappointing restaurant suggestions. In Rough Guide's defense, Quito is a sprawling, lengthwise city that is difficult to fit neatly onto a map (I would imagine, I'm not a cartographer) and most of the best restaurants didn't really have names. So I'm giving them a mulligan. But they can't coast on 2006's life-changing Indonesian meal in Amsterdam forever! National Geographic's Take on Ecuador Because I love National Geographic. Ecuadorian Cuisine One of Ecuador's highland delicacies: Guinea Pig, or Cuy. I didn't try it, but a colleague who did said it tasted like (you guessed it) chicken. Another said rabbit. Makes sense. The array of fruit is amazing and if you happen to make it there during Holy Week, you'll have the opportunity to try Fanesca, a stew served only during Lent and Easter. They make a pretty big fuss about it. Bill and I thought the first restaurant we went to was actually called Fanesca because the banner announcing that they were serving it was bigger than the restaurant's actual sign. Oops.
So there you have it. A taste of Ecuador. All worth it for the llama finger puppets I brought back.
