lost and found in limbo

YOU HAVE THREE WISHES! booms the genie in my head between the time I crawl into bed and the time I fall asleep. (Apparently Grandma Helen falls asleep at the exact moment that the pillow meets her head; but I got the Swanson genes of lying awake and thinking for a long time before the Sandman takes me.) WHAT’LL IT BE?

“Great!” I say to myself, “I’d like to be independent, and… exercise more.”

I must be the kind of fairy tale junkie that misses the moral of the story: “be careful what you wish for.”

On Friday night after most of our classmates had set off for weekend beach excursions, six of us girls set out to find a specific club which supposedly had several different locations within a radius of the hotel. We never ended up finding it, though we stopped for directions about 5 times, and after trying out a couple of other locations ended up eventually right back where we’d started, in the same bar we always go, with the bartender we know.

Wish numbers 1 and 2 got me lost three times this week. Trying to save Grampi the (short) trip to the Carcelen Supermaxi, I rode the Carcelen bus all the way to the end of the line, which happened to be behind the basketball courts of a more run-down barrio than I’d walked around in to date, and a run-down barrio that I could not locate on my mental map of Quito. After making a few phone calls, I jumped on a bus that I assumed was going back into town, to get off at Supermaxi after all… When I realized the bus wasn’t going where I wanted to go, I hopped off onto a graffiti’d cement street and felt the grey walls and street and sky pushing my panic buttons. My hit-or-miss sense of direction (also inherited from my dad) started me walking up the hill the way I wanted to go, and there it was: Terminal Carcelen, right at the bottom of the street where Grampi lives. “I’m extra-happy to see you,” Helen laughed as I walked in a few minutes later, and nudged me toward the cookies.

The next morning I went to church with Grampi and the pastor spoke like a poet, with all the pauses, breaths and emphasis of a great word-speaker. He spoke of finding time and making time for God, drawing from the New Testament poets Paul and Jesus the way Fake Andrew draws from Shihan, Shane Hawley, Sage Francis and each other. I felt comfortable again, I found a fellow speaker of the word.

Later on in the house I found more words, this time printed and leather-bound: a shelf full of classics with publication dates like 1921 and old owners’ autographs pencilled onto the title page in the precise curly script of the last century.

Back in the city on Monday, I set out with an address copied from a guidebook, my passport, and $10 to renew my soon-to-expire 90-day tourist visa. Feeling determined and capable, I took the bus to exactly the right place only to be told that I was at the wrong place, and the right place was mere blocks from my home base, on my own turf, in my own ‘hood! So I took the Trole bus back, crammed so full of people we didn’t even have to hold onto anything in order to stay standing, to the address they gave me. And there I was directed across the street and to the following morning, to an office only open from eight to noon three days a week. Feeling discouraged but at least better-informed, I trudged back home in another gathering storm. This time the heavy clouds promised refreshment, but the iron gates in front of the hotel were a welcome sight.

I have power-walked back and forth to that office at least 5 times this week. Twice I’ve been the first one there and spent two whole mornings tapping my feet waiting for my number to be called, waiting to be told what other documents I needed to fill out and what other payments I needed to make. Finally I think I did everything, but I have to go back again to pick up the final visa, my passport and other necessary documents. I am frustrated and finally understand why everyone hates bureaucracy. Fabian said, “Now you know what it’s like for us getting visas to your country.” That’s not even the beginning of it. By the time I shell out the exit tax at the airport, I will have paid a dollar a day just to exist within a space defined by invisible borders.

Sick of getting my exercise under extremely stressful conditions, I did a graffiti tour of the town with Taylor yesterday, and set out this afternoon with Brad and Katie to Parque Alameda to take a turn in the rowboats. Quito’s buildings are covered with spray painted political messages, not as artistic as some North American displays, but definitely more politically aware than a lot of the shows I’ve seen. Or rather, more aware of mainstream politics: “Pobre país en los manos de naños listos,” a reference to President Correa and his brother, who are making a lot of changes and a lot of enemies.

Parque Alameda has been on my destination list since my second week here. It boasts an old observatory with astronomical, meteorological, seismological instruments dating back over 100 years, and one of the oldest functioning telescopes in the world. We finally rented a rowboat ($1.50 for half an hour) and took two laps around the lazy river carved into the park. On its banks people nap or read; beyond them buses and cars belch black smoke into the air between the towering office buildings framing the valley on one side and the mountains on the other. And above that, sunshine, finally.

I have had a great run in this country and even without a genie I’ve had lots of wishes come true. But when this genie comes back to ask for my third wish, I’m going to say, “Genie, I want to go home.”