Cuenca

Paint me a picture prettier than Cuenca and I’ll buy it and put it in my next house. Make sure you collage it with terracotta tile, marble cobblestone, concrete droplets, gauche, acrylic, newspaper and wooden pieces. Drizzle bright pink overtop, along with confetti pieces and marmalade. If you’ve picked the brightest colors, you’ll find yourself close to the beauty of this town. Before you give it to me, take a hammer and distress the wood, chip some of the paint and add some twisted metal pieces to the landscape.

Put a lock on the front, with a golden keyhole, as well.

In this town, eyes and feet rave about the colors and textures of the day. However, at night, doors close up, along with windows, leaving behind only echoes of footsteps and motorcycle engines, mixed with Spanish chatter from kids headed home from night school.

Locked up tight, she gets her beauty sleep.

El Sol Sonrie Radiante

The sun smiles brightly
Las nubes muevan lentamente
The clouds move slowly
Las montañas son más grandes que los árboles
The mountains are greater than the trees
Hoy es más bello que ayer
Today is more beautiful than yesterday
José Luís es muy cariñoso
José Luís is very affectionate
Hoy aprendí adjetivos lo mismo
Today I learned about adjectives myself

Besides my accelerated language acquisition, I have also been playing with little kids and babies.

The toddlers walk around like little philosophers of the swings and the outdoor toys. Mateo wears a yellow knitted vest and grayish green corduroys, his eyes deep brown crevices atop his cheekbones. Lucas’s cheeks weigh down both sides of his face and he easily moves the white metal crib and climbs up the sides. Aissiata wears a watermelon jacket and neon pink sneakers protect her feet. Felipe is bundled in an aqua cotton jacket, his hoodie covering his head tightly, a cartoon character stitched on the front.

I know at night, while contemplating human nature, their squealing and laughter bonds them even closer.

If there were a child that I would adopt, I’d be tempted to take home Jose Luís. Even when Rosa rushes to push him over, he never cries. Slowly he rises again, and grins. This extends to open his mouth for a contained squeal and then a bit of gurgling from the back of his throat. I would love to witness his first words.

Necesito que uses tus piernas, José…

I need you to use your legs, José…

Vamos a subir! Sube sube!

We are going to go up! Go up! Go up!

Only a year ago was relying on a wheel chair, now he can run around the yard. His knee and elbow pads that he was given for Christmas are comical to me, along with his baby blue glasses that he constantly yanks off his head. When I see him running towards me, grinning madly and gearing up his throat for words which never come, endearment floods me. Sometimes he quietly curls up next to me, or sits on his knees staring at me as he slowly loses his balance and falls back. I had him hold a baby doll the other day, which he so sweetly and thoughtfully stroked and kissed in his arms.

All of the children here are taken care of so well. Their caretakers (“Tías” = Aunts) switch off duty every few days in their color coded teams (green, blue and red). They provide a healthy diet and take notes on each child’s development, which are filed by the Social Worker. Some children were picked up at hospitals, others were found wandering. In order for a child to stay here, they must be parent-less for at least a year. This means that the parents have proven that they cannot take care of them, are missing, or have given up.

Orphanages no longer exist in the US. They were replaced by the Foster Care system a few decades ago. I must say though, these children are blooming within these walls. Moreover, when adopted they will come with thick files of their growing up, along with a scrapbook of pictures from along the way. They will have been educated by some of the best teachers, and been taken care of by the best doctors… not to mention the volunteers that have helped along the way.

Last night, Jen and I found ourselves dancing in a nursery with four little philosophers, not to mention playing hide and seek as they ran around the room. These kids are some of the cutest, most seriously playful little persons that I have ever been around. Their photographs alone make me grin almost as wide as Jose Luís.

Los niños juegan feliz y cariñosamente.

The children play happily and affectionately.

Maybe I’ll just have to pack some when I leave….

Babies

Michael can’t speak, talk or walk. His head is too big for his body which makes it difficult for him to support himself. Only liquids can be given to him because his stomach can’t process solid food. He spends most of the day relying on the nurse to feed him, help him fall asleep, and even dispense of his waste. When working with him I had to hold him steady.

He is also 6 months old.

Babies are cute - with they’re little smiling faces, especially after baths all dressed in their fuzzy pastel pajamas, with footsies. They smell new and their faces make me laugh.

