llegada

Nothing can really explain the feeling i got when the plane stopped shaking and our wheels touched the ground. In addition to relief, quickly, a bit of hesitation, uncertainty, and reality swept over me.
This was it.
For months I had planned this, dreamt about this, imagined this- but from this moment forward all of the things that had been the product of extensive contemplation would soon be washed away by an undeniable actuality: encompassed by blaring noises, vivid sights, never-before experienced tastes, and wafting smells.

As I collected my over-stuffed hand bag from the over-head compartment and threw on my back pack, I prepared myself for my first breath of South American air. Through the front door, after sharing the customary gracias’ with the flight crew, I disembarked from the plane down a rickety set of metal stairs that led me to the entrance of a country side that was too dark for my eyes to make out discernibly.

All around me- amidst the humidity, Spanish greetings, and flashing plane lights- I could see the faintest of outlines of darker shades of black; forming steep borders reminiscent of the Rocky’s that framed my first impressions of this foreign land. Glimmering with the presence of street lamps and porch lights in the distance, this was an introduction to the Andes to which I will never forget: full of mystery, uncertainty, and with much to be unveiled in time.

I was greeted after customs by the smiling faces of two elderly Roatrians holding a flimsy paper sign with my name scribbled across the front in black permanent marker in all caps. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but regardless, I was by no means used to this kind of treatment. Miguel & Evelyn, as I soon found out they were named, immediately welcomed me upon noticing that I was the gringo most likely to be Andrew, as I smiled and walked towards the sign. After a firm handshake and a kiss on the cheek, we were all business. The three of us headed through the crowd of other sign-holders and petitioning taxi drivers whom looked sad that this couple had stolen their potential commission. Through a pair of automatic doors, across a crowded parking lot, and over sidewalks sprinkled with puddles from a recent rain, we arrived at an olive green Mercedes that had to have been from around the year I was born. One quick toss of my bags into the trunk later, and we were on the road.

We drove for about thirty minutes or so, (or however long it took for Miguel to describe the Club Rotario fundamentals and functioning in Quito, of which he were the president), through a winding, steep collection of streets, that I would learn were uncharacteristically barren due to my almost media noche arrival. Abruptly, between the exchange of directions from Miguel sitting in the back seat and the retort of "I know, honey," but in Spanish, from his wife, we pulled up to an impressive wood set of doors larger than a two car garage that sealed the entrance to a pinkish-cement walled property. On cue, a vigilante appeared from the darkness of his gatehouse, waddled over to our car in his black uniform, and without hesitation, threw open the creaky doors after hearing our request to see the Duran’s. With a brush of his hand to the right, he pointed us onward to my new household, disappearing into the night- or at least out of my recognition.

For now, all that I could think of as I pulled my bags out of the trunk of the Falck’s car was the bothersome uncertainty that swept over me again like a breeze of damp air; what would the Duran’s, and for that matter, my home, dietary intake, and mathematically speaking, the majority of my time in Ecuador be like for the next 2 and a half months?...As I rang the doorbell and heard shuffling footsteps dance toward me to the beat of the echoing chimes, there was nothing I could do but take a deep breath, shake off any anxiety, and get ready to meet mis padres nuevos.