Sunday dawned crisp and fresh in Quito and Arline, Teresa and I were headed to the Chillos valley for lunch with Marta, another of my brother-in-law Germán’s sisters. The others would meet us there later in the day. Ever the mother hen, Teresa lectured us on picking a safe taxi in Quito and the perils of getting into a “pirate” cab.
Just then, two taxis pulled up to the curb in front of us. One was yellow: an officially sanctioned service. The white car had a “Taxi” sign propped up precariously against the windshield.
Mindful of our instructions, Arline and I started toward the yellow cab. “No!” called Teresa. “This one!” Confused (but obedient), we got into the pirate taxi while the other driver made gestures at his rival that a nice girl isn’t supposed to understand. A bit of judicious eavesdropping cleared things up. Teresa had recognized the driver. (Sometimes it seemed like Teresa knew half the population of Quito.)
There’s nothing quite like being around people who knew you when you were fourteen years old: that age when you have two left feet, your hair has no good days and this week’s unrequited crush is on the new drummer in the church band; when acne is a technical term for misery and it seems like no one, ever, anywhere, will take you seriously. When they do, you never forget.
Our driver took off east, easily zigzagging through neighborhoods (“just a little shortcut here...”) and speeding across roundabouts, all the while keeping up a lively game of do-you-remembers and did-you-knows with Teresa that I tried to interpret for Arline while at the same time pointing out landmarks or inserting my own comments. Given that most of my comments were of the “oh, this is new!” variety, I could probably have just said “ditto” after the first exclamation or two.
Soon we were rolling through Cumbayá and down a side road to Lumbisi. Marta and Jorge have a wonderful little – no, tiny – one bedroom, one bathroom house surrounded by a luxury of flowers and fruit-bearing trees.
The brief afternoon rain wasn’t even a disturbance as we sat under the patio roof, surrounded by family and friends, and feasted on caldo de pollo, fritada with mote and maduros, fruit and cake, and told stories and laughed. Then we drove back to Quito and sat up late with Teresa and her daughters and laughed some more before going to bed.
After Becky and Germán first married, they moved to Australia for 5 years. During their absence, my parents regularly visited Germán’s widowed mother. Mamá María, as everyone called her, lived with Teresa and Teresa’s three daughters. When I was fourteen, they invited me to stay for a weekend. At that time they lived in a colonial-era building in old Quito. After Mamá María went to bed, Teresa and the girls and I sat up giggling and talking into the night. It was nice to do that again: especially without the adolescent angst.
Monday morning, we called our “unofficial taxi” friend from the day before. First stop, Panecillo, the hill that used to sit toward the south of Quito before the southern end decided to move even further south. A million pictures later, we got back in the taxi and rode to the Basilica. Our “pirate” friend said his goodbyes and we walked up the stone steps, through the enormous doors of bronze and into the never-completed church that I love.
I used to escape to the Basilica in high school and college. The strength and simplicity of the stone, the delicacy of the stained glass windows so very far above me – the church draws the spirit upwards and stirs lethargic dreams. Tradition says that the day the Basilica is completed, the world will end: and so it, like me, remains unfinished but always in work.
We walked from the Basilica down to the Plaza Grande, Teresa herding Arline and me like a nanny with her charges. We maneuvered around a city bus that got stuck trying to turn the corner on streets built for a horse and carriage. Teresa stopped to greet people she knew. I recognized streets and buildings. There was a band playing near the Plaza Grande; something presidential was going on at the Palacio de Carondelet. Our destination, however, was the Palacio Arzobispal, specifically the restored wing that houses a number of little cafés. It was lunchtime and I still had a couple of foods on my list of “gotta haves”.
As we made our way back to a table overlooking the courtyard, Arline burst out laughing, “And now I recognize someone, too!” as a man we’d met on La Ronda two nights before strolled past.
After a lunch of fanesca followed by figs and cheese, there was only one item left on my “gotta have” list. We paid our bill and walked back out to the Plaza Grande. Two little shoe-shine boys swarmed us; we decided our shoes needed shining and let them work while practicing their English (such as it was) on us.
Crossing the square, our attention was caught by a dog taking itself for a walk. Holding the business end of the leash in his mouth, the diminutive pooch trotted just behind his owner who periodically turned to make sure all was well.
The Cathedral doors were closed. No matter, we went across the street to La Compañía, one of the most visually stunning churches in Quito. A small fee is charged for tourists; on our way out, we were amused to see that Teresa had been lumped in with us as a “Foreign Visitor”.
We rode the trolley back from the San Francisco plaza. As we stood, bracing against the tilt and sway of the car making its way through the streets of Quito, Teresa pointed to a street and then stopped, temporarily forgetting its name. “Mariana de Jesús”, I prompted, no longer having to search my memory. At the end of the line, we got off and Teresa guided us to a bakery inside the terminal. The milhojas (also known as a “napoleon”) was every bit as good as I expected. My list was complete.
The night my brother-in-law Chuck died, his son hugged me tight and told me, “I want pictures of your trip; I want a picture of you at the Middle of the Earth.” So Germán picked us up at the trolley station and drove us out to the Mitad del Mundo. I stood by the line that marks the equator and squinted into the western sun for my nephew.
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The officer checking my passport scrutinized my US customs form, then my passport, and finally me. Not sure what the problem was, I waited. “How did you get from Oklahoma to Texas through Ecuador?” he asked, noting my places of birth and residence. I launched into an explanation: missionary parents, multicultural, visiting sister... his skepticism seemed to grow. It was hard not to babble. After an eternity, he grinned, gave me a “just kidding” look and waved me through, saying "Welcome home!" Curious, I glanced down at my form. I had filled it out in Spanish.
Ah, it's good to be home in no-man's land again.
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