However, today I was given Michael and a bottle. Between squirming, gurgling and feigned vomiting during the next rounds of feeding I lost interest in whether he was getting any of it actually down his esophagus. As I stood Michael up on my lap, ready to lay him on my shoulder and reluctantly burp him he turned his head with mouth open wide, saliva protruding, inhaling …

“Not on me!” I told him.

He wobbled his head over to the other side, mouth still hanging open, moving his legs up and down – trying to jump or something. I rotated him between my arms and my shoulders, even leaving him in the ball pit at one point, watching him slowly sink into the colors. I could feel myself getting strangely combative as he continued to defy the bottle, splashing the milk around and out of his mouth with his tongue. I eventually sat him down in a tiny blue seat in front of some dangling plastic shapes.

“So, you’re going to try to eat those but not you’re formula?”

When I bear children and master feeding them, I’m sure I will love them more than most things in the world because they will be mine. However, the challenge at an orphanage or with adoption is that you need to learn how to love ones who are not yours and who can’t take care of themselves.

There are no older kids here because they all get adopted. An American family may even be adopting one of our special needs kids, which is practically unheard of. Today a family from the Upper West Side of Manhatten, came to adopt Juan.

You can imagine the cultural differences.

Each family that adopts is required to spend two months in Quito with their new child. Two months of hotel expenses, transportation, speaking Spanish, braving different food, taking off from work, and pulling two little kids out of school. At ages 6 and 9, the daughter and son of this family are accepting this pleasantly plump toddler as their brother. Even more, these two parents are calling him their son.

For Juan, he is stepping into a life filled with more opportunity than most of the American population.

I asked the mother, “What made you want to adopt?”

“It’s something I’ve always wanted to do!” she said, beaming. She resembled Sandra Bullock quite a bit in both mannerisms and appearance. She continued, “We wanted to have a third and we thought, ‘Let’s just do it all at once!’.”

She began pulling Juan and another toddler in a little green wagon around the yard. Meanwhile her two kids were jumping on the trampoline with the other children.

The shadows embraced the trees around me as I watched this little boy begin his first day as theirs.

Special Needs

“Do you mind if I wash these things here?” I think in my head…

…meanwhile, in reality, I slowly move the plastic bowl and signal with my eyes and hands as kindly as possible, smiling to gain approval. The Tia (“Aunt” = Caretaker/Nanny) says, “Si, quieres lavar los platos?”

…to which I respond with the two words I feel most confident saying…

“Si! Gracias.”

“Sorry I’m taking up space in the sink while you peel and wash your potatoes. You may end up with chocolate potatoes!” I think as I wash the chocolate covered bowl.

I smile broadly, invasively, attempting to communicate gratitude. She smiles back. After the dish is cleaned, I walk towards a child passing his empty bowl between his hands and hitting it on the table.

“Hey, are you finished? Can I have your bowl?”

I stand and hold out my hand, silent.

Estas terminada…. Terminanda… terminando…termine?

I stand there some more, hoping he will see me and recognize the signal. Eventually, I walk away and continue to observe my friend dominate her cooking class, raise her voice, her hands, gesture verbs, sing occasionally, elaborately communicate surprise, laughter, excitement, praise and commands. Only dynamite could possibly challenge her energy.

I smile. I laugh. I nod my head. I take the dishes.

“Puedes…. Lavar…. Mmm,” I say as I point to the plastic bowls. “Como se dice?”

“Los platos! Lavar los platos. Si, si!” the friendly Tia exclaims, moving over.

“Ah, lavo los platos. Si. Gracias.” I respond, the deflated companion of dynamite.

This began the game of point and translate.

“Como se dice?” I said, pointing to a pot….

…the stove

…the oven

....the gas

…the small spoon

…the large spoon

This game is still in progress, and although I feel like a loser, I consider myself a learner. In fact, Jen suggested I work with the special needs kids, since the Spanish is slow with them….

…so she says…

But it is slow, as is their development. I spent four hours with four of them today: Rosa, Jose Luiz, Tatiana and Lessith. Tatiana wears a bib to catch the saliva continuously dripping from her lips; Jose Luiz wears elbow pads, knee pads and baby blue glasses; Rosa has bruises and a few small cuts on her arms and face, products of her powerful defiance; Lisseth screams or yells when we least expect it. When I walked in Tatiana immediately hobbled over, falling towards me, arms outstretched, while Rosa ran out the door. I spent 20 minutes trying to get Jose to grab the soft colorful ball and 30 minutes watching Tatiana eat some raison bread terrified that she would choke and I would not know how to save her.

