my alpaca is drawing lots of attention in ackerman union. is it a sheep? someone just asked. ok, back to interviews.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Sunday, January 23, 2005
An Alpaca on Shattuck
I'm at a Starbucks next to Berkeley waiting for DemiDec interviewees. For lack of signage to distinguish me from a other dozen folks with laptops, I'm holding a masked alpaca to my chest (in the form of a Drama Resource.) One man with a goatie just looked at me and blinked a couple times before returning to his Frappucino.
SFO
I didn't realize an airport would stir so many memories, let alone this one. I usually flew through San Jose, and toward the end Oakland; SFO was for special occasions. But then, maybe that's why I remember them so much.
Here, Sasha and I once nearly followed B.J. to Japan, while Robert, Andrew, Craig Janik and others dashed about the terminal in a comedy of errors and unexpected convergences. Here, I once waited breathlessly as Sasha finally came tumbling through security moments before they closed the door to our flight to Santiago; another time I stumbled out of immigration on my way home from Tokyo just in time to make a CASIO focus group in San Jose. Here, I picked up Karen after her quarter in Chile, Patrick after his six months in a Japanese village. It was a place for belated reunions and awkward partings.
And even before that, flying in, I felt a lurch in my stomach as I glanced out the window and first saw the Bay. Somewhere down there were Stanford, and Fry's Electronics, and CASIO's old offices; a few miles away on Castro Street sat a credit union that momentarily became a venture fund. Further down El Camino Real there was the Target where Sasha and I had our first adventure, buying a bike (sometimes you've got to start small.) And there, somewhere along the water's edge, were the apartments where Patrick, Jeff and I nearly lived, before a high-tension power line popped up behind the bedroom window.
I didn't think about anything in particular as I looked out there, but the tingle persisted. Maybe it was a sense of homecoming. It felt a bit like that when I took my first breath on the jetway and smelled a familiar blend of salt and sunshine in the air. Then again, I've also felt I was coming home arriving in Santiago, Boston, Denver, even Patzcuaro. I'm a jack of all trades with memories as restless as my feet.
Later, in a rented Dodge Magnum, I drove across the bridge to Oakland and instinctively stabbed the radio to switch to Candle on the Water--the song I always played crossing the Golden Gate, the Dumbarton, the Bay Bridge, the San Mateo, any and all of them--before remembering that my Disney Classics CD is somewhere in a closet, and that I'm not even sure what state the closet is in.
So I sang the song instead, as best I could, windows down, hair all a mess.
And the tingle persisted--at least until I hit traffic.
Here, Sasha and I once nearly followed B.J. to Japan, while Robert, Andrew, Craig Janik and others dashed about the terminal in a comedy of errors and unexpected convergences. Here, I once waited breathlessly as Sasha finally came tumbling through security moments before they closed the door to our flight to Santiago; another time I stumbled out of immigration on my way home from Tokyo just in time to make a CASIO focus group in San Jose. Here, I picked up Karen after her quarter in Chile, Patrick after his six months in a Japanese village. It was a place for belated reunions and awkward partings.
And even before that, flying in, I felt a lurch in my stomach as I glanced out the window and first saw the Bay. Somewhere down there were Stanford, and Fry's Electronics, and CASIO's old offices; a few miles away on Castro Street sat a credit union that momentarily became a venture fund. Further down El Camino Real there was the Target where Sasha and I had our first adventure, buying a bike (sometimes you've got to start small.) And there, somewhere along the water's edge, were the apartments where Patrick, Jeff and I nearly lived, before a high-tension power line popped up behind the bedroom window.
I didn't think about anything in particular as I looked out there, but the tingle persisted. Maybe it was a sense of homecoming. It felt a bit like that when I took my first breath on the jetway and smelled a familiar blend of salt and sunshine in the air. Then again, I've also felt I was coming home arriving in Santiago, Boston, Denver, even Patzcuaro. I'm a jack of all trades with memories as restless as my feet.
Later, in a rented Dodge Magnum, I drove across the bridge to Oakland and instinctively stabbed the radio to switch to Candle on the Water--the song I always played crossing the Golden Gate, the Dumbarton, the Bay Bridge, the San Mateo, any and all of them--before remembering that my Disney Classics CD is somewhere in a closet, and that I'm not even sure what state the closet is in.
So I sang the song instead, as best I could, windows down, hair all a mess.
And the tingle persisted--at least until I hit traffic.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Lights Out in Manhattan
Lights just went off at airport--this can't be good. Man behind counter adds, "You've gotta be kidding me." Posting with cell phone.
Defying the Enlightenment
It stands to reason that if last night it took me fewer than twenty minutes to get from entering my hotel room to slipping under the covers, it ought to take me no more than that to slip out from under those covers and exit in the morning.
Reason is about to be put to a very severe test, and writing this blog probably isn't helping its cause.
Sleepy, but not downright grumpy after all. Just using the word "downright" remains enough to make me grin. So I must still be giddy. On top of that, when I bought two 9x12 envelopes yesterday (for submitting a story for publication--more on that later) the cashier at the university bookstore asked me if I'd like a sack for them. I'd heard pop for soda, but this term was new to me. Sack. I pictured potatoes. I got plastic.
Reason is about to be put to a very severe test, and writing this blog probably isn't helping its cause.
Sleepy, but not downright grumpy after all. Just using the word "downright" remains enough to make me grin. So I must still be giddy. On top of that, when I bought two 9x12 envelopes yesterday (for submitting a story for publication--more on that later) the cashier at the university bookstore asked me if I'd like a sack for them. I'd heard pop for soda, but this term was new to me. Sack. I pictured potatoes. I got plastic.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Reasons Why
"Are you always smiling?" asked the clerk at the Comfort Inn, as I trotted back into the lobby after moving my car. "Or are you just having a really good day?"
"A really good day," I confessed. "Just wait--when I come down tomorrow morning at 4 am I'll be downright grumpy."
But there was more to it than that. It was one of those days that reminded me of what I love most in DemiDec: meeting people, learning about them and their lives, understanding a little about their hopes for the future, even just exchanging quirky anecdotes. It's amazing to me in how many little ways lives can meaningfully intersect and overlap. One coach once lived up the street from my high school. One girl gave her speech entirely in Greek (and another integrated Spongebob Squarepants.) One volunteer wants to spend a year in Chile. The state director remembered that the last time we talked was in Orange County five years ago, and I wasn't sure then whether to stay with DemiDec or try something new (I eventually did both.)
In short, the day was full of good conversation and lemonade--and many, many warm and welcoming coaches, students and volunteers. Kansas state competition is the earliest each year, sort of the Iowa caucuses of the Academic Decathlon, and I'll be sure to come again.
"A really good day," I confessed. "Just wait--when I come down tomorrow morning at 4 am I'll be downright grumpy."
