It turns out that Quito is quite the destination, and thousands of people choose to visit the city, not only as a jumping off point like I had, but as an actual destination. It just wasn’t what I was looking for just then. It’s spectacular, if you haven’t heard of it. It’s a World Heritage Site, after all. It had once been the seat of Spanish power in South America, and had all colonial administration in its seat at one time, judiciously chosen for its high altitude near-temperate climate. There are a lot of churches, a great deal of stunning architecture, volcanoes nearby, and a lively nightlife. And as much chaos as you can stand, too. Most places outside of the developed West are chaotic, I’ve found. In spite of that, it’s beautiful there. So, who wouldn’t want to go there? Me, apparently. My younger self pleads ignorance.
My hotel was around La Ronda. Where exactly? I have no idea. I didn’t stay there long. I slept there on three occasions though. That night and the next, between my Galapagos and Amazon legs, and prior to leaving. I recall blue and white tile work with a hint of Inca, lots of potted plants, mostly ferns, otherwise floral or leathery leafed, and far too expensive breakfasts. I checked in, noted the terrace, the restaurant, the pool, and went to bed.
I took my time rising. I’d weathered the Mr. John confusion, hoping that would be the one glitch of the vacation. There’s always one. At least one. In this case, there was one more. I discovered that I was missing a few toiletries. No problem, I thought. There were bound to be pharmacies about.
I browsed pamphlets and my Lonely Planet guide over coffee after I had my first overpriced breakfast. I decided that I ought to go see the equator, seeing that I was only about ten or twenty kilometers away. I wasn’t sure how long that might take. Twenty kilometers may not seem too far, but I’ve found that navigating cities can take hours, depending on the chaos nurtured there. Maybe it’s not chaos; maybe it’s just a laissez-faire attitude towards the rules of the road.
I called my contact and he arrived in about an hour. His company could offer me whatever I wanted, he said; so, we discussed my needs and wants and decided on an agenda. I paid my excursion fees and we were off. We picked up no others. Not counting my driver and guide, I had the minivan to myself, so, that saved some time. No need to crisscross the city, no need to herd cats. They only had to herd one. I asked to stop at a pharmacy, I picked up my deodorant and blades and we were headed north to the Middle of the World where the equatorial line divides the northern and southern hemispheres. It was a thin strip of brass that cut across the asphalt, a sign on the shoulder pointing north and south. The cliff fell sharply away from it, the valley a hazy, smoky blue beyond with what I expected were thermals rising to become a storm. Spots of white stucco and grey concrete and red tile broke the foliage here and there, as far as I could see. I saw wide gaps too.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Coffee,” they said. A flash of Juan Valdes (remember him?), leading his ass down mountain trails, crossed my mind.
“I need a snap of me astride the equator,” I said, handing my camera to my guide.
“That’s not really the Equator,” my guide said. “We crossed that back there. It was moved because it was on a blind corner and there were a lot of accidents.” Not the equator? I shrugged. Who would know? Who would care? I did the tourist thing and stepped on either side of the little brass line that apparently meant nothing, my arms held wide, and smiled for the obligatory photo.
It rained, and did not let up, so I was forced to carry an umbrella, something to trip over and stab people with in close quarters, something to be conscious of carrying and losing. Once I got off the major streets, the side streets were narrow, the buildings usually no more than a couple stories high, the laneways steep. There were a lot of clubs. There were buskers on every corner, cowering under awnings and trying to cast a brightness the early evening lacked. I wanted to explore more, but I had an early flight in the morning so I didn’t stay out late. I hate being conscious of time when on vacation. I found a lively club not too far from my hotel that hosted a number of backpackers, so I decided to linger there and not stray too far afield. When I looked around, I realized that I was getting older. The backpackers were noticeably younger, the music less to my taste, my newfound invisibility surprising. A couple guys chatted with me when I broke the silence between us but by and large the conversations were shallow and quick, those younger men far more interested with braided blondes and brunettes in halter tops, flannel shirts, Rastafarian toques and Doc Martins than me. I don’t blame them. If I were their age, I’d have been far more interested in those women than me, too. I left after only a couple beers, not wanting to lose my way or risk the hangover; like I’ve said before, I was getting older.
After breakfast my guide delivered me to the airport for my flights to the port city of Guayaquil and then the Islands. The first flight was shorter than the wait to board, just 30 minutes. We rose up, vaulted the mountain peaks and swung about over the Pacific, plunging down to the coast. The wait to board the flight to the Islands was longer still. An hour later I was in the air for another hour and then I was on San Cristobal Island, and then on the cruise ship. Have you been on one? Galapagos cruises are small. The number of people allowed on any island at any time is strictly regimented to limit their impact on the delicate ecology. It was small, but it was cozy.
My stateroom was better than any I’d had thus far, spacious, brassy, woody, marbled. And I had it to myself. That’s good and bad. I wasn’t crammed into a single bed, I could spread out, and I didn’t have to deal with anyone else’s idiosyncrasies, but I missed the camaraderie of those Contiki tours, where twenty or forty people are thrown together and, through shared experience, forced to get to know one another. Or is that just a factor of youth? I see now that twenty-year-olds are similar to children in that aspect. They’re open to meeting new people, open to new experiences, open to what comes more so than older people, certainly more so than couples who tend to keep to themselves.
I wasn’t alone, though. A few middle-aged couples adopted me and there was a young couple from New Orleans that I hung around with from time to time, if not always.
I saw the writing on the wall. I wasn’t part of the young crowd anymore, despite my only being in my middle thirties.
Funny how that happens in the blink of an eye.
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