What if these kids are like me. What if they know what is going on, but can’t express or change their behavior… similar to my malfunctioning Spanish. They’re fascinating to watch because they’re entirely unpredictable. Rosa’s mood may change suddenly and she’ll throw the bowl of popcorn kernals over, or Jose Luiz will suddenly turn on that big bright smile, or Tatiana may decide to give Jose a hug when he begins to cry.

I sang a song in broken Spanish to Jose Luiz while I pushed him in a swing. He can't speak so he just smiled and laughed. I understood perfectly.

South America

We rode on paved streets through concrete, graffiti and remains of the day after leaving the airport. Night brought out the eeriness of the empty storefronts and boarded shops and the air smelled dusty, suspended by morsels of water. Most buildings were hard to distinguish except for the beaming car dealership on the corner.

Newness is settling in and it’s hard to make judgments quite yet with the glare of excitement blinding.

The taxi dropped us off at the end of a wide cobblestone road with a broken sidewalk to the right and a strip of grass to the left, tall concrete walls on both sides. Jen opened the broad metal gate unlocking the hidden flora and fauna beyond the concrete walls. For a second I thought fairies or fireflies would emerge from underneath the glistening leaves of the light rain. A stone path lead to terracotta tiled steps and thin black railings that produced an apartment at the top. Inside were high ceilings, exposed wood, an espresso machine, warm showers, wi-fi and a master bedroom just for me (!). (WTF?)

The high walls keep this orphanage functioning and safe. Buildings provide a safe haven for preschoolers, babies and children with disabilities. Disabled children are given therapy, babies are held and fed, and preschoolers have a loft with all the windows and toys a child needs to stretch their imagination. A pet Lama sluggishly roams through the courtyard next to a fire pit that I can hardly wait to use, AND if you walk down the cobblestone path the trees open up a beautiful view of the mountains and Quito.

About an hour away is another orphanage. To get there requires a bus ride of about $1.00 for two people. It drops you off on the side of a highway and you walk on broken stone and dirt through concrete houses, finished and unfinished, with flowers resting on the sills outside, across a moving bridge over a deep ravine, passing a horse at the entrance and wandering dogs, down a road lined with trees and through a gate. Grassy mountains hover in front and behind, cloaked in grassy patchwork all along the sides and to the top, reminiscent of England. The green grassy common greets you, surrounded by colorful little concrete houses. Children are eating pork, potatoes, and maiz with spicy cilantro sauces to drizzle on top.

“Jennifer!” they say, recognizing my friend excitedly.

Quito is a mixture of tall office buildings, old Spanish influence, and what seems like strip malls, surrounded by mountains. The climate is comfortable, 60 and sunny, pushing me to wear long sleeves. Today we drank fruit shakes at a place with finished tree trunks for chairs and tables, an ex-pat western haven. We also visited a video shop, stocking up on bootlegged movies (my picks: True Grit and Harry Potter).

Now, it’s official - I must be in foreign country.

Take Off

(January 7, posted belatedly)

Through the airplane window I watch snow lap up over the airport, covering car and airplane etchings on the white ground. After being taxied to the de-icing station and sprayed with Christmas colored solutions over the steel airplane frame, my plane roars and breaks into the sky.

AWEsome. These incredibly heavy machines fly thousands of feet above the earth, to new places so comfortably and quickly. Here I am with my snacks, cushioned seat, movie, and stewardesses pulling snacks and drinks down the aisle. In less than 24 hours I will be thousands of miles away. How could such a heavy object have lifted itself into the air and brought me from here to there?

My grandfather says that this time is magic. His curiosity reminds me of how little the common man (myself) knows about the devices used these days, being limited to user interface, buttons, or wheels (unless you’re Tron and you’re actually IN the COMPUTER). He was curious about my digital camera and computer, asking how they work, to which I replied…

“Pixels.”

…not to be confused with Pixies. What about airplanes? Aerodynamics/Pixy Dust. Computers? Microchips/Special Lava. Cars? Combustion/Prayer. The Internet? CSS/ Html/001110101110/It’s-a-mystery.

Technology has cut/stripped distance between people; connection is absolutely instant; we can have it NOW (5 seconds is too slow). Nowadays, we have Internet Explorer. Google provides pictures and tours of areas all over the world. Famous architecture, cities, and terrain can be seen by each and every one of us through the inter-web!