But there was more to it than that. It was one of those days that reminded me of what I love most in DemiDec: meeting people, learning about them and their lives, understanding a little about their hopes for the future, even just exchanging quirky anecdotes. It's amazing to me in how many little ways lives can meaningfully intersect and overlap. One coach once lived up the street from my high school. One girl gave her speech entirely in Greek (and another integrated Spongebob Squarepants.) One volunteer wants to spend a year in Chile. The state director remembered that the last time we talked was in Orange County five years ago, and I wasn't sure then whether to stay with DemiDec or try something new (I eventually did both.)
In short, the day was full of good conversation and lemonade--and many, many warm and welcoming coaches, students and volunteers. Kansas state competition is the earliest each year, sort of the Iowa caucuses of the Academic Decathlon, and I'll be sure to come again.
The Little Apple
The sign at the airport welcomes you to the Little Apple--a.k.a. Manhattan, Kansas--but it's a bit premature; you need to drive about four miles through the fog to reach the Apple proper. Along the way, there are a number of billboards advertising hotels with free wireless Internet. I guess I could have finished that paper pretty much anywhere nowadays.
Today I'm at Kansas State University, awaiting the start of the competition. Coaches and teams should begin arriving at any minute. In the meantime, I'm sipping a very milky chai. The women at the table next to mine are discussing strapless bras, the virtues of satin, and weddings. Upstairs, students are selling little paintings to raise money for tsunami survivors; they're not doing very brisk business, though the smoothie vendor next door to them is thriving.
Today I'm at Kansas State University, awaiting the start of the competition. Coaches and teams should begin arriving at any minute. In the meantime, I'm sipping a very milky chai. The women at the table next to mine are discussing strapless bras, the virtues of satin, and weddings. Upstairs, students are selling little paintings to raise money for tsunami survivors; they're not doing very brisk business, though the smoothie vendor next door to them is thriving.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Club Med, Missouri
I basked in the warm air. I had no hat on, and my ears didn't hurt. There was an enclosed stall available in which to wait for the hotel shuttle, but I hovered outside of it, tapping keys on my cell phone and just taking gulps of air that didn't make my lungs ache. I felt very light, almost giddy.
I was in Kansas City. In mid-January. But compared to Wisconsin and Nebraska last weekend, and Boston these last few days, it was Cancun.
This will be a short blog, but it marks my return after a couple weeks of frantically finishing my last ever paper for the Kennedy School (unless you count my thesis) while also planning out the next couple months. Along the way, I learned the beauty of wind-resistant headbands.
I'm inspired to write here again by a number of factors, among them a review by a King-Drew Decathlete whose speech is on blogs. She checked mine out and said it was "like reading the footnotes for the Demidec Resources." Writing footnotes has always been one of my favorite parts of DemiDec, right up there with meeting teams and drinking chai. So I'm back to write more of them. Footnotes strung together into paragraphs. Centipede notes, I suppose.
Speaking of a very different kind of footnote, I finished my last paper--the one about how the Republican party could win California in 2008--not in a library, or even at Starbucks, but at a small motel in Jefferson, Wisconsin. It had a banner advertising "high speed Internet access"--so I stopped there on my drive from Waukesha to Whitewater.
By the time I got to the University of Whitewater, the competition had ended. But then, so had the penultimate chapter of my academic career. So I toured the campus with a smile on my face (and a jacket on my body) then went looking for the airport.
On the plane, I stretched out across three seats and slept--though I relocated after a flight attendant suggested I move up a few rows. "Why?" I asked. "Look out the window," she advised. I looked, and saw a very big jet engine. Scratch 28F from my preferred seating list on MD-80s.
Tonight I dined on a meat-and-cheese snack and a cup of hot chocolate.
In an upcoming entry, I'll write some thoughts on the inauguration. Even footnotes can sometimes be serious.
I was in Kansas City. In mid-January. But compared to Wisconsin and Nebraska last weekend, and Boston these last few days, it was Cancun.
This will be a short blog, but it marks my return after a couple weeks of frantically finishing my last ever paper for the Kennedy School (unless you count my thesis) while also planning out the next couple months. Along the way, I learned the beauty of wind-resistant headbands.
I'm inspired to write here again by a number of factors, among them a review by a King-Drew Decathlete whose speech is on blogs. She checked mine out and said it was "like reading the footnotes for the Demidec Resources." Writing footnotes has always been one of my favorite parts of DemiDec, right up there with meeting teams and drinking chai. So I'm back to write more of them. Footnotes strung together into paragraphs. Centipede notes, I suppose.
Speaking of a very different kind of footnote, I finished my last paper--the one about how the Republican party could win California in 2008--not in a library, or even at Starbucks, but at a small motel in Jefferson, Wisconsin. It had a banner advertising "high speed Internet access"--so I stopped there on my drive from Waukesha to Whitewater.
By the time I got to the University of Whitewater, the competition had ended. But then, so had the penultimate chapter of my academic career. So I toured the campus with a smile on my face (and a jacket on my body) then went looking for the airport.
On the plane, I stretched out across three seats and slept--though I relocated after a flight attendant suggested I move up a few rows. "Why?" I asked. "Look out the window," she advised. I looked, and saw a very big jet engine. Scratch 28F from my preferred seating list on MD-80s.
Tonight I dined on a meat-and-cheese snack and a cup of hot chocolate.
In an upcoming entry, I'll write some thoughts on the inauguration. Even footnotes can sometimes be serious.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Hazelnut.net
I wish. I already miss the cybercafes that serve tasty juices and amazing vegeterian sandwiches. Instead, I'm working on DemiDec tests at a Starbucks, where the hazelnut lattes are good but nondistinct--and about to begin my final paper of the semester, a thirty-five page juggernaut on which I'm collaborating with two Republican friends, Matt and Jo. It's due Friday. Our paper needs to suggest a strategy for the Republicans to win California in 2008. Now, if Arnold could run for president... at least I hear he's more or less a moderate. But the paper needs to figure things out without relying on a constitutional amendment.
Looking forward, this blog will probably be quiet on weekdays for the next month or so; on weekends I'll be visiting Decathlon competitions in different states, which will supply various mid-size rental cars and, hopefully, at least a few travel anecdotes to post.
Looking forward, this blog will probably be quiet on weekdays for the next month or so; on weekends I'll be visiting Decathlon competitions in different states, which will supply various mid-size rental cars and, hopefully, at least a few travel anecdotes to post.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
These Are Your Passengers Squeaking
We're finally off the plane and in the baggage claim area, but a woman on the PA just announced it'll be at least another 45 to 50 minutes before our bags reach us. The result: more groaning, of course. And lots of rolled eyes.
This is Your Captain Speaking
Everyone groaned when he spoke. He announced that our gate was occupied--which means that even though we landed around 11:03 PM, we'll actually get off the plane around midnight. For reasons I don't understand we can't use the adjacent gates even though they're empty. Maybe there are only so many gatekeepers to go around. I miss Ecuador, where we could probably have just gotten off without a gate at all and walked across the tarmac into the airport.
