The Smoking Man

I know many of you are waiting for me to follow through on the promises of last blog's cliffhanger, but unfortunately, the stories did not pan out as interestingly as I expected.

Cliff Hanger #1

Habitacíon #9:  Serial Killer on the Lamb

He looked like the Smoking Man for those of you old and nerdy enough to remember The X Files, and just for the thrill of it, I have moved into his habitacíon, Habitacíon Number 9.  He moved out suddenly six days ago after being visited by a young, pretty Columbian woman.  I plan to search the room for forensic evidence (which can't be used in a court of law in Ecuador); nevertheless, if I find evidence, I will lift it with the tiny tweezers from my Swiss army knife (before I trade my Swiss army knife and Swiss army watch for some antiques and curiosities on Monday morning- after all the Swiss army is largely ineffectual (perhaps neutral is a better word), and its products are overpriced in Latin America), and put the evidence into the little cellophane bag my antique postcards came in.  I will label the found evidence (exhibits A, B, and C) with the green, square stickers taped to the communal refrigerator; residents are supposed to use these green stickers to label their groceries (habitacíon #3, habitacíon #9, etc.), so other guests don't accidentally eat the wrong food. 

Note to self #1:  Don't eat the wrong food.

Note to self #2:  Change green stickers to reflect my room change, even though the only thing I have in the refrigerator is a diet coke, and an empty bottle from a Fanta purchased at Bodega Toni.

Note to self #3:  Return the empty bottle to Bodega Toni (Calle Mariscal Lamar y Padre Aguirre).

In my new habitacíon, I hope I will not find an underground tunnel that leads to a red light district in the Eastern Block, or another sinister human trafficking operation like the ones found in at least half of the states in the United States.  I'm obsessed with human trafficking ever since my friend Robin read me an article in 2002 about the sex slaves found in Westwood, California, four miles from my house (youngest slave 7, oldest slave became a madam after 15+ years of forced servitude).

But enough about the State of the Union... while they try to figure out if possessing a human should carry a sentence (29 months on the low end, 30 years on the high end) that is greater or less than the sentence for possession of crack cocaine (5 years minimum for 5 grams), there are less important investigative journalistic efforts to pursue right here in developing Ecuador (the first country to grant Mother Earth rights under its constitution- Ecuador also recognizes same sex unions, by the way).

The following is an exact transcript from my conversation with the alleged serial killer on the lamb in the communal kitchen 3 days prior to his departure.  He was tying plastic bags into tight knots and labeling them meticulously with his room number.

Him:  hmmgrrmmmmhmgrrr

Me:  Excuse me?

Him:  hmmgrrmmmmhmgrrr

Me:  I'm sorry?  I couldn't understand you.

Him:  Oh, I wasn't talking to you I was talking to myself.

Me:  Oh, well don't let me interrupt you.

Him:  I do that sometimes.

Me:  Okay.

Him:  Sometimes it's the only way you can have an intelligent conversation.

Really?  Really.  I could not make this up even if I tried.  I am not creative at all, and regardless of what my grandmother, cousin Eloise, and Maya believe, I'm not even an exaggerator.  If anything, I'm the type of apathetic, under reactor who tends to take 8 years longer than she should to tell someone to fuck off.

Fortunately, for me, things ended there between the serial killer and me.  I resisted la comida typico of a woman from Los Angeles who might otherwise respond with the low self-esteem, self-deprecating, inner monologue, but what about me?  I can't believe he thought he couldn't have an intelligent conversation with me.  I'm intelligent, and I can talk.  I can't believe he just said that to me.

For you hyper realists out there (http://lftblank.blogspot.com has indeed reached a far wider audience than originally expected), I really moved into the serial killer's room because it's in The Big House, one of the palatial rooms in the converted mansion, Hostal Maconda (Tarqui y Mariscal Lamar), and my adorable garden room where I sat on the porch and played my $70 handmade guitar (case included) sold to me by a charming teenager, was also the same room where every morning I woke to a new mosquito bite (37 at last count).

