Atahualpa's Gold, Revisited

After a few weeks of being foiled by morning rains, my scheme to get paid for leading mountain bike trips has finally borne some fruit. Today, with the sun blazing, I led a bike trip as a hired guide.

My client was Sharon, a medical student doing a residency in a nearby town. While she and I rode the In Search of Atahualpa's Gold route, her husband and two year old daughter had a playdate with Gin and Miguel.

Sharon is a Michigander who races mountain bikes back home-- she was a strong rider. I wiped out twice, though only one time that she saw. She complimented me on my spill (I think she called it graceful) which helped me save face. She somehow managed to keep her rubber side down for the whole trip.

The route offers great views of Tungurahua, our local active volcano. A month ago, while pedaling the same route, the volcano constantly belched mushroom clouds of black smoke and I could hear explosions every minute or two. Today, we saw only a couple puffs of smoke and heard no explosions. Not sure what this means, but I hope it bodes well.

Coincidentally, two other medical school residents who are working at the hospital here in Banos want to go on a bike trip Thursday.

If the morning rains stay away and I'm able to keep both wheels on the ground, maybe the bike guiding business will prove viable after all.

Miguel's 1st Fish!

Taking advantage of a gloriously sunny Saturday, this morning we biked a few miles down river towards the Amazon and rode one of the many tarabitas (cable cars) over the Pastaza river valley. A tarabita provides a thrilling ride that allows panoramic views and typically, a hike on the wild side of the river.

We had breathtaking views of two waterfalls from the tarabita and disembarked on the roadless side of the river valley, next to a small restaurant surrounded by a fruit tree orchard. We hiked for about an hour on the 'smuggler's trail', named for boot legging that was common here back in the 1850s, and then headed back to the restaurant for lunch.

The small restaurant had only 3 items on the menu, one of which was fresh fried trout, so we opted for the fish. Our waitress then asked if we wanted to catch our lunch. A few minutes later, Miguel and I were sharing a bamboo pole, standing over a trout pool alongside the restaurant.

I grew up fishing on family vacations and during weekends with my dad on Lake St. Clair. It's been too many years since I've held a fishing pole, but I still love the quiet contemplation that's broken by the excitement of catching a fish.

Miguel apparently shares my love of fishing. He's been hauling a stick around town the last week calling it 'my fish pole'. He didn't have to be asked twice if he wanted to try and catch lunch.

Sure, the pool was stocked with farmed rainbow trout and it really wasn't much of a sporting match to land two foot-long fish within about 5 minutes. Nonetheless, the thrill of Miguel catching his first fish was infectious.

After landing our fish, Miguel then helped our waitress haul the bucket back into the restaurant. Fifteen minutes later we were enjoying the freshly fried trout. Delicious!

I can't wait to do some real sport fishing with Miguel. I think he's already hooked.

airing out

"Where is your woman voice, Mommy? I want your woman voice back."

That's what Miguel said to me this morning as he was leaving for school.  For the tenth day in the row, I had woken up late: splayed out on my back,  breathing shallowly, feeling like I'd slept in an Italian sandwich press.  It took great effort to peel myself out of bed and call our Spanish teacher and landlord to cancel class again. "Lo siento, Mayra. Estoy infirma." I rasped over the phone, "Pobrecito! No hay problema" she replied. Last week, I got a cold which turned into bronchitis and despite medication, I have been having a hard time shaking it.

We're all tired of me being sick. For the past few nights, Michael, who also has a cold,  has complained about me snoring, something I never do. Even Miguel, who snuck into bed with us in the middle of the night, decided enough was enough and announced at 4am, "I am going back into my room now."

After Michael and Miguel left this morning, I also decided enough was enough. Even though I felt like crap and sounded worse, I started stripping the bed, assembling piles of laundry, putting away toys and generally getting the whole apartment ready for a class-A scrub down.

Still in my PJ's, I went downstairs and knocked on Mayra's door, who was also in her PJ's (seeing as her morning student had canceled), and asked if I could use the laundry machine. First load: the comforter.

Back upstairs, I opened all the windows, flies be damned, cranked up some Alicia Keyes and got to work. Lacking a bucket, I used a pot for warm, sudsy water--the same pot I use to make bread dough, as we also do not have a large mixing bowl.