But an entire profession has been lost: a true explorer. As said to Truman (The Truman Show) when desperately wanting to leave the island, “Actually, everything has already been explored.”

What must have it felt like to unlock the treasures of the Louisiana Purchase for the first time? Or, to saddle up and drag your family out west? Or, to hop on a boat and end up in the cold winters of New England? To go to the jungles of Africa? These people were CRAZY and willing to risk their lives to see something new and live a different life. People drew beautiful maps speculating how the world must look. Now we have views from the (freaking) moon.

You don’t have to be insane anymore, or crazy. If you save up some money and get some time off, you can go. You can do it.

Between airplanes and the Internet alone, it’s amazing how much of a genius man can be.

***Airport Interlude ***

On a very different note, one knows they are in the Houston airport when one spots a Fox News themed gift store not far from middle aged adults grouped with youth and carrying backpacks (a.k.a. MISSIONS TRIP). At this very moment I’m watching their Jansported backs walk away from me. Earlier I was searching for kiosks and stores at which to break down my $20 bills into smaller bills and was asked by a friendly kiosk-man,

“You must be going out of the country. Where are you going?”

“Ecuador.”

“Is it a mission?”

To botch up a quote from Elf, “What’s a mission? I want one!”

***Airport Interlude: End; Enter Airplane Thoughts ***

The sky just pulled back to reveal the blue Mediterranean sea below my plane. I hadn’t been expecting it so soon. There was a tiny opening act of Texas farmland followed by smog before our cloud floor dropped out. It’s beautiful up here. Our captain is rotating between Spanish and English. There is a Chinese couple sitting next to me and they were asking how to count in Spanish. I’m worried for them, looks they they’re in for a rougher language ride than I.

There’s only four hours between me and America del Sur. I never purchase wine alone when traveling through airports or on airplanes, but I just did.

Bostonian Eyes on New York City

(January 5th, posted belatedly)

Whenever I travel through New York City someone is always there to greet me, asking for money. Penn Station is the headquarters, hosting people just waiting for a young college kid or business person to pass their way. My Northface pink (cherry) jacket must say something about my seeming kindness or maybe it’s my bangs and friendly reddish hair. Or does my large Osprey backpack or black side bag screams ATM?

I should be kinder, $1.00 or $.50 from my wallet isn’t really a big deal, but having worked in the world of Social Work I tend to say “no”. Knowing all the social work organizations available, it’s the principle that bothers me. Also, after commuting through Boston for over 2 ½ years and only being asked for money once or twice, it is incredible and almost humorous that the few times I’ve traveled through Penn Station this past month I’ve been questioned.

After my clash with a money-asker, I sat and stared with my Bostonian eyes at the New Yorkers as I waited for my train to Monclair, NJ. A group of high school boys were buying train tickets for their friends, arguing with thick Jersey accents over the price. Businessmen yawned and grimaced, racing by with their side bags, one man chomping on a huge soft pretzel. Young giggling girls sprinted to their train, one colliding with a sleepy man walking casually through the station. I noticed a woman with a green knitted hat resembling some kind of animal with 2 googily eyes, while more business people invaded the corridor. As I went to my train, everyone seemed to be racing me down the stairs, flying by. A little girl with a shiny golden winter coat whirled herself down the train aisle, gripping her father’s hands as he guided her to her seat.

The train conductor collected tickets from us,

“Hey, everybody good?”

“Yeah, how you doing?”

“That’s what I’m talkin about. They had a fatality on here around 4:00. Hopefully they got it cleaned up - Upper Monclair.”

In Boston, the person may have responded, “Hanging in there” and the conductor may not have casually mentioned a fatality. Commuters stand respectfully at North Station staring into space, waiting for their respective trains. They march down and up the stairs to their subways. They wear dark pea coats, solid colors or tartan and don’t normally accessorize with googily eyes or shiny gold.

However, when I first arrived to New York City on my Bolt Bus I was hit by energy somewhat absent in Boston. Heading into the long glowing skyline strikes up inspiration in me – those ginormous buildings loaded with people and lights. The moment I stepped off the bus there was the Empire State Building down the street to my right, lit up in red and green. Billboards 6 or 7 stories high lined 34th street advertising Foot Action and Forever 21. Like a younger sibling New York City flashes its charming teethy grin and presses your buttons, containing a youthful energy not replicated anywhere else.

Just don’t come asking me for money, okay?