he plane ride into Quito was rocky. I could feel the turbulence in my toes and my stomach. I´m a bad flier anyway, always imagining a flaming, spiraling descent into the earth with every shift in altitude. Behind me sat a group of teenage girls, thrown together for the first time on some summer camp to Ecuador (Camp Trustfund Baby?), and they spent the trip sniffing each other out and interrupting one another.
´´I met this totally cute guy in the Bahamas --´´
´´Ohmigod, that´s like this hot guy I met in Vail last winter!´´
I think they´re funny, and then I think they´re terrible, because they remind me of all the young and beautifully outfitted girls I grew up with, boring people who took fascinating vacations. They would go to build churches or convert natives, but it seemed like they spent all their time hooking up and working on their tans. Vail talks about drinking all her parents´ liquor when they go out of town, and how her father always replaces it without mentioning it to mom. Bahamas just saw her dad for the first time in two years at the airport in Miami; he drove in from West Palm Beach to see her.
I land in Quito close to midnight. The weather is cool and nice, no need for the coat I decided not to bring. The air smells polluted; of course, when I observe this I am standing on the tarmac. Javier from the Spanish school picks me up at the airport. His car is parked on a mound of dirt in what looks like a parking lot that´s been gouged out, like someone abandoned construction on it. A little boy, probably 10, mans the gate with his friends.
The woman I am staying with is named Magdalena. She is shorter than me, with a wide, warm face. She wears a shawl. She has poofy hair dyed brown. She gives me a tour of the small house, about half of which I understand. She asks simple questions, and I smile and say yes. Do you eat meat? Yes. Do you like the balcony? Yes. Do you like cheese? Yes, yes, yes. I´m so excited to understand her that I start saying yes to things I really should be saying no to. Do you like milk? Yes, I say, because what I am thinking is, ´´I know that word. Yes!´´ Then she stumps me by asking if I slept on the flight. I stare at her blankly. She asks again, and I repeat the stare. She puts her arms out as if she is flying and then places her hands beside her cheek in a sleeping pose. ´´Oh, yes!´´ I say (another lie). Magdalenda really is cute, though.
When I wake up, I see the Andes in the distance, blue in the morning haze, and across the street, a picture of what looks like a bald eagle wearing a cowboy hat. It is for a restaurant called Texas Chicken.