First the windowsills--wiping off the volcano dust. Hit some baseboards and doors too. I was more frenzied than systematic. Michael came home, earlier than expected, but he just sat and worked on his computer with earphones while I bustled, stopping every 20 minutes or so to hack up some left over "creep and crud" from my lungs.

Next, the bathrooms. One is a tiny "water closet" with a toilet and small sink. Scrubbing the toilet, sink and floor requires little time, but some contortion.

The other bathroom features a large, tiled tub and a regular sink, but no overhead cabinet to store toiletries. The wooden counter tends to get crowded, wet and gunky with toothbrushes, Michael's contact lens stuff, my hair brush and lotion, etc.  Blech. I  put everything below the sink and conquered all surfaces.  I was reluctant to put our stuff back on the satisfyingly empty counter.

I hate clutter and probably waste much time clearing and cleaning when I should be focused on doing. Poor Michael--when he is working in the kitchen, I sometimes shadow him with a rag, putting things away before he has finished using them.

When  I went back downstairs, still in my PJs, to put in load # 2, I borrowed the vacuum.  First I hit the oversize blue sofa and chairs, then the white and black marbled kitchen tiles. Before vacuuming the rest of the house, I got on my hands and knees and washed the floor, alternating between a rag, a scrubber and a scraper. I worked backwards, towards the living room and  paused to admire the gleam before turning to the other rooms.

I love this little apartment. It's big enough to keep us from driving each other crazy, and  compact enough to clean up in a morning. The kitchen flows into the living room with huge windows overlooking the mountains.  A few steps away are two bedrooms and the two 1/2 bathrooms. There is not much of a hallway--so different from the shotgun apartments I am used to back home. Most of the walls are a cheerful yellow, with white trim. The kitchen and bathrooms are tiled. The rest of the floors are wood.

Which leads to me to one of three downsides to this place:

1) There are large gaps between many of the floorboards. Sweeping feels futile. You try to use a dustpan, but most of the left over bits of daily life, such as rice, hair and train tracks, fall into the cracks instead. Miguel enjoys experimenting with different tools to pry coins from the crevices, one of his new, favorite words. The gaps were  particularly alarming when we first moved in and saw a few roaches. That problem seems to be under control, especially now that we got rid of the microwave which seems to have been a harboring spot. (Ewwww!)
2)  There are no screens. So, when you want to open the windows for fresh air, you know you will be spending time later in the day chasing down flies.
3) The compact layout means all the rooms are very close to the toilet. Sometimes too close.

Anyhoo, back to the cleaning rampage. The gapped wood floors require a two-pronged attack. First you vacuum the wood. Then you use the nozzle to vacuum the cracks. Back and forth, back and forth, I tried to suck up as much gunk as I could. Of course, there's the temptation to just let it all settle in and congeal into some new kind of spackle. . .but not on my watch, thank you very much.

As I finished the floors, my back was aching, but my lungs were clear and my spirits high.

I washed my face, made a smoothie and enjoyed the kitchen for a few minutes before tidying up again (I was not about to leave dirty dishes in the sink), took load number three and the vacuum downstairs and headed off to school to pick up Miguel. My voice was back and I had enough energy to take him to the park.
When Michael made dinner, I was happy to clean up after him. . . and spot swab the kitchen floor.

In a few minutes, I will take a hot bath in a clean tub, to hopefully clear my sinuses so I don't snore tonight. Then, I will slip into a bed with fresh, taught linens, made to my grandmother's nickle bouncing specifications.

I do love a clean house!

Goodbye to a Fierce Role Model and Dear Friend: Jan Metzger

This weekend we learned that Jan's fight against cancer was coming to an end. About two weeks after her 6oth birthday, she entered hospice care, surrounded by friends and family in Chicago, including Marshia, who had flown from Ecuador for the birthday and a visit, fearing this might be the last time she would see her best friend.

The news that Jan's health had taken an inexorable turn for the worse took me by surprise and shook me to the core.

Not Jan. It didn't seem possible. There were so many things I wanted her to know.

Dear Jan,


I heard today that you are starting hospice. We are sending so much love to you, and the circle of family and friends around you. You will always be an incredible role model to me--as an activist, a parent, a writer, a planner, a teller of important stories and a woman. You taught us well, and your lessons will keep us working. I cherish the memories of our many times of collaboration, from those early days with BTG, CATS and CNT to our time working on the book. I have always admired the way you hold your ground. I am not sure if you will get this, but I thought it was worth a shot. I am sorry we are so far away. You are kitted tightly into our hearts.

