Nothing But Night

Forgive me if this post comes out looking like gibberish. From now on, I'm on foreign keyboards, designed to remind me that I'm completely out of my element. Whoever designed these keyboards really doesn't have their priorities straight; I need to hit an awkwardly-placed alt key combo to get an @, but there´s a button devoted specifically to making a º symbol, in case you can't say the word 'degree'.

There's also keys to make a shifty-eyed face, like this: ¬_¬ This is how everyone looks at me, the foreigner.

Anyway, I bet you wanna what I've been up to. Well, prepare to be shocked: I have done nothing. Nothing distinctly Ecuadorian or South American. No sightseeing. No trip planning. I haven't eaten anything more exotic than hamburgers or pizza. I haven´t even seen the sun.

I have slept alot. 3am to 7pm. A week at home staying up till sunrise watching cheesy horror movies and procrastinating grad school apps will do that to you. I did however have two nights here in the bar and nightlife district of the Mariscal. I have done nothing more exciting than going to bars, something I did regularly in St. Louis or while traipising around the country on my roadtrips.

Except, back in America, people spoke English.

Finding an English-speaker here in Ecuador is like finding a gay person in America. The odds are about 1 in 20, it's hard to tell just by looking, and often people are in the closet about it. It's strangely uncommon, considering all transactions here are in American currency.

I can squeak by here by pointing, gesturing, and speaking very broken Spanish, but you really can't get a sense of how frustrating and mentally draining it is until you've experienced. It's like being deaf; try walking around for a day blaring really loud music through headphones so you can't hear what anyone is saying. You'll get a sense, but you'll still take for granted that all the signs are in English too.

I have however, met a few English speakers. Sunniva and Vilde are two Norwegian girls teaching English in Quito. I met them because I sat next to Michael in a bar. Michael is a native Cubano, and his English is as good as my ASL, which is to say crappy and mostly centered around profanity. He wanted to go over and meet them, and hoped my English would make me a useful wingman. Turns out he has no game. He didn't talk much over food, and upon moving on to a Discoteca, his main strategy was to rub up against them, talk in their faces, and otherwise scare them.

He eventually won Vilde over.

But, the girls had work in the morning, so they left early. We all exchanged numbers, and I promised to take them hiking up the local volcano, despite not knowing if that is safe or legal. Michael and I continued to walk around, and he taught me an interesting fact about Ecuadorian culture: Men are pigs.

Every time an even remotely attractive woman passed, he would stop, whistle, yell "Hey baby!", gesture crudely, and say things in Spanish I hesitate to imagine. Unsurprisingly, the only women to respond favorably to him were the occasional prostitutes cruising the street. Hanging out with him became an embarassment and a chore. He was even barred entry to a club, because apparently he 'looked dangerous'. Michael claimed it was racism against Cubans. Both seemed plausible to me. Eventually I'd had enough, and asked if he could take me back to the hostel.

Having lived in the area for the past 6 months, he promptly got us lost. Asking around proved little help, as people gave opposing directions. We stopped to get chorizo, and they charged us a dollar more than the locals, taking advantage of my naivety, being racist toward him, or both. We tried chatting, but counldn't speak each other's langauge. I wasn't having fun. Eventually we did make it back, and he insistently demanded I call him the next day, assuring me we were 'amigos'. I haven't called him since.

While with Michael, I briefly ran into Artie, a couchsurfer, and the only Ecuadorian I talked to [online, cs.org] before arriving in Ecuador. Turns out Artie is both an experienced speaker of English and highly gay, a combo that has to be rarer in this city than blonde hair. He seemed chill enough in person, but when I talked to him online later, he admitted he felt uncomfortable since he thought Michael, the annoying straight guy I'd met an hour or two previously on my first night in Ecuador, was my date. He wanted to hang out with me more. He wanted me to call him tomorrow. He wanted me to come over tonight (via taxi, no less). I signed offline.

Insomnia made way for sleep, and sleep lasted. I woke up in time for dinner, and hit the town to find it. I'd been told there was a cheap supermarket nearby. I was lost within minutes. People gave me opposing directions. I gave up and went to the first small restaurant I could find. Ordering was easy enough - point at the thing you want to eat - but I ended up sitting for 10 minutes at the end because they couldn't understand what I wanted when I asked for a check.

I'd reached my limit. I was going to hang out with the needy Artie, because atleast he spoke English. I called him, he had to work all night. Shit. Still, the idea was planted in my head to see what a local gay bar was like. Turns out the tourist district is also the closest Quito has to a gay district. Makes sense. Ecuador is deeply Catholic and hardly gay friendly; bleed the gay tourists dry and keep it out of the eyes of the rest of the city.

Never made it inside. One was closed, one was frighteningly sketch, and one had a 10 buck cover, more than the cost of a night's stay in the hostel. I made friends with the people outside the third one, and tried to press the excess ink of their hand stamp onto my hand and go inside. I was promptly caught and kicked outside. Surprisingly, my new friends, Fabian and Some Drunk Chick, left with me. Fabian bucked the odds again, he spoke great English, having spent time abroad in America. He actually still keeps his boyfriend he made in Boston, and believes they'll be married someday.

We met up with some more of their friends at a 24-hour burger joint, and I had the distinct pleasure of listening in on an entire multi-person conversation in Spanish. Before arriving here, I'd hoped to learn through immersion, but the reality is that it doesn't help. People don't have subtitles. Instead, I just tried to laugh and nod at the appropriate times, doing my best to hide just how lonely I felt in a crowd.

By now it was 3, and I was ready to head back. Fabian looked disappointed, claiming he was hoping we'd get to hang out longer, that I'd come back to his place. I raised an eyebrow. He'd been making subtle passes all night, but desperation brings directness. He took out a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote down his number, along with a note, "Call me if u wanna have fun". I felt sorry for Boston, and homesick for St. Louis.

An email from Artie was awaiting me back at the hostel. Yes, finding an English speaker in Ecuador is like finding a gay in America: Your odds are slim, and when you do find one, they just want to get in your pants.