Even if the former occupant was a serial killer, the new room has 16-foot ceilings, looks over the atrium, has handmade and painted wooden furniture, contains 2 absolutely amazing local oil paintings, and (admittedly) smells just a little like pee.  

Last night, I made an evening out of smelling the mattress and pillows (not the source), opening the drawers and armoire and smelling them (to no avail), smelling my own underwear and feet (just to be sure), and sticking my face in the toilet (nada).  I had to conclude what our tour guide in Egypt, Amr, once said when a similar smell couldn't be located on our bus in 2001. 

"Friends, I believe that it's not the bus, it's the area," and he motioned like an umpire calling a runner safe at home base, indicating the area-ness of the odor was more wide spread than originally thought.

Solution:  Buy incense from Dubai's Shwarma and Pipe (Calle Largo y Presidente Borerro) + 4 candles from the blind man in front of Cathedral Vieja (Parque Abdón Calderón) + spill a bottle of tea tree oil in the steaming shower.

Cliff Hanger #2

Broken Finger

This was just another long, boring story about me breaking another finger (slammed it into the door), and not going to the doctor (because they don't do anything for a broken finger anyway).

Coming soon! 

Catholic Existentialists and Other Entrepreneurs

Le Presente Su Botella

Le Presente, Su Botella

(Allow Me to Introduce to You, Your Bottle)

            Before reading further, for the Thought Police out there, let me assure you I have exhausted all possibilities for my novel today before beginning this blog.  In fact, today was one of my most productive days in Ecuador on all accounts.  It seems my readers fall into four major groups:  those who want me to finish my book; those who want me to finish my blog; those who want me to finish my blog and book; and those who would like me to finish anything.  Can't please everyone.  Please forgive the numerous typos and formatting errors in this blog.  My cousin, Sheriff of the Thought Police, has forbidden me to edit anything but my book until I return to California.  (She thinks I'm stuck).  So here it is.  Any typos, or sentence structure errors, or wordiness will bring readers closer to the quality of my Spanish.

Part One

KOOKABURRA CAFE & ACCOMMODATION

First, after nearly five weeks, I found a place that serves real cappuccinos (ironically, Australian-owned).  I did try several Ecuadorian establishments first, as is my eco-tourism practice, but Nescafe, I'm sorry to say, no matter how it's fashioned, does not a cappuccino make.  Unpasteurized (for which there are no spelling suggestions in my American version of Microsoft Word) milk is a risky venture to begin with (dry heaving as I write this), but combined with Nescafe it creates a grey, toxic, room temperature matter (solid? liquid?) in which clear circles of fat congregate at the top of your mug, assembling a coup which with overthrow your previously-democratic digestive system. 

One of my favorite quotations from Valecia in Ecuador is, "It's so weird.  I can drink coffee here and it doesn't even give me the jitters."  (Shhh, it's because it's not coffee).

Loyal readers may remember a similar espresso predicament in summer 2008, in Chile, when lovely Valecia was served a soy latte with soy sauce (not kidding).  To jar your memory, this was the trip where I had to learn how to make my own espresso on a stovetop contraption for which I'm eternally grateful, and gave myself Botulismo (my fault – unplugged refrigerator).

     I can only blame North Americans and Europeans for the failure of perhaps the largest coffee-producing region in the world to not enjoy a good cup of coffee.  After many interviews with Ecuadorians, the consensus seems to be that coffee beans are such a cash crop that there is absolutely no reason to hoard it.  Incidentally, the same goes for coca leaves in Bolivia, Peru, and Ecuador.  Export, export.  The United States and Western Europe are the two biggest cocaine consumers in the world, and while there is the occasional Bolivian crack head- a self-destructive lab genius who has learned how to manufacture a high, and lord knows the Columbians and Brazilians surely have their consumers- for the most part most South Americans are not willing to risk 15 years in prison (not kidding) for a line of cocaine.  Export, export.  For the poor quality leaves, mixed with a little ash and stuffed in the adorable cheeks of the Andean indigenous, you have an instant cure for altitude sickness.