I broke down when I got to the words, the way you hold your ground. I don't think I ever really believed the ground would start to slip away. Why had I not been in better touch these last few months? I think I am a coward, in denial about death.

There was not a cowardly bone in Jan's body.

I first met her over ten years ago, when I was just beginning to get involved with transportation issues in Chicago. She worked at the Center for Neighborhood Technology, which I admired for its policy work, and she was also friends with Jim and Marshia, who I knew through Critical Mass.

I remember many evenings on Hoyne Street, scheming ways to get more people on bikes and out of cars. Jan would always push us to think about pedestrians and transit too. She was a biker, but knew we needed a multi-modal, multi-pronged approach to reclaiming our streets from car-dependence. We were founding members of Break the Gridlock, which supports grassroots projects and organizes conferences to bring together local activists for inspiration and education.

She understood that the struggle for social justice, which involves the struggle for equitable transportation, requires a lot of well-informed, passionate, confident people. She was all about equipping and expanding the ranks--and engaging our enemy? adversaries?

This is where the military analogy breaks down. Although I liked to sometimes debate Jan when I thought she was being too dichotomous, she was one of the most open-minded, empathetic people I knew. She didn't really see the "powers that be" as combatants, but rather well intentioned people who, she hoped, when confronted with sound arguments and data, would come around to the understanding that, say, we should invest more money in transit and less in sprawl-supporting and producing highways.

Oh, who am I kidding, Jan WAS a fighter. She was polite, gracious, sharp and hardworking but when honey and logic failed she had no problem standing up and rattling the gates of power. Nuance be damned.

Sometimes it's OK to be right enough. Sometimes it's OK to take a leap of faith that what you believe is worth fighting for. Too often I think progressive activists of my generation? ilk? get paralyzed with fear that we have not considered all the angles and perspectives; we are sometimes too empathetic, too soft, too quiet, too afraid to be wrong or not right-enough.

Jan did her homework, no doubt. She knew transportation policy inside and out, and was always learning. Her book, What Would Jane Say: City Building Women and a Tale of Two Chicagos is a treasure trove of meticulous research. It imagines how the Burnham plan might have been different had it included contributions from his female, "city building" contemporaries like Jane Adams. The book introduces us to many unheralded thinkers and doers of the time, most of them women, and advocates for modern planning to reflect the needs, wishes and ideas of people from all walks of life. With her book, not only did she add to the historical record, she exposed us to more role models, reminding women like me to add our voice and sweat to civic projects.

I am grateful to Jan for so much. The job stuff is obvious. She was the one who encouraged me to apply to become CATS's (now CMAP's) first ped/bike planner, despite my lack of credentials. I sat in her office for days, studying for the interview, reading every document CNT had on transportation and regional planning. When I got the job, I was always so happy to see her at the task force meetings, her red curls and hard questions making her stand out from the crowd.

Later, I worked for her at CNT, as a Pedestrian Program Manager. One of our biggest projects was advocating for Safe Routes to School legislation in Illinois. Most recently, I helped her revise and edit What Would Jane Say.

I am deeply honored to have been a part of that process. Despite round after round of chemo, she never let go of her dream to give voice to the women who worked so hard a century ago to make Chicago a better place for all. Early on, I asked her what kind of feedback she wanted. I knew this project was her passion, and I also knew her sense of urgency. She told me to bring it on. And I did. Our conversations ranged from the structure of the book to the structure of its sentences, and when we were on the phone, bubbling with enthusiasm for her topic and the messy, beautiful collaborative process of old friends, it was hard for me to believe there were days she could hardly get out of her chair. When I would bring up her health, she would often wave it off, not in a motion of denial but of priorities. She wanted our time together to be about her work.

But it's not just in the world of work, and community, that Jan was a mentor to me. I remember when I told her that I had stopped working full time so that our family could have a higher quality of life. She was thrilled for me, and talked about how much she cherished the time she had with her boys when they were little. She talked about her "fierce" love as a mother. I don't remember the exact way she said it, but I know she used the word fierce. I left that conversation feeling better than ever about my decision to spend more time working on being a mom.

