Drama in Cuenca

Last weekend I went to Cuenca, Ecuador with a friend to enjoy our final long weekend of the school year. Overall it was a good trip. I arrived on Thursday evening and flew back to Quito on Sunday morning. On Friday, the rest of the group went to hike around in a national park called Las Cajas. I'm not a big hiker, plus it'd had been raining a LOT, so they all had to wear rubber boots. And in addition, I was getting sick (though I didn't realize it then). All of these things combined to equal Leslie doesn't want to go. Instead, I spent the day by myself. This blog is about that day.

After seeing the girls off to their hiking adventure, I spent a liesurely morning in our host family's empty home. The rain, which had been falling steadily since I woke up, finally stopped around 10, and about 11 I decided to go into town to see the sights of Cuenca. This involves calling a cab, explaining where to come get me (the house was about 10 minutes outside of town), figuring out the alarm system, and hopefully leaving without setting it off. In the end, I decided to just try to hail a cab and avoid the phone call. You may recall my experience calling for pizza from my own house. So directing a cab to someone else's house seemed a bit intimidating. Anyway, I managed the alarm system and trekked up the hill to the road and waited for an empty cab to come along. Here's a picture of me at that moment:

A car or two passed. A cab or two passed, but they both had people already. I waited. I sang a song. I enjoyed the non-cityness of my locatioin. No cab. I briefly considered going BACK inside, messing with the alarm, hoping the alarm place doesn't call and say a lot of stuff really fast in Spanish that I didn't understand then the police show up at this house that wasn't mine, and then trying to call the cab place and give directions.

I waited longer. A car from the neighborhood pulled out onto the street. They drove slowly and looked at me, but then seemed to decide I didn't need help and kept going.

I watched a huge dumptruck pass and pondered whether, should a truck driver offer me a ride into town, I would say yes or not.

I waited. Another car, an SUV with a young family, pulled out of the neighborhood area onto the street. They, too, looked at me. And then a miraculous thing happened! They stopped and the man raised his eyebrows and pointed in the direction of the city. "Do you want to go into Cuenca?" he seemed to say. I, too, raised my eyebrows and nodded enthusiastically.

I was thinking at this moment of my friend and former roommate, Beth Berke, and how very Berke-esque was this thing I was doing.

I jumped into the backseat with a girl about 9 and a boy around 5. Javier and Gaby, the parents, were gracious enough to take me somewhere in the city where I could get a cab to the museum that I was trying to get to. So, I have experienced my first hickhiking ride!

[editor's note: in the course of our ride together, we discussed where I was going and where I was staying. I think these people were my hosts' next-door neighbors and I think they saw me come out of the house, AND I think that's why they gave an unknown gringa a ride into town. Kids, don't try this at home. Especially if "home" means the US]

So off I trotted, having been dropped of by Nice Neighbor Family, to hail a cab to take me to the museum. A $2 cab ride later, I found out the museum was closed. And it was starting to rain. Dang. But not to be thwarted, I pulled out my borrowed map and figured out how to get back to the main part of the old town. I started walking and thankfully the rain changed its mind and went away. I walked and walked and walked. Apparently the museum was kind of far away. Eventually I stopped at an internet cafe and spent $.25 for a half-hour of internet! I paid the lady, used the facilities (which had a hilarious sink set-up, seen here:)

and set off for the cafe where I was to eat lunch with Luke's host family. You may remember Luke, Christy's friend who's living in Cuenca to study Spanish? His host family owns the cafe and, having found out that I wasn't going to the park with the others, insisted that I come eat lunch in their cafe. So sweet of them. So I went to their place. It reminded me of the Greek family restaurant from "My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding" because the family was wondering in and out the whole time. I ate and tried to pay (but was, of course, refused) and then the host mom drove me to the next place on my list- a shopping area. After some motherly advice (like use your umbrella and watch your wallet) she let me off in front of market square. Thanking her profusely I proceeded to a booth selling postcards and laboriously choose 8 (the lady told me they were 20 cents each, but when I asked for a discount she said I could have 8 for a dollar! I love it when bargaining goes well). I handed them to the lady and reached for my wallet to pay.

It was gone.

Trying not to panic, I squatted down and started taking everything out of my purse. No luck. The wallet was gone. I told the lady I couldn't find my money and she asked if I'd been robbed. I told her I wasn't sure, apologized, and headed back to the cafe.

