n a glorious Quito afternoon I walk to the Basilica, a gigantic Gothic church near the center of town. If it weren't Sunday, I would walk up the stairs that lead to the clock tower, where all the tourists climb to get a bird's eye view of the big, sprawling city. Instead, I wander into the only part that's open: the crypts.

Walls and walls of crypts, like plaster cubby holes stacked to the vaulted ceiling, each covered in plastic roses and silver crosses and flickering lights and photos of the person who is, presumably, somewhere within. I think I prefer this to the stoic gravestone. If I must have a resting place, decorate it like a high school locker, cover it with glitter and sparkly stickers and a button that plays ELO's "I'm Alive" when you press it.

I pass a family dressed in their Sunday clothes, returning from one of the crypts. I try to meet their eye, but they won´t meet my eye. They look everywhere but at me, as if they are ashamed. I suddenly feel like an asshole, a tourist in a tank top and jogging pants gawking at crypts, at their loved ones. I pretend to visit one of the cypts, a fancifully decorated one posted with notes I can't translate. A picture of the woman, unsmiling and severe, is tucked into the frame. I pretend that I know her. Unexpectedly, I tear up. She looks so sad.

On Friday, I went to the supermarket with my Spanish teacher. On the back wall was an altar to the Virgin Mary. "Dios te salve Maria" read the neon sign above it. My Spanish teacher says there are altars at almost every supermarket in Ecuador, so people can pray while they're there. Across from the altar is the poster of a woman in a G-string drinking beer.

A few nights ago, Tim from England said that the worst affliction facing South America is Catholicism. I didn't stick around to hear what he meant.