I remember two summers ago, when we were working on the book and she was in chemo. She and John were in the back yard with us, after dinner. Miguel wandered off to play with his trike, and did a face plant into the concrete. Blood and screams were everywhere. Jan and John were amazing. Jan talked about her many trips to the ER, and comforted us as much as we were all comforting Miguel. Whenever I see the small half moon missing from his front teeth, I remember that night, and how much I appreciated Jan not only as a friend and colleague, but as someone with more years under her built who was always generous with encouragement and perspective.

Jan was a dear friend who gave everything she had to her family, friends and community. I am heartbroken that she is no longer with us.



Michael Adds some thoughts:

The Gift of Time

The Reverend Sam Barker advised us during our wedding ceremony back in 2002 that time is the most precious gift we give to each other as husband and wife.

Last night, our friend Jan Metzger died at a very young 60 years old after a long bout with cancer. She was a role model to us as a dedicated transportation activist at the Center for Neighborhood Technology and author of 'What Would Jane Say?', a book about Jane Addams that Gin helped edit. We will miss her dearly.

Jan's untimely passing is a reminder of how precious our time together is. As we approach the quarter-way point of our sabbatical, I'm happy to be able to spend time with family and friends, but still need to work on being more present.

When I was planning my first big trip back in 1991 (a year long, around the world excursion), I remember asking my brother David, an experienced traveler, what the typical day was like on the road. He replied, "You wake up, eat breakfast, see some sights and then start thinking about lunch."

Twenty years later, our family sabbatical has a very different rhythm than my solo vagabond days. Days start earlier (sometimes allowing 2 lunches!), involve less traveling and more time just being. But even without the day-to-day pressures of a job, raising a three year old and working on various projects sometimes leaves me breathing shallowly.

Some important goals of our sabbatical are to live more in the moment, appreciate family and friends, and relax. And enjoy the gift of time.

Strangers in a Familiar Land

Yesterday morning, as Miguel and I waited for the school bus in front of our house, it seemed unusually quiet.

Since we had kept Miguel out of school Thursday and Friday with an ear infection, we were all looking forward to getting back into the school-day routine, which would allow Miguel to spend time with his peers and enable Gin and I to work on our projects.

After a couple of minutes of waiting at the curb, our downstairs neighbor peeked out her door and alerted us that there would be no school again until Wednesday. Carnival/ Mardi Gras is a big festival here and apparently school shuts down for a couple of days.

Feeling a bit silly waiting on the quiet street corner with Miguel in his school uniform, we had to come up with a quick Plan B for the day. Twenty minutes later, I loaded Miguel into the bike seat and we were off for a visit to the zoo.

While locking up my bike at the zoo, my feelings of being an awkward foreigner quickly dissipated by the greeting of a familiar voice. "Miguel, Miguel!" I heard someone beckon and looked over my shoulder to see Miguel's teacher, Idida. Miguel ran over and gave Idida a big hug as I told her about our embarrassing wait for the morning school bus that never came.

Turns out Idida lives across from the zoo, which is owned by her uncle. All of the sudden, I was reminded that we live in a small town where everyone's lives seem to be always intersecting.

After visiting the zoo, we saw Idida again and then walked up the road 50 meters to ride a cable car (tarrabita) over the river gorge.

After going a little stir crazy in the afternoon from my fifth day of nearly nonstop parenting, I read a book on parental discipline strategies after Miguel went to bed. (GK adds--as in discipline for the parents as much as for the kids. . . and discipline in the "teaching" not "punishing" sense of the word. We have been hitting the books lately to help us navigate the thrilling threes--more on this later.)

Perhaps the good karma from the parenting book worked some magic this morning. Miguel woke up in great spirits and we together created a Play Doh Kermit-the-Frog replica. Soon, we'll be off to work on a volunteer community mural project and then perhaps we'll bike down the valley and ride another tarrabita across the river and take a hike.

And after nearly a week of full-on family time, who knows, maybe the school bus will come tomorrow morning.

GK adds: To complete the circle of school confusion, last night I marched to the Biblioteca ready to teach my three beginning English students. (I am covering for Marshia while she travels for a few weeks in the US.) The Bib was closed, of course. One of the students, Lincoln, was waiting for me on the corner, because last week, when a student had asked if we would have class on Monday, I had said--clueless as to the magnitude of Carnival-- "Of course! I have no plans!"