My mind whirled as I passed the colorful market booths. I know I had it at the internet cafe, because I paid the lady. Maybe it was there? I don't know if I had it at the cafe because they didn't let me pay. My purse was on the floor there; could it have fallen out? Or could someone have grabbed it out of my purse? But if someone had taken it, why hadn't they taken my camera, too? Most of my money was in my jeans pocket (in case I got robbed) so there was less than $5 in my wallet, but my Censo (a government ID) was in my wallet. Could I fly back to Quito with just a copy of my passport? Sigh...

Back at the cafe, no one's seen the wallet. I continue back-tracking to the internet cafe. It's only one block from the cafe. I remember because it was much closer than I was expecting so it stuck in my mind. I walked the block.

The internet cafe was gone. Yes, gone. As in, not there anymore. I stood gaping in bewilderment at the intersection where it should have been. I KNEW it was only a block, but obviously it wasn't there, so I walked one more block. Still not internet cafe. It occured to me that maybe I walked the wrong direction for a block, so I went back to the cafe and tried the other direction. Lo and behold, the internet cafe sat quietly on its corner, where it'd been the whole time. :) I walked in and noticed that the same lady was there. I walked up to her but could tell that she didn't remember me. "I was here this morning" I started...

Her eyes lit up. "Si! Un momento..." She opened a desk drawer and pulled out my wallet! I swallowed hard so as not to burst into tears of relief. I thanked her sincerely and headed back to the cafe for the third time that day. "All is well- I found it!" I reported and continued back to the market area. The lady was still there, crocheting quietly. Truimphantly I held up my prodigal wallet and announced that I'd found it. "You weren't robbed?!" she asked. Nope! From behind her display she pulled out my postcards- she'd kept them out for me. :)

The rest of the day was less dramatic, though really beutiful. Here are some pictures of the scenery in Cuenca.

Why I'm Here- A Reminder To Me

Today God talked to me about how much like the Israelites I am.

Now, if you've ever read much of the Old Testament you probably wouldn't consider this comment to be a compliment. Nothing against the Jew, of course. Just that we're all so human and flawed and in need of redemption; they just happened to end up being the poster children.

Anyway, in this particular case God was addressing the issue of my discontent. Recently I read the passage in 1 Samuel where the Israelites have decided that they need a human king, like the other nations around them. Since their miraculous deliverance from Egypt (where they were slaves) God had been their king. He blessed them and caused them to conquer their enemies and to prosper. And at that particular time, God had given them Samuel, a priest and prophet, to lead them. But they weren't satisfied with all of that. They wanted a king. The people in the lands all around them had kings, and for whatever reason, they wanted a king, too.

Samuel (slightly put out that his leadership wasn't satisfactory) consulted God. God pointed out that the people weren't rejecting Samuel, but Him. And he told Samuel to give them a king.

Now, this is the part of the story that is scary. God let them have what they wanted, even though He knew it wasn't the best plan. It was obviously A plan; God still used the David's lineage to bring the Deliverer. But I can't help but wonder what bigger and better blessings God had in store if the Israelites would have been satisfied with Him alone.

Enter me. Thousands of years later, I reenact this ancient story. God has blessed me. He has saved me from myself; forgiven me for forsaking Him; promised me eternal life with Him; offered me abundant life on earth in the meantime; gifted me; given me a ministry; provided for every need and many wants; so many blessings that I stack them in corners and in the closet and forget I ever got them. More blessings waiting in His hands, waiting for me to ask for them.

And yet I look at others and I want what they have. I look at friends who are dating and I want that. I look at married friends and I want that. I look at friends who have children and I want that. I look at friends who have great relationships with their moms and I want that.

I'm not saying it's bad to want what we don't have. All those things are good and healthy, but God hasn't given them to me in this season. The problem comes in when I can't enjoy and appreciate what He HAS given me because I'm too busy complaining about what I DON'T have. Losing focus. Losing perspective. Assuming that what I want is the highest priority.

How many times must I be reminded? It's not all about me. I'm sitting here, staring at those words on my computer screen.
It's. Not. All. About. Me.
God's highest priority is not my latest desire. He's got His sights set higher. I must look up to see where He is aiming.

God, help me to look up. Keep reminding me. Don't give me a second-best option. I want Your best for me, even if I'm not smart enough to recognize it. Help me to keep Your perspective; building the kingdom. Reaching up to the God who created me and reaching out to all He created. That's why I'm here.

Present Living

Today is my final day of Easter break. I've done a lot of nothing during the past few days and so today I found myself lying on my bed, listening to my roommate's music from the other room and gazing out the window.

It looks like summertime here in the mornings, though it is only April and the warmer part of the year won't arrive for another month or so. But from inside the window the big, fluffy white clouds, deep blue sky, and the green plants, trees, and flowers can trick you into another season.

