ometimes at night, the dogs bark so loudly that it's hard to sleep. They bark in a way I've never heard dogs bark before -- like they are tearing each other's flesh. One morning I ask Nick from Denmark, who lives nearby, if he's heard them. He says the barking is making his dreams morbid. The night before Nick dreamt he was losing all his teeth. I dreamt a baby was being ripped apart.

A few blocks from my house is Avenida Amazonas, the Drag of Quito, where the gringos hang out at Internet cafes and the vendors sell handwoven bags and thick wool sweaters. A bottle of water is 20 cents, sometimes 30. This morning the weather feels better than it has all week -- sunny and clear, not quite cold enough for a sweater. At night, I have to pull the covers over my nose to keep warm. But the afternoons are heaven.

"Hola," says a young man, standing by a lamppost.

"Hola," I say.

"I think I love you," he says in English, making kissing noises as I walk past. A girl at the Spanish school says the harrassment in Quito is not bad for Latin America. She says Cuba is the worst, almost unbearable. But in Quito, they just making small mouth noises and occasionally ask if you'd like to have sex. She tells me this as we are sitting in a cafe, four Americans and three Europeans who speak English fluently. They are drinking 40 oz. beers that cost a dollar each. I am drinking coffee. As we sit there, a woman approaches us with a motorcycle helmet and a stack of flyers in her hand.

"You guys American?" she asks. "Awesome. You gotta come to this rave Friday night. We're going to have everything you could ever dream of." The rave promises a "malabarismo breakdance contest, and graffity and skating."

Soon after, the vendors descend. They weave through the cafe, selling sunglasses and flags and painted wooden boxes. "No, gracias," we tell them. "No, no." A little boy taps on my shoulder and holds out his hands. "No," I say, turning around. He taps once more. "Please," he says, making sad eyes at me. I want to give him money, but everyone says not to, that it's frowned upon. "No," I tell him again, and he moves down the line with no luck, leaving penniless.

A few days ago I was walking with another student, a woman from Poland, when a little boy jumped in front of us to beg for money. "No," we tell him, but he grabs onto the woman's leg and won't let go. "Stop it," she tells him, but he just keeps laughing, so that she has to pry him off her leg, almost flicking him onto the street. He keeps laughing, but her face has gone white. "Do you think I should buy him a sandwich?" she asks.

They are doing construction on the restaurant across from the apartment, Texas Chicken -- Pollo Tejano. "This is a Texas restaurant?" asks my Spanish teacher. I tell her no. I tell her Texas isn't exactly known for its chicken. She laughs and blushes. She thought it was authentic. I ask Magdalena if she's been to Texas Chicken, and she tells me it's too expensive. She tells me to go to Kentucky Fried Chicken instead.

On the plane ride in, the Immodium spilled in my suitcase.

Every night I hear fireworks. I don't know why.