At any rate, to pass the time, I've accessed Logan's wireless network from on board and am writing this blog while also cyber-witnessing a Clippers blow-out (unfortunately, the Clippers are at the wrong end of it.)
Just after I last posted, the man running the cybercafe in Guayaquil's airport asked me if I could help him find flowers for his girlfriend, who lives in Canada. We visited 1800flowers.com and ftd.com together before I remembered that I might miss my flight, at which point I dashed off--and found one more alpaca, this one mounted on a bell, along the way.
What I read today: in the morning I finished Peace Like a River, which wove a wonderful narrative out of asthma, miracles, North Dakota and a bit of Huck Finn. Later I read Joe Haldeman's Guardian, a surprisingly soothing tale of the Alaskan gold rush mixed with sodomy, parallel universes and shapeshifting birds. However, I'm not sure that he completely captured the voice of a 70 year-old woman looking back at her life in the late 19th century. To me the narrator sounded very modern and man-like. Then again, I've never been 70, a woman or a citizen of the late 19th century, so I wouldn't know for certain. It kind of reminded me of a novel, Nadya, by my other science fiction professor, Pat Murphy, which also featured a woman seeking a new life in the Wild West, except that one had werewolves and was (at least) R-rated.
At any rate, to pass the time, I've accessed Logan's wireless network from on board and am writing this blog while also cyber-witnessing a Clippers blow-out (unfortunately, the Clippers are at the wrong end of it.)
Just after I last posted, the man running the cybercafe in Guayaquil's airport asked me if I could help him find flowers for his girlfriend, who lives in Canada. We visited 1800flowers.com and ftd.com together before I remembered that I might miss my flight, at which point I dashed off--and found one more alpaca, this one mounted on a bell, along the way.
What I read today: in the morning I finished Peace Like a River, which wove a wonderful narrative out of asthma, miracles, North Dakota and a bit of Huck Finn. Later I read Joe Haldeman's Guardian, a surprisingly soothing tale of the Alaskan gold rush mixed with sodomy, parallel universes and shapeshifting birds. However, I'm not sure that he completely captured the voice of a 70 year-old woman looking back at her life in the late 19th century. To me the narrator sounded very modern and man-like. Then again, I've never been 70, a woman or a citizen of the late 19th century, so I wouldn't know for certain. It kind of reminded me of a novel, Nadya, by my other science fiction professor, Pat Murphy, which also featured a woman seeking a new life in the Wild West, except that one had werewolves and was (at least) R-rated.
Foiled
The Kentucky Fried Chicken at Guayaquil's ¨Simon Bolivar" International Airport promises "The Best Chicken in the World." I suppose this means that it is still, by implication, finger-licking good. Several years ago, the Colonel himself sued KFC, claiming that it was producing lousy chicken and that he no longer wanted to be used in deceptive commercials. I forget how the lawsuit turned out, but at any rate he soon died and KFC replaced him with a more cooperative cartoon Colonel.
I had hoped to visit Guayaquil proper and find ceviche there during my three-hour layover. Unfortunately, the luggage storage facility was closed (when will it open? I asked a security guard, who shrugged, then said, maybe today, probably Monday) and I hesitate to venture downtown in a big city carrying two overcoats and a large down pillow.
So instead I've camped out at the cybercafe in the airport, which is named, rather plainly, Internet Center. To make it more of a true cafe experience, I picked up a vanilla cappuccino in the food court next door. Giving up on my seafood dreams, I also tried to order a guacamole burger from the menu. "No tenemos guacamole hoy,¨ said the woman behind the counter. This made me sad. After scrutinizing the pictures a while longer I asked for a "pernil sandwich." I wasn't sure what pernil was, but it seemed to be some kind of cold cut. The woman looked embarassed. "No hay pernil tampoco," she said. I asked her what she did have, and ended up with a mushroom burger and yesterday's french fries.
In better news, though, I did secure one more alpaca at a souvenir shop, this one made of brass, and picked up a clean t-shirt for the flight home. Then I went into a bathroom to change--which is where I learned that I´m not the only one having trouble finding things here. As I slipped into my new shirt, a man in the stall next to me made some noises, then grunted, "Do you have any toilet paper?¨
I looked around. There wasn't a sheet to be seen, except in the trash can, where I preferred not to see it. Suddenly, I was happy to be just switching t-shirts. "Sorry," I said.
Earlier today, I survived the chaos of checking in for a domestic flight from Quito to Guayaquil. Even Southwest couldn't have matched this: there was a flight every fifteen minutes from 6:30 to 7:45. Every flight status indicator, instead of "on time" or "delayed", read "early." I´d never seen anything like it. It was like Chicago in reverse. Because the airport was closing at 8 am and not reopening till nightfall, the airlines had crammed forward as many flights as they could into the early morning. I was scheduled originally for an 8:30 and then moved up to 7:30, but when I finally got to the counter, the airline rep asked me if I would be okay with 7:15. Sure, I said, unwittingly switching from a modern Airbus A320 to a Boeing 727. The three-engine 727 was last produced in 1984 and nowadays is used mostly for cargo service; this one probably dated back to the 70s. We boarded through its underbelly directly into the rear galley.
Anyway, it's time to emigrate. Farewell, Ecuador. It's nice to be leaving a country where I don't have to worry about what to do with my leftover currency. Off I go to seat 35G on American Airlines flight 952.
I had hoped to visit Guayaquil proper and find ceviche there during my three-hour layover. Unfortunately, the luggage storage facility was closed (when will it open? I asked a security guard, who shrugged, then said, maybe today, probably Monday) and I hesitate to venture downtown in a big city carrying two overcoats and a large down pillow.
So instead I've camped out at the cybercafe in the airport, which is named, rather plainly, Internet Center. To make it more of a true cafe experience, I picked up a vanilla cappuccino in the food court next door. Giving up on my seafood dreams, I also tried to order a guacamole burger from the menu. "No tenemos guacamole hoy,¨ said the woman behind the counter. This made me sad. After scrutinizing the pictures a while longer I asked for a "pernil sandwich." I wasn't sure what pernil was, but it seemed to be some kind of cold cut. The woman looked embarassed. "No hay pernil tampoco," she said. I asked her what she did have, and ended up with a mushroom burger and yesterday's french fries.
In better news, though, I did secure one more alpaca at a souvenir shop, this one made of brass, and picked up a clean t-shirt for the flight home. Then I went into a bathroom to change--which is where I learned that I´m not the only one having trouble finding things here. As I slipped into my new shirt, a man in the stall next to me made some noises, then grunted, "Do you have any toilet paper?¨
I looked around. There wasn't a sheet to be seen, except in the trash can, where I preferred not to see it. Suddenly, I was happy to be just switching t-shirts. "Sorry," I said.