For the most part, peppy highs are not conducive to Latin America.  The cracky productivity that comes with a Fair Trade Double Tall Grande Two Pump Skinny Vanilla Latte would be entirely wasted on a culture whose collective favorite word is, espera.  I have heard the word espera 179 times in 5 weeks, and the word mañana 83 times.

And yet, how is this espera community the same culture that wakes me up at 7 am with fireworks and celebrates Christmas from November until March with parades of equal enthusiasm every day?

I, for one, could not carry a toddler in a hammock/backpack at high altitude all day while pushing a wheelbarrow full of cherries, chanting cerisas cerisas meditatively without a little coffee, or even better ack-cray (no worries, Mom, I don't touch the stuff- wouldn't risk the aneurism or the prison sentence).

Because the Australians are not exactly known for their cuisine (taste Vegemite on white toast if you don't believe me), I had to interview the corky co-owners of Kookaburra Café and Accommodation:  OPEN 7am EVERYDAY, and ask them about their acquisition of an expensive, authentic, cherry red, Italian espresso machine.
Co-owner #1:  Well, mate, we couldn't get a good cup of coffee anywhere in Cuenca.

I also ordered lunch which was a micro waved frozen pea and square carrot tamale wrapped in a Eucalyptus leaf, and an agua con gas.  Because they didn't have any change for a five-dollar bill, I also ordered the Ecuadorian beer, Pilsener.  The cuenta then was $3.25, and with the help of some friends the co-owners were able to assemble change.

I must admit, when I saw the "& ACCOMMODATION" part of the sign, I wanted to live in this friendly Australian espresso oasis.  After hearing virtually no English since Valecia left, I barely recognized their accent as English, and until my ear acclimated had to converse in an Australian/Spanglish pidgin.

Me:  I'd like to order a seltzer please.

Co-owner #1:  I'm not sure if we have an Alka-Seltzer, but I'll check in my personal medicina cabinet because you are honestly officialimente our first real customer.  Otherwise, I'll hold your table while you have a run to the farmacia down the street.  Lo siento you're mal.  Was it something you ate?

Me: Lo siento, señor un agua.  Un agua con gas.

Co-owner #1:  An aqua con gas.  Ah, see, you mean a soder walter?

Me:  Yes, a soder walter.

Co-owner #1:  Well, that, my friend, we have.

            Co-owner #2, the chef, admitted that she had no idea how to cook, but was giving it a go

because why not after all, and I got into a conversation about the genius of the frozen burrito. 

            Co-owner #2:  Do they eat frozen burritos in California?  I must say, I miss them.

            Me:  Not that much, but a little.  They sell them in vending machines at community

colleges and employee break rooms usually.

            Co-owner #2:  That's crazy.  It's like selling an antelope in a vending machine.  The

frozen burrito deserves quite a bit bettah.

            Me:  I agree, but there's just not a market for it because you can get a regular burrito

pretty much any time you want.

            Co-owner#2:  Really?  That's the states for you.  A burrito, fresh, any time you want? 

You're putting me on?

            There's a rumor in my family that in the 80's my grandmother brought the frozen burrito to Australia, and it was a lucrative business.  I rarely test the rumors in my family because they're mostly lies, but since we were discussing the frozen burrito, and I was eating what was essentially a frozen burrito (still partly frozen due to a sudden power outage), I decide to probe.

Co-owner #2:  Apologies my friend.  It's still a bit frozen, but tastes alright?
Me:  Sure.  It's fine.  You know, my grandmother sold frozen burritos in Australia in the 80's.
Co-owner #1:  You mean Diamond Moran?  Your grandmother is Diamond Moran?  Unbelievable.  You know she's credited with importing the frozen burrito to Australia!
Me:  Really?  I always thought it was a family rumor.
Co-owner #2:  A rumor?  Absolutely not, my love,  Mate, bring the granddaughter of Diamond Moran, bringer of the frozen burrito to Australia another Pilsner on the house!"