Lincoln and I decided we would wait for the other students, and then walk back to my building for an outside class on the terraza. While we waited, we watched a fire burning on the mountain--a curious scar in the trees. He shook his head and I think he said something along the lines of some people not being very intelligent--i.e. maybe someone set the fire on accident, but I am not sure. Beginning English plus beginning Spanish speakers = a lot of confusion and approximations.

Anyhoo, Ximena showed up too. Not surprisingly, the other student, who had asked about class being canceled, did not come. I felt pretty silly, but the other students wanted to carry on, so we walked a few blocks, climbed the stairs to our roof and had class in the dark (new moon!), under bright stars. Michael brought up some tea and we practiced the difference between v and b, and talked about the Carnival spirit below us.

Almost Ready to Brew

Last weekend, Jim and I rode the bus to the nearby town of Ambato to pick up brewing equipment and supplies. We visited a hardware store to pick up various fittings to outfit the cooler/ mashtun and I bought a 14 gallon brew kettle.

Jim continued onto the bus station and picked up about 100 pounds of malt, and the hops and yeast that had been delivered from Cuenca (which is about 5 hours south of us).

We messed up on the conversion from grams to ounces and under-bought hops. Consequently, we're thinking our first batch will be a stout, which relies less on hops for flavor and more on roasted grain.

During the week, I've been getting our equipment ready to brew. I finished notching the manifold for the mash tun and we drilled a hole in the side of the cooler / mash tun so wort can drain out of the bottom. We got some plastic compression fittings and, so far, there are no leaks.

On Wednesday, I bought 50 feet of soft copper tubing from a local hardware and molded it into a circular, immersion wort chiller.

The only major piece of equipment we still need is a burner. We hope to buy a burner this weekend, and barring any setbacks, we should have our first batch in the tank early next week!

Rainbows and Other Kitchen Essentials

 

View from our new kitchen window

Some of the necessities were not a surprise, such as a way to make coffee. On our first morning in the new kitchen, we made cowboy coffee on the stove. Not bad, but upgrading was at the top of our "to get" list. At a bodega, we found a cloth filter on a metal ring, but it was slow and cumbersome, especially without a carafe. During one of our trips to Amabato, we looked for a carafe but decided on a coffee press instead.  It kept falling apart (should have bought the 10 instead of 4 dollar model). Still, it worked well enough and I was happy. But Michael decided enough was enough and brought back a small coffee maker from his last beer run to Quito.

I guess we could have decided to break our morning caffeine habit. Ah well, the coffee maker will be one of our gifts to the apartment when we leave.

The kitchen came equipped with other basics, including two cutting boards, dull knives, a blender, small pots and pans, a huge container of salt, small bags of cumin, cinnamon, basil and other spices, enough dishes for 3 people, and a cracked bar of soap that we used until we figured out where to find the dish soap in the grocery store. Note to other visitors: it comes in tubs, requiring a smear instead of a squirt.

It's been a long time since we have had to set up a kitchen. In fact, maybe I never really had to. My first kitchens were seeded with Mom's hand-me-downs. I can't remember ever being without mixing bowls.

Given the brief nature of our stay, and our desire to not go overboard with US style consumption (coffee maker aside), we have been trying to get by with basics. We bought a large pot which I also use to mix bread dough.  The blender or knives are sufficient for jobs I might use a Cuisinart for at home.  In the process, we have discovered what our kitchen "essentials" are. Ok, maybe not essentials. All we really "need" are food, fire, and a pot. Or maybe just food and our teeth. But for cozy, homey, fly-free cooking, here is what we like to have on hand:

Top row: wooden spoon, pot/mixing bowl, wheat flour, "doo-dad" bowl (I can't stand a cluttered counter), fly swatter (how I miss our screens!), fruit bowl, retired coffee press standing on dish soap tub.
Middle row: spatula (for pancakes and eggs), oatmeal, cinnamon, cheese grater, baking powder, cumin,  measuring cups/spoons, vanilla.
Bottom row: Bread knife (gift from Michael), needs-to-be-sharpened knife, whisk, scraper/spatula (for cleaning the counter after kneading dough), cloth napkin (I bought two sets), utility knife with can opener, vegetable peeler (Michael's pick), zester (my pick), scissors (one of our first must-have purchase), strainer and cutting board.

Not shown: garlic, onions, other spices, polenta and loads of other grains, olive oil, balsamic vinegar,honey, mustard, nuts, dried fruit