Earlier today, I survived the chaos of checking in for a domestic flight from Quito to Guayaquil. Even Southwest couldn't have matched this: there was a flight every fifteen minutes from 6:30 to 7:45. Every flight status indicator, instead of "on time" or "delayed", read "early." I´d never seen anything like it. It was like Chicago in reverse. Because the airport was closing at 8 am and not reopening till nightfall, the airlines had crammed forward as many flights as they could into the early morning. I was scheduled originally for an 8:30 and then moved up to 7:30, but when I finally got to the counter, the airline rep asked me if I would be okay with 7:15. Sure, I said, unwittingly switching from a modern Airbus A320 to a Boeing 727. The three-engine 727 was last produced in 1984 and nowadays is used mostly for cargo service; this one probably dated back to the 70s. We boarded through its underbelly directly into the rear galley.
Anyway, it's time to emigrate. Farewell, Ecuador. It's nice to be leaving a country where I don't have to worry about what to do with my leftover currency. Off I go to seat 35G on American Airlines flight 952.
Friday, January 07, 2005
From Ceviche to Clam Chowder
Grupo FARO and I just said our goodbyes outside a pizza place called "Tomato." Orazio proposed we extend the night a bit more with a visit to a Cuban bar to drink and dance, but Ellie was sleepy and I have a flight at 7 am tomorrow, so we decided against it. FARO is, after all, democratic.
Tomorrow morning I'll spend three hours or so in Guayaquil between flights (assuming I wake up in time for my first one.) Orazio and Ellie (who, incidentally, have great chemistry) recommended that instead of just waiting around, I leave the airport and go find myself some ceviche for breakfast along the boardwalk. Sounds like a good plan to me.
So: a final good night from Quito, at least until February, when I'll probably come back between the regional and state Decathlon competitions. With that in mind, I advised all the alpaca shops to restock.
Tomorrow morning I'll spend three hours or so in Guayaquil between flights (assuming I wake up in time for my first one.) Orazio and Ellie (who, incidentally, have great chemistry) recommended that instead of just waiting around, I leave the airport and go find myself some ceviche for breakfast along the boardwalk. Sounds like a good plan to me.
So: a final good night from Quito, at least until February, when I'll probably come back between the regional and state Decathlon competitions. With that in mind, I advised all the alpaca shops to restock.
As Faro as the Eye Can See
I'm not sure how it happened, but the whole staff at my hostel now calls me "Danielito." I also met many of the other guests during last night's search for the missing Emma, so this morning the lobby was a veritable town hall with travel guides, e-mail addresses and itineraries switching hands.
When I first arrived at the Casa Sol, I was admittedly underwhelmed by the size of and lack of light in my room, but I've come to like it very much. If I return in February to continue working with Grupo FARO, I'll probably stay there again. It doesn't hurt that there are a dozen Internet cafes named after fruits and TV shows in the neighborhood.
It occurs to me that I may be better suited to help organizations when they're just getting started--when what they need is less a specialist and more someone with what you could call either "a diverse skill set" or "a lack of focus." That may be one reason I was very comfortable volunteering with the Kerry campaign last November. I'll ramble now about all this for a bit, so I encourage you to skip ahead to the paragraph where I explain what Grupo FARO is.
At CASIO, I wasn't really one of the technical folks. I worked with a team to come up with product ideas, liaisoned (sometimes in spectacularly unsuccessful ways) with our Japanese colleagues, avoided tutoring Mr. Kashio's grandson in English, and even helped outfit a creativity room with toys and a tent. However, I didn't deal with the web site, and my only contribution to office IT was to suggest that we install one of those then-newfangled 802.11b wireless networks. The installation itself was mysterious to me; all I knew was that one day everyone was suddenly checking their e-mail during meetings, to BJ's understandable dismay. (I was also getting my laptop stolen during a meeting, but that's another story.)
By contrast, at Grupo FARO, I found myself falling into the role of the computer guy. Suddenly I'm explaining acronyms like DNS and pontificating on the impact of file-sharing on the music industry; I'm cleaning PCs of spamware, debating the pros and cons of different broadband providers and setting up online survey forms. At DemiDec I depend on Tina for her wonderful artwork, but at FARO I find myself struggling with Ellie on Illustrator to integrate a lighthouse into their company logo. I'm also offering my haphazard feedback on fundraising strategies, telephone bills and project planning--and, of course, lobbying for Faro to acquire a puppy for a mascot. (In the meantime, I've loaned them an alpaca, whom Ellie named "Sassy," and they already have a magical shoe and a turtle with a bobbing head.)
I'm very happy with this kind of role. I wish I didn't have to write a detailed academic thesis on a single aspect of FARO for the Kennedy School, when I'm most content just helping out in lots of different ways. It reminds me a little of my early days with VentureNova, when we were looking for an office, hiring an executive director, negotiating with CASIO, designing a logo, writing presentations and eating lots of bagels with avocado and cream cheese. I really like that slightly chaotic start-up feeling.
Once at VentureNova, Craig Janick, the director whom we hired, and also a founder of Simple Devices, noted that Sasha was our lawyer, BJ our innovator, Robert our young businessman, and so forth. He got to me, realized he had no idea what I was, and asked me to proof a letter he was writing.
Enough on me, though. By this point, you may be wondering what FARO actually does. FARO stands for "Foundation for the Advance of Reform and Opportunity." It aspires to help Ecuador achieve a more universal and effective system of education, more empowered municipalities, a less corrupt government, and a more competitive environment for local and international businesses. So far, it has secured grant money from UNICEF for an education project, held workshops for women and for municipal leaders, and begun various consultancies in the above-mentioned areas. I admire their intentions and am hopeful for their success. When Orazio runs for president of Ecuador, I may not be able to vote for him--barring change of citizenship--but I'll definitely volunteer for his campaign.
When I first arrived at the Casa Sol, I was admittedly underwhelmed by the size of and lack of light in my room, but I've come to like it very much. If I return in February to continue working with Grupo FARO, I'll probably stay there again. It doesn't hurt that there are a dozen Internet cafes named after fruits and TV shows in the neighborhood.
It occurs to me that I may be better suited to help organizations when they're just getting started--when what they need is less a specialist and more someone with what you could call either "a diverse skill set" or "a lack of focus." That may be one reason I was very comfortable volunteering with the Kerry campaign last November. I'll ramble now about all this for a bit, so I encourage you to skip ahead to the paragraph where I explain what Grupo FARO is.
At CASIO, I wasn't really one of the technical folks. I worked with a team to come up with product ideas, liaisoned (sometimes in spectacularly unsuccessful ways) with our Japanese colleagues, avoided tutoring Mr. Kashio's grandson in English, and even helped outfit a creativity room with toys and a tent. However, I didn't deal with the web site, and my only contribution to office IT was to suggest that we install one of those then-newfangled 802.11b wireless networks. The installation itself was mysterious to me; all I knew was that one day everyone was suddenly checking their e-mail during meetings, to BJ's understandable dismay. (I was also getting my laptop stolen during a meeting, but that's another story.)