As I was lying there, enjoying the freedom to stare out the window without doing anything, a small white butterfly flew into my line of vision. Instantly I was flashed back to my childhood. Summertime on the small farm where I grew up. Me, seven or eight, in my favorite apple-print shorts and shirt outfit. The sun warm and friendly on my skin. Running barefoot with Britt and Josh, through the freshly-washed sheets, drying on the line in the east yard. The sheets making sweet-smelling, cool hallways for us to run through. The wind whipping through them and sometimes blinding us with clean, soft cotton. Scooter, our faithful dog, running around with us, loving playing with us.

Mom, calling us in for lunch. PB&Js or hotdogs or leftovers. The kitchen, slightly cooler than outside because of the shade. Naptime when the sandwhiches were gone. Dad coming home in the afternoon. Supper together and then playing outside in the summertime evening-light. Mom calling us in to bed- 8:30 but the sun still hanging in the western sky. We complain about going to bed while it's still light. Mom holds firm and we crawl between the sheets, hallways transformed magically into personal pre-sleep forts. Cool, clean, safe. Drift off to sleep.

Another in a long line of summer days. No thought of past or present. No worries to speak of. The serinity of living simply in the here and now. Present living.

Gringa Gringa

[editor's comment: "gringa" (or gringo, for a male) is the slang term here for a white, North America. It's not offensive, just a word of identification.]

Last night I ordered pizza from Papa John's.

For those of you who've never had the pleasure of a phone conversation in a language not your own, let me fill you in a bit. Of all the means of communication, the phone is by far the hardest in a second language. There are several reasons for this. For example, you can't read someone's facial expression or other body language over the phone. You can't point at things to help with context. You're often talking to someone you don't know personally, and who doesn't know to speak slowly and clearly to you, as people you know usually will. Often the words are harder to understand because of a garbled connection. And it's all immediate, so there's no looking stuff up in your handy-dandy bilingual dictionary. In short, it's hard. I have never yet been comfortable talking on the phone in any language other than English.

So, all that said, I dialed Papa Johns because my desire to eat pizza outweighed my fear of the phone conversation. This was the second time I've ordered pizza from this particular establishment. The first experience was a resounding disaster. I did get the pizzas that I had ordered, but it was a painful journey to that end.

I dial. I take a deep breath. The lady answers...

Lady: (huge jumble of words that I can't understand completely due to the lightning-fast speed of delivery. similar to the "welcometomcdonaldswouldyouliketotryournewtriplebigmacvaluemealforjustfiveninetyfive?" spiel that we're used to in the States. I did make out "Papa John's", "special", medium" and "Monica".)
Leslie: Um, hi Monica. First I have a question for you.
(silence...I press on)
Leslie: how much would it cost for a medium Pepperoni Pizzazz pizza?"
Monica: $14.9? (I missed the final digit b/c I was processing the more important, first two digits)
L: $14.9....?
(silence again. I give up on that last digit and press on again)
L: Ok, and what was your special again?
M: Two mediums of your choice for $17.9? (same number processing problem)
(silence while I process)
L: So the second pizza is only $3.00 more?
M: Yes.
L: Ok, I'll take your special.
M: So, one medium pepperoni pizzazz and what kind for your other pizza?
L: Italiano, but without black olives.
M: Vegetariano, minus black olives?
L: Yes. (yes, you're noticing the problem here, because you're READING this, and probably in your first language. I didn't notice.)
M: Anything else?
L:No.
M: Ok, two medium pizzas, one pepperoni pizzazz and one vegetariano minus black olives. Your phone number?
L: 4 - no, sorry- 246-1307
M: On Brazil, next to the Domino's?
L: Yes (delighted that this much at least had been communicated during my last, disastrous interaction with the fine people at Papa John's)
M: How will you be paying?
L: Cash (delighted again that I remembered the word here for cash)
M: Ok, it'll be $17.9? cents in about 35 minutes.
L: Thank you
M: You're welcome. Good night.

I hung up feeling a strong sense of accomplishment. This conversation was considerably less painful than the last one. And soon I would have yummy pizza as a reward for my bravery. Yay!

A few minutes later, as I'm carrying my pizzas back up to my apartment I happen to notice the little sticker on the side of the box with the details of the order. As I'm looking at it, I notice that I have somehow ordered a vegetarian pizza (what the?).

Then I remember that Monica never asked for my name. She confirmed my identification by asking if I was next door to Dominos. I notice "next to Domino's" on the label next to my address. Then I notice what is written in the "Name" slot: Gringa Gringa.

I roll my eyes, smile to myself, and settle in to enjoy my pizza. I love Ecuador.