Part Two

Una Cuaderno entre Otras Cosas

(A Notebook among Other Things)

            Buying a notebook might not seem like much of an accomplishment to most readers; however, it's virtually impossible to find a notebook with plain paper that doesn't have some strange, unknown cartoon character and a poorly translated American phrase on the cover.  For example, the most common notebook has a pig emerging from psychedelic rainbows, and it reads:  All of the days taking happiness.  The second most common notebook seems to be two cartoon children in some sort of romantic relationship (as indicated by the background of pink, purple, and red hearts), which reads, Birds in common is everywhere.  I don't mean to be a notebook snob, but I can't imagine Pablo Neruda (who apparently was absolutely obsessive about his turquoise ink) drafting a poem in a notebook with two puppies and a chicken that read, Tomorrow are the days that might tell a future. 

Upon asking for a plain notebook:

            Store #1:  ¿Porque?

            Store #2:  No lo tengo.

            Store #3:  Takes out a pad of watercolor paper for ten dollars, but inspects my money like

a Peruvian (Peruvians prefer US dollars to sols, but only accept them if

they've been steam-cleaned and pressed.  She says, cambio el diez dólar!

(Change the tenth dollar)!  But I don't have a cleaner tenth dollar, so there

is no sale.

            Store #4:  We have a blue one, but it's only for accountants.  ¿Are you an accountant?

Store #5:  Me: Buenos Tardes, Señora.  I'm a very serious accountant, and am in need of

a very serious accounting book to keep very serious, and accurate records.  Have you an item that suits this description?

                             Her:  Absolutamente.  Tres dólores.

                             BINGO.

            Along the way, I find a good translation of Tropic of Cancer in Spanish.  $11.93.  I'm over budget today by $13.00.  Tomorrow I will live on continental breakfast, Nescafe, and cherries.

Part Three

La Botella

            So as not to lose the trust of the local bodega, I return three glass bottles that have been in my possession for six days.  This is no easy task because I have to explain to housekeeping that these bottles don't belong to the hostel, and that they must be returned to their original owners who will never sell me anything in glass until I return them in tact.  They understand completely. 

Bodega #1

One bodega sells only soda, and I have an empty Fanta bottle that belongs to them.  Deposit 15 centavos.  (The Fanta itself is 25 centavos).  This is my favorite bodega because it sells gummy sharks, and I can't afford to lose this bodega as a source of orange Fanta and gummy sharks.  I present the Fanta bottle to the owner who sees my two Pilsner bottles in the bag.

            Him:    You're cheating on me?

            Me:      You don't sell beer.

            Him:    Of course we do.  You said you wanted Fanta and gumidas.

            Me:      There's no beer in your refrigerator.  I didn't know.

            Him:    You should have asked.  I have a refrigerator in the back that functions on a

generator, keeping the coldest beer in town, even during power outages.  Give me

those Pilsner bottles, and I will give you a full beer for you to taste the coldness

of at no charge.

            Me:      I would love to, Sir, but I promised the woman down the street that I would return

these bottles to her.

            Him:    Next time you come to me.

            Me:      Okay.

Bodega #2

            Her:     Where have you been?

            Me:      Writing, walking.

            Her:     And how many days have you had my bottles?

            Me:      I don't know 4-5?

            Her:     4-5 days is not acceptable.  The normal amount of time to finish a large Pilsner is

1 day, 2 days maximum.

            Me:      Well, they're pretty large beers.  I guess I don't drink that much.

            Her:     Next time, you take one beer at a time.  Not two.  Not if you can't finish them.

More to come... Serial Killer on the Lamb at Macondo Hostel & Broken Finger