By contrast, at Grupo FARO, I found myself falling into the role of the computer guy. Suddenly I'm explaining acronyms like DNS and pontificating on the impact of file-sharing on the music industry; I'm cleaning PCs of spamware, debating the pros and cons of different broadband providers and setting up online survey forms. At DemiDec I depend on Tina for her wonderful artwork, but at FARO I find myself struggling with Ellie on Illustrator to integrate a lighthouse into their company logo. I'm also offering my haphazard feedback on fundraising strategies, telephone bills and project planning--and, of course, lobbying for Faro to acquire a puppy for a mascot. (In the meantime, I've loaned them an alpaca, whom Ellie named "Sassy," and they already have a magical shoe and a turtle with a bobbing head.)
I'm very happy with this kind of role. I wish I didn't have to write a detailed academic thesis on a single aspect of FARO for the Kennedy School, when I'm most content just helping out in lots of different ways. It reminds me a little of my early days with VentureNova, when we were looking for an office, hiring an executive director, negotiating with CASIO, designing a logo, writing presentations and eating lots of bagels with avocado and cream cheese. I really like that slightly chaotic start-up feeling.
Once at VentureNova, Craig Janick, the director whom we hired, and also a founder of Simple Devices, noted that Sasha was our lawyer, BJ our innovator, Robert our young businessman, and so forth. He got to me, realized he had no idea what I was, and asked me to proof a letter he was writing.
Enough on me, though. By this point, you may be wondering what FARO actually does. FARO stands for "Foundation for the Advance of Reform and Opportunity." It aspires to help Ecuador achieve a more universal and effective system of education, more empowered municipalities, a less corrupt government, and a more competitive environment for local and international businesses. So far, it has secured grant money from UNICEF for an education project, held workshops for women and for municipal leaders, and begun various consultancies in the above-mentioned areas. I admire their intentions and am hopeful for their success. When Orazio runs for president of Ecuador, I may not be able to vote for him--barring change of citizenship--but I'll definitely volunteer for his campaign.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Puppies
A flight was delayed out of Boston today to Miami; this in turn delayed my blog. That is, I've been helping a family track down their daughter, who missed her connection to Quito. It looks like American Airlines is putting her up at a nice hotel near the Miami airport--but we still have no idea what time she'll get here tomorrow.
I'm very sleepy now, though, so will write just a little bit. Overall it was a great day, and a productive one too. We set up a host for the Faro web site. Designed a logo. Analyzed phone bills. Sipped cappucinos. Met with the web site designer. Bought cooking supplies. And drove by an Applebee's.
Perhaps more importantly, I learned that Orazio's childhood nickname is "Funfy." And certainly most importantly of all, we visited a pet store, where I held a cute white puppy that licked my nose. Ellie, who wants a puppy very much, held one too. She's afraid all of a sudden that she might be allergic, though, as she began sneezing after we got back to Faro HQ.
What I'm reading: Peace Like a River, by Leif Enger. And also this blog, over and over again, because I'm so sleepy I'm not sure it makes much sense.
I'm very sleepy now, though, so will write just a little bit. Overall it was a great day, and a productive one too. We set up a host for the Faro web site. Designed a logo. Analyzed phone bills. Sipped cappucinos. Met with the web site designer. Bought cooking supplies. And drove by an Applebee's.
Perhaps more importantly, I learned that Orazio's childhood nickname is "Funfy." And certainly most importantly of all, we visited a pet store, where I held a cute white puppy that licked my nose. Ellie, who wants a puppy very much, held one too. She's afraid all of a sudden that she might be allergic, though, as she began sneezing after we got back to Faro HQ.
What I'm reading: Peace Like a River, by Leif Enger. And also this blog, over and over again, because I'm so sleepy I'm not sure it makes much sense.
Very Likely Alpacas
Quick mid-day update as I rush off to Grupo Faro: I am now the happy owner of thirteen new alpacas!
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
The Forgotten
In the RPG that I play on Sunday nights at Harvard, my fellow adventurers and I tend to over-debate inconsequential decisions. Should we enter the cave or set up camp for the night? Should we go left or right? Split up or stay together? Chase the dwarves, or hunt the boar? (As long as I get to use my magical shovel, I'm usually happy.)
Deciding what movie to attend with Grupo FARO was kind of like that. The choices were Ocean's Twelve and two foreign (to me) films, one Israeli and one Mexican. We talked them over. We looked up ratings. We checked out times. And naturally, we ended up seeing none of the above. Instead, our treat for the evening was The Forgotten. Summary: Mother discovers that her son has not really died, but was kidnapped by aliens who then erased everyone's memories of him in an experiment to test the power of a mother's love.This is the kind of movie that gives aliens a bad rap. It doesn't do so much for mothers either.
At least the movie theater was new and sleek around the edges. Not forum-style, but with plush seats, a food court that included a French bistro, complimentary post cards and the latest in surround sound. All for the tidy sum of $2 a ticket. Moments like that, no matter how Third Street Promenade your surroundings, you realize you aren´t in the United States.
While we waited in the lobby, Ellie observed that people who watched movies here had nice butts. I had no comment on the matter.
Grupo FARO turns out to share most of its name with a defunct Ecuadorian Communist organization, Al-Faro Vive, leading to misunderstandings with taxi drivers who believe I am here to help revive it.
Stores I saw today in a hunt for Internet access near Faro's very capitalist HQ: Dunkin' Donuts, Cinnabon (2), Tony Roma's, and a Domino's that still promises pizza in thirty minutes or your money back.
Coming up tomorrow: the long-promised Grupo Faro update (my work now includes a logo redesign) and a visit to a town about two hours away where Ellie thinks I may be able to find some alpacas.
What I'm reading: the Clippers box score.
Deciding what movie to attend with Grupo FARO was kind of like that. The choices were Ocean's Twelve and two foreign (to me) films, one Israeli and one Mexican. We talked them over. We looked up ratings. We checked out times. And naturally, we ended up seeing none of the above. Instead, our treat for the evening was The Forgotten. Summary: Mother discovers that her son has not really died, but was kidnapped by aliens who then erased everyone's memories of him in an experiment to test the power of a mother's love.This is the kind of movie that gives aliens a bad rap. It doesn't do so much for mothers either.
At least the movie theater was new and sleek around the edges. Not forum-style, but with plush seats, a food court that included a French bistro, complimentary post cards and the latest in surround sound. All for the tidy sum of $2 a ticket. Moments like that, no matter how Third Street Promenade your surroundings, you realize you aren´t in the United States.
While we waited in the lobby, Ellie observed that people who watched movies here had nice butts. I had no comment on the matter.
