Three flights, two layovers and one pair of numb legs later, I finally arrived in Quito, Ecuador, where I will be spending the next five-or-so months on exchange. Orange lights as far as the eyes could see greeted me during our midnight descent, only two hours behind Delta’s schedule. During the Logan—>DC flight, the seats were filled with salt’n’pepa and/or blond hair, iPads and smartphones. From Altanta—>Ecuador, however, the passengers had an average height of about half a foot shorter than their domestic flight counterparts, and we napped to the sound of crying babies. Bienvenidos a Quito! This city is huge—long and skinny. Population: 2 millionish. I now understand why the first page of every travel guide to Quito mentions its altitude. At a mere 9100 ft, Quito sits in a valley in the Andes, which means three things. 1, that its skyline is filled with beautiful mountains at almost every angle, cutting into clouds; 2, that it acts as a bucket for the thick pollution spat out by the congested, maze-like streets; 3, that after walking ten feet with my bags upon arrival, my heart was unwarrantably pounding out of my chest.
If it hadn’t hit me before, it finally had. Instead of spending my senior year enjoying the foliage of western mass, I’ll be spending the fall in a city of “eternal spring.” A decent trade off. I hadn’t met anyone who studied abroad in Ecuador before, and for all the frantic googling I did to find out more about this city, this school, this life, I am here with surprisingly few expectations. One being that I better feel like an athlete upon my return to sea-level after breathing five months of thin air.
I spent my first day here with my host mother/flamenco teacher, Meche Bueno. Yes, I will be living with the Bueno family, which is an obvious sign that there is no way this trip will go wrong. She’s had countless students before, her “hijos gringos,” and already is everything I was hoping for in a host family—warmly accepting me as a new addition to her life, offering advice on the 1-hr commute to my rich-kid school, slowing down her Spanish to a velocity even a newbie like myself could follow, and cooking some badass tomato soup. She is one of nine daughters, and she has three grown children (32, 40, and 41) of her own, two of whom we visited today. I’ll be sure to upload a map of her family, because she, like many Latin Americans, prides herself on her ginormous family that is impossible to follow upon first tale.
Apparently, many families here can afford to employ a woman who lives and works in the house, cleaning and cooking (said to be around $500/mo, which, with food and board included, is a great deal for the help. I guess it’s part of President Correa’s new laws on domestic help, which jacked up the costs of the in-home services. I digress). Maybe that’s why her daughter’s homes had meticulously positioned pillows and pieces of art deco, but that doesn’t explain their fancy sofas and sinks, hardwood floors and flat-screen TVs. Set this image against a backdrop of urban poverty and you’ve got yourself a capital city chock-full of disparities.
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