Daylight, Reality, More.

Quito is allegedly a dangerous place. I don't see it. Perhaps because I've been drinking. Perhaps because the neighborhood is peppered with military police clutching semiautomatic rifles.

Today I woke up at a reasonable time (before sunset), and was determined to finally see Quito through a tourist's eyes. It was a simple matter of stumbling along lost until I found a bus to take me to the wrong area, at which point I could walk 20 minutes or so to the touristy center of Old Town. La Ciudad Vieja is pretty enough, with well-manicured parks, artificial lakes with rentable paddle boats, and cathedrals older than my grandmother. I could tell you about the endless shoe stores, lunch for under 2 bucks, or the hilarous street comedians which I failed to appreciate, but that's not what you're here for. You want to read how things go wrong.

There's a huge statue of an angel on top of a hill just south of Old Town. One could almost see it from the Mariscal, and it looms large over the Old Town. On a whim, I made it my goal to climb the hill to the statue. I figure since the Norwegian girls' number was a wrong number, this was the least I could do to regain my heternormative masculine status. Well, let me tell you, that hill made a bitch out of me. It looks easy enough to climb all those stairs, but try doing it at 10,000 feet altitude. I'd attempted to experience this by doing jumping jacks in the high Rockies, but for the first time, I was really feeling the altitude. I could not catch my breath. Thankfully, I did not have to use it, since I only came across one annoying incessent vendor on my way up, whom I politely told in Spanish to fuck off.

About 2/3 from the top, I came across a food vendor, a man and his wife, selling hot dogs on a landing off the stairs. They took one look at me and balked. The man started exclaiming something in confusing rapid Spanish. I could only gather a semblence of what he was saying, but one sign was international:

"What are you doing? Did you come from down there? It's not safe! Up here there are police, but where you came from..." The vendor made the interational sign of slashing one's throat. I understood. Without realizing it, I'd just passed through a crazy dangerous area, and it was mere luck that pulled me through. Once again, naivity provides a bubble of protection against the real world.

Unfortunately, that only works once. I made it to the top, a tourist sight with police presence, where one could see the entirety of Quito and its endless urban poor desperate violent sprawl. I took a taxi back to the Mariscal.

Oddly enough, I was beginning to feel confident. I survived the Mariscal, I survived Old Town, I survived the Hill, I talked to the locals and the waiters and the taxi drivers. I still couln't speak Spanish for shit, but I was feeling in my groove. I even looked in my guidebook and started to form a plan for my next month of travel. I wouldn't just survive Suramerica, I'd thrive!

That night, I decided to meet Artie in the club I declined to enter the night before. Well, I still had a lesson to learn about South America and Time Management. The cover was hefty (10 bucks, huge for Quito), but it came with an open bar, and I made the most of it. I even made friends along the way. I waited, perhaps an hour, until he finally made his appearance with his friends from the night before. We hit it off well enough, edging towards something more, when a rival entered.

He was tall, handsome, with a barrel chest and open shirt. He quickly swept Artie off his feet. My first instinct was to bristle, but I decided to let it happen. After all, I was leaving town in a few days or less. It's his right to find someone without my interference, yes?

This didn't last long. My horrific inner nature let out a tortured howl, and proceeded to fight back. I won back his attention, his interest. The rival made play after play to win him back, but this gringo had the edge. In the back of my head, I knew it wasn't right, and wished for some angel to come along and set things right. I wanted to tell him that I was leaving, and I was taking advantage of him, and that I was an awful human being, but I could not say it out loud.

Mercifully, the angel came in due time. A drag show started, the most horrifically bad drag show I've ever seen. Halfway through, the drag queen demanded a drink, and I offered my Vodka Tonic. She responded by pulling me on stage, in front of dozens of horny gay Quitorians, and attempted to auction me off to the highest bidder. 50 bucks. 100 bucks. 150 dollars! I was suddenly the most popular boy in Gay Quito. By the time I broke 200, I slinked off stage and back to Artie.

But I was, for better or worse, too late. He'd found his ex-boyfriend, and the two were deeply involved in tonsil hockey. Better still, his ex was one of the people from the unintelligable burger conversation from the night before! I felt angry, defeated, and left the club in a huff.

The computer back at the hotel was naturally abandoned at 3am, and in a drunk tizzy, I began to write this post. Meanwhile Artie messaged me on Facebook. His ex had left him for the night, and he once again wanted me to come over and keep him warm. I knew then it was time to leave Quito. Bryce Walker had had enough. Bryce is fake, a ghost, a shadow, and he has already made too much an impression on Quito gay politics. I may not speak the language, but it's no different here than anywhere else. I found my comfort zone, and I wish I never had.