Grupo FARO turns out to share most of its name with a defunct Ecuadorian Communist organization, Al-Faro Vive, leading to misunderstandings with taxi drivers who believe I am here to help revive it.
Stores I saw today in a hunt for Internet access near Faro's very capitalist HQ: Dunkin' Donuts, Cinnabon (2), Tony Roma's, and a Domino's that still promises pizza in thirty minutes or your money back.
Coming up tomorrow: the long-promised Grupo Faro update (my work now includes a logo redesign) and a visit to a town about two hours away where Ellie thinks I may be able to find some alpacas.
What I'm reading: the Clippers box score.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
"A Beautiful Life Forever"
That's what a man in a blue turban wished us--in English--as Grupo Faro and I left the local Mongolian barbeque about an hour ago. I'm hoping this blessing helps compensate for the time I was cursed by a Gypsy. I'm very sleepy, so will defer tonight's blog to tomorrow--but the good news is that I finished my paper, and the bad news is at worst very mild: I went hunting for Doite backpacks, and along the way learned there's no banana sushi in Quito.
Una Cartita
I write this mid-day update at an Internet center while Ellie, Cesar and I wait (and wait some more) for the staff to copy two CDs full of education statistics. About an hour ago, we visited with a man in charge of collecting data for the government on school enrollment among the indigenous population. This is approximately how the exchange went, albeit in Spanish:
Us: Do you have these statistics?
Him: Yes, I do! And no one else does. *cackles*
Us: Super! Could we get a copy?
Him: Yes. It'll only take five minutes to download.
Us: Fantastic!
Him: But first you must write me a little letter [a "cartita"] asking for it.
Us: Umm. Okay. Can we bring the letter to you later today?
Him: No. We're closing in fifteen minutes.
Us: Okay, how about tomorrow?
Him: No, we'll be closed for a few days. I think we'll be open on Monday. Come back then.
It was kind of like being at the DMV--in Moscow. Afterward Ellie and Cesar concluded that he had probably wanted a bribe.
The CDs are done copying, so off I go. I had popcorn and bean soup for lunch..
Us: Do you have these statistics?
Him: Yes, I do! And no one else does. *cackles*
Us: Super! Could we get a copy?
Him: Yes. It'll only take five minutes to download.
Us: Fantastic!
Him: But first you must write me a little letter [a "cartita"] asking for it.
Us: Umm. Okay. Can we bring the letter to you later today?
Him: No. We're closing in fifteen minutes.
Us: Okay, how about tomorrow?
Him: No, we'll be closed for a few days. I think we'll be open on Monday. Come back then.
It was kind of like being at the DMV--in Moscow. Afterward Ellie and Cesar concluded that he had probably wanted a bribe.
The CDs are done copying, so off I go. I had popcorn and bean soup for lunch..
Monday, January 03, 2005
Don't Worry, Be Happy
I resisted titling this blog, "As Faro as the Eye Can See," for two reasons. First, it's a really bad pun. Second, I'm still trying to finish my paper, so I won't write much about Grupo Faro tonight. Maybe I'll recycle the title tomorrow when I have more time. It'll still be a bad pun, but consider yourself forewarned.
Instead, the title refers to the song playing at this, my latest Internet cafe of the day. The only available station to plug in my laptop was directly beneath the speaker (which is hidden by a hanging blue globe) so I can hear it very, very well. Don't Worry, Be Happy always makes me think of the seventh grade, when I more or less failed first sewing and then typing at Nobel Junior High before fleeing the country for a school in Chile. People would whistle it non-stop in the halls. Since I couldn't whistle (I still can't) I hummed it.
A few minutes ago, I stopped at a convenience store to buy a bottle of water and some chocolate for energy. The music there was traditionally Andean in style, relying heavily on a traditional flute called the quena. (It's worth clicking on the link to see not just the instrument but also a cute alpaca.) My friend Paula once bought a quena at a train station in Aguas Calientes, near Cuzco. Anyway, I was so dazed from paper-writing that my first thought on entering the store was, "Wow, they're playing musica Andina here!" Only afterward did it hit me that I was in the Andes and this made a certain sense.
I blame the New Jersey Star-Ledger. Specifically, its archives, which don't work very well. Some quick moments from the day before I dive back into them and into my third-to-last paper (ever?):
At the supermarket, the cashier asked me where I was from. I said, "Boston." About a quarter of the time this evokes a wistful sigh and John Kerry's name. This cashier, however, said, in very good English, "Boston! That's where Harvard is, yes?" I confirmed it, and he went on to explain that he would like to apply to Harvard for business school. We traded e-mail addresses.
I discovered that the tiny memo pad I grabbed on my way out the door to LAX contains all my notes from a trip Sasha and I took a few years ago to Kosovo. Maybe I'll type some of them up as a sort of retro-blog.
My cab fare to Grupo Faro was $1.87, and my bottle of water at the supermarket $0.18. I maintain that Ecuador did not dollarize the economy as much as it pennyized it.
At Grupo Faro HQ, which doubles as Orazio's and Eli's apartment, we dealt with a very slippery spatula, brainstormed ways to increase school attendance among Ecuadorian children, and debated whether shrimp scampi could survive ten days in the freezer. I also reheated some soup and earned that new civil servants in Ecuador make at most about $300 a year--and that's if they have connections.
Instead, the title refers to the song playing at this, my latest Internet cafe of the day. The only available station to plug in my laptop was directly beneath the speaker (which is hidden by a hanging blue globe) so I can hear it very, very well. Don't Worry, Be Happy always makes me think of the seventh grade, when I more or less failed first sewing and then typing at Nobel Junior High before fleeing the country for a school in Chile. People would whistle it non-stop in the halls. Since I couldn't whistle (I still can't) I hummed it.
A few minutes ago, I stopped at a convenience store to buy a bottle of water and some chocolate for energy. The music there was traditionally Andean in style, relying heavily on a traditional flute called the quena. (It's worth clicking on the link to see not just the instrument but also a cute alpaca.) My friend Paula once bought a quena at a train station in Aguas Calientes, near Cuzco. Anyway, I was so dazed from paper-writing that my first thought on entering the store was, "Wow, they're playing musica Andina here!" Only afterward did it hit me that I was in the Andes and this made a certain sense.
I blame the New Jersey Star-Ledger. Specifically, its archives, which don't work very well. Some quick moments from the day before I dive back into them and into my third-to-last paper (ever?):
At the supermarket, the cashier asked me where I was from. I said, "Boston." About a quarter of the time this evokes a wistful sigh and John Kerry's name. This cashier, however, said, in very good English, "Boston! That's where Harvard is, yes?" I confirmed it, and he went on to explain that he would like to apply to Harvard for business school. We traded e-mail addresses.
I discovered that the tiny memo pad I grabbed on my way out the door to LAX contains all my notes from a trip Sasha and I took a few years ago to Kosovo. Maybe I'll type some of them up as a sort of retro-blog.
