"How was Ecuador?" you ask me.
"It was good," I say.
You want more, I can tell. But I'm stuck.
I'm cranky and slightly depressed and still mourning the loss of travel and foreign places and the days when I thought my communication with men was only bad because we spoke a different language. Perhaps you would like a funny anecdote, the one about the toothless man and the fat Peruvian whore, or about the fishing village run by talking pigs and one-eyed chickens. I can do a story about poverty, about little ones with fat cheeks bitten by the wind, and it can be sweet (they say, "I love you, Miss") or it can be caustic (they say, "Wanna fuck, Miss?"). I can pour forth on my Latin American romances or mourn third-world prices or bitch about the South American shits. Maybe you would just like me to nod and say "Fine, thanks."
Fine, thanks.
Why didn't anyone ever tell me the culture shock is on THIS end?