My cab fare to Grupo Faro was $1.87, and my bottle of water at the supermarket $0.18. I maintain that Ecuador did not dollarize the economy as much as it pennyized it.
At Grupo Faro HQ, which doubles as Orazio's and Eli's apartment, we dealt with a very slippery spatula, brainstormed ways to increase school attendance among Ecuadorian children, and debated whether shrimp scampi could survive ten days in the freezer. I also reheated some soup and earned that new civil servants in Ecuador make at most about $300 a year--and that's if they have connections.
Coco Loco
A mid-day update: it's time to finish my paper on New Jersey newspaper coverage of terrorism during the presidential election. To that end, after working with Grupo Faro on education reform in the morning, helping to cook lunch and then exploring a supermarket, I've settled down at an Internet cafe called "Friends."
The place is comfortable. The music is less loud than at Papaya.Net, and I've been able to connect my own laptop at a seat facing an open window to the sidewalk. It's like working on a balcony.
I'm dressed up a bit today. Standard Silicon Valley garb (khaki pants, a blue shirt) plus an extra-long black blazer. As it turns out, it was overkill for the meeting this morning, but maybe it'll help me concentrate.
The menu includes a coffee called a "coco loco." Coffee and coconut: it sounded good. When I ordered, however, the waiter warned me that it contains coconut liquor. Maybe today I look underage? I was about to switch to something more conventional, then I realized that at this point, with the paper due tomorrow and my frustration with it at an all-time high, a little alcohol couldn't possibly hurt. It worked for Hemigway, but then, Hemingway didn't take a class with Maxine Isaacs.
A man just stopped in the window to try and sell me burned CDs. He's dragging a roll-on suitcase with him, presumably full of merchandise.
Anyway, time to (carefully) sip my Coco Loco and analyze articles ad infinitum. Back tonight.
The place is comfortable. The music is less loud than at Papaya.Net, and I've been able to connect my own laptop at a seat facing an open window to the sidewalk. It's like working on a balcony.
I'm dressed up a bit today. Standard Silicon Valley garb (khaki pants, a blue shirt) plus an extra-long black blazer. As it turns out, it was overkill for the meeting this morning, but maybe it'll help me concentrate.
The menu includes a coffee called a "coco loco." Coffee and coconut: it sounded good. When I ordered, however, the waiter warned me that it contains coconut liquor. Maybe today I look underage? I was about to switch to something more conventional, then I realized that at this point, with the paper due tomorrow and my frustration with it at an all-time high, a little alcohol couldn't possibly hurt. It worked for Hemigway, but then, Hemingway didn't take a class with Maxine Isaacs.
A man just stopped in the window to try and sell me burned CDs. He's dragging a roll-on suitcase with him, presumably full of merchandise.
Anyway, time to (carefully) sip my Coco Loco and analyze articles ad infinitum. Back tonight.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
No Cigar
I came to Quito with a secret plan: to transform my hotel into a wireless hotspot. The Radisson would no longer be able to claim it was the only wireless hotel in Quito. La Casa Sol would become a haven for the 802.11-enabled from all over the world. But after two hours of fiddling, I better understand why companies hire IT professionals. It's fair to say the Radisson remains the only wireless hotel in Quito, and that La Casa Sol will stay a haven mostly for backpackers who read Lonely Planet and want to spend approximately $20 a night.
Thankfully, the hotel night staff was very gracious as I crawled behind the manager's desk yanking at cables and intermittently dropping things. (It helped that the manager wasn't due in till tomorrow morning.) They even surprised me with a juice of a fruit whose name I didn't recognize--it's magenta (would make a good nail polish) and very tasty. While I worked, one, Moses, also asked me for advice on what computer to buy for school. This was a step up from Cancun, where Sanjai and I tried to juryrig a network connection on the sly and then had to explain ourselves to a suspicious clerk.
I just asked Suzy, who squeezed the juice, to repeat more slowly what kind of fruit it was. She sheepishly admitted that it's not what she said originally--maracuya--but guayaba, which I think I´ve seen on sale at Whole Foods. I assured her that I'm not too picky when it comes to unfamiliar fruit, and since the maracuya looks a little more like a lime, I probably came out ahead in terms of taste.
Before logging out for the night, I should share a little bit of my afternoon since posting earlier. After touring the city´s historic plazas, where I mostly visited churches and hunted anxiously for toilet paper, I rode a trolley back to the neighborhood near my hotel, Mariscal Sucre. The trolley bounced around a lot more than Boston´s Green Line, which meant I slipped back and forth in a desperate fight to keep from hitting the ground. Everyone else stood around looking bored. One was eating a drumstick of fried chicken, which is big here: local chain restaurants with names like "mr. pollo" and ¨pollo rey¨ pepper the whole downtown area.
Outside the oldest cathedral in the city, one dating back to the 1500s, a man sold drawings of God for $10. He had scratched out an earlier price of $20.
It was a quiet afternooon back in Masicral Sucre, a bit of it devoted to investigating other local hotels (because it's fun to pose as a travel guide writer) and the rest to my paper on coverage of the presidential election in New Jersey. I planted myself at Papaya.net and wrote over a slice of manjar-and-vanilla cake and a cup of coffee (the combo conventionally priced at $1.99) while also tracking the Clippers score. Thankfully, they won, beating Philadelphia.
Manjar is also known in the States as dulce de leche; it's one of my favorite treats from Chile and the moment the waiter told me it was in the cake, I ordered a slice. If I understand it right, manjar is made by boiling condensed milk while stirring in sugar. At any rate, it's gooey, looks a little but tastes nothing like caramel, and goes great with almost all breakfasts and desserts.
Later on I had dinner with Eli and Orazio of Grupo Faro at a Lebanese restaurant, where we ate shwarma, passed on the water pipe, and caught up on some Kennedy School gossip before settling down to business. Their project sounds interesting and they're very flexible about how I can most help them--which I appreciate, given that I´m an energetic person but not always that focused. I'll write more about Grupo Faro and its mission tomorrow.
The thing that most surprised me today: I was mistaken for a college professor.
Off to sleep and dream for a few hours, hopefully with no guest stars from the twenty-fourth century. When I was little I once dreamed I was a smurf--an evil smurf created by Gargamel to mislead the good smurfs, but who ultimately found redemption with the help of Papa Smurf. That dream, I could have again. But please, no more of Captain Picard with a scalpel.
Make it so.
Thankfully, the hotel night staff was very gracious as I crawled behind the manager's desk yanking at cables and intermittently dropping things. (It helped that the manager wasn't due in till tomorrow morning.) They even surprised me with a juice of a fruit whose name I didn't recognize--it's magenta (would make a good nail polish) and very tasty. While I worked, one, Moses, also asked me for advice on what computer to buy for school. This was a step up from Cancun, where Sanjai and I tried to juryrig a network connection on the sly and then had to explain ourselves to a suspicious clerk.
I just asked Suzy, who squeezed the juice, to repeat more slowly what kind of fruit it was. She sheepishly admitted that it's not what she said originally--maracuya--but guayaba, which I think I´ve seen on sale at Whole Foods. I assured her that I'm not too picky when it comes to unfamiliar fruit, and since the maracuya looks a little more like a lime, I probably came out ahead in terms of taste.
Before logging out for the night, I should share a little bit of my afternoon since posting earlier. After touring the city´s historic plazas, where I mostly visited churches and hunted anxiously for toilet paper, I rode a trolley back to the neighborhood near my hotel, Mariscal Sucre. The trolley bounced around a lot more than Boston´s Green Line, which meant I slipped back and forth in a desperate fight to keep from hitting the ground. Everyone else stood around looking bored. One was eating a drumstick of fried chicken, which is big here: local chain restaurants with names like "mr. pollo" and ¨pollo rey¨ pepper the whole downtown area.
Outside the oldest cathedral in the city, one dating back to the 1500s, a man sold drawings of God for $10. He had scratched out an earlier price of $20.
It was a quiet afternooon back in Masicral Sucre, a bit of it devoted to investigating other local hotels (because it's fun to pose as a travel guide writer) and the rest to my paper on coverage of the presidential election in New Jersey. I planted myself at Papaya.net and wrote over a slice of manjar-and-vanilla cake and a cup of coffee (the combo conventionally priced at $1.99) while also tracking the Clippers score. Thankfully, they won, beating Philadelphia.
Manjar is also known in the States as dulce de leche; it's one of my favorite treats from Chile and the moment the waiter told me it was in the cake, I ordered a slice. If I understand it right, manjar is made by boiling condensed milk while stirring in sugar. At any rate, it's gooey, looks a little but tastes nothing like caramel, and goes great with almost all breakfasts and desserts.
Later on I had dinner with Eli and Orazio of Grupo Faro at a Lebanese restaurant, where we ate shwarma, passed on the water pipe, and caught up on some Kennedy School gossip before settling down to business. Their project sounds interesting and they're very flexible about how I can most help them--which I appreciate, given that I´m an energetic person but not always that focused. I'll write more about Grupo Faro and its mission tomorrow.
The thing that most surprised me today: I was mistaken for a college professor.
Off to sleep and dream for a few hours, hopefully with no guest stars from the twenty-fourth century. When I was little I once dreamed I was a smurf--an evil smurf created by Gargamel to mislead the good smurfs, but who ultimately found redemption with the help of Papa Smurf. That dream, I could have again. But please, no more of Captain Picard with a scalpel.
Make it so.
Amputation
I dreamed that I was in Hell with the cast of Star Trek: The Next Generation and that Captain Jean-Luc Picard accidentally amputated my leg.
The day has improved since then. I've been walking from my hotel to the historic downtown area, and am now checking in at a small Internet center down the street from Payless Shoe Source and about a block from "la plaza grande" (the big plaza). At first, the city was deserted (except for one Pentecostal church) but things began livening up around noon. I've passed a massive Sunday art fair, several hundred sweaters with alpacas on them, and at least a dozen Chinese restaurants.
More to come.
The day has improved since then. I've been walking from my hotel to the historic downtown area, and am now checking in at a small Internet center down the street from Payless Shoe Source and about a block from "la plaza grande" (the big plaza). At first, the city was deserted (except for one Pentecostal church) but things began livening up around noon. I've passed a massive Sunday art fair, several hundred sweaters with alpacas on them, and at least a dozen Chinese restaurants.
More to come.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Bastille Day in Quito
The silver lining to not sleeping the night before you fly to Quito is that afterward you don't really remember flying to Quito. I only just got in about two hours ago, enough time to clear customs, find my hotel, and wander the streets looking for dinner. No taco stands here, of course, but I did come across a promising Mongolian barbeque, which seems out of place in the Andes--and a hamburger joint called "The G Spot," which would seem out of place just about anywhere.
Bypassing them both, I've settled down at a cafe, Papaya.net, that serves avocado sandwiches with a side of high speed Internet. Which reminds me: a few years ago, Ecuador gave up its own currency and decided to use American dollars. Yet prices aren't exactly structured how you would expect them to be back home. For instance, most items at U.S. restaurants cost, say, $2.99 or $3.50, or maybe $5.97 if a proprietor is feeling very creative. But at this Internet Cafe a bagel with salmon costs $3.28, Mexican bread $2.42, potatoes with mushrooms $3.07, a green empanada $1.64--and so on. The penny must get a lot more use here. (I've also seen a lot of Sacajawea--whose dollar I had previously come across only at the post office.)
I'm staying at La Casa Sol. My taxi driver warned me that it was "simple" and but reassured me that it was also "comfortable." Both appraisals are fairly accurate, the former perhaps more so. Most of the walls are painted a festive Ukrainian orange. Up front there's a TV lounge where no one is watching TV. As for my room, it's... cozy. Maybe five paces by four and a half, with a window. The bed is about knee-height, which I guess is great if you roll off the bed a lot. I'll report back on the water pressure.
Up ahead: a quiet Sunday working on a much procrastinated paper for a course on the 2004 presidential election, mixed with a little bit of sightseeing and shopping for alpacas. Tomorrow night, I'll have dinner with Orazio and Eli, who run the organization I'm consulting for here, Grupo Faro.
Bypassing them both, I've settled down at a cafe, Papaya.net, that serves avocado sandwiches with a side of high speed Internet. Which reminds me: a few years ago, Ecuador gave up its own currency and decided to use American dollars. Yet prices aren't exactly structured how you would expect them to be back home. For instance, most items at U.S. restaurants cost, say, $2.99 or $3.50, or maybe $5.97 if a proprietor is feeling very creative. But at this Internet Cafe a bagel with salmon costs $3.28, Mexican bread $2.42, potatoes with mushrooms $3.07, a green empanada $1.64--and so on. The penny must get a lot more use here. (I've also seen a lot of Sacajawea--whose dollar I had previously come across only at the post office.)
I'm staying at La Casa Sol. My taxi driver warned me that it was "simple" and but reassured me that it was also "comfortable." Both appraisals are fairly accurate, the former perhaps more so. Most of the walls are painted a festive Ukrainian orange. Up front there's a TV lounge where no one is watching TV. As for my room, it's... cozy. Maybe five paces by four and a half, with a window. The bed is about knee-height, which I guess is great if you roll off the bed a lot. I'll report back on the water pressure.
Up ahead: a quiet Sunday working on a much procrastinated paper for a course on the 2004 presidential election, mixed with a little bit of sightseeing and shopping for alpacas. Tomorrow night, I'll have dinner with Orazio and Eli, who run the organization I'm consulting for here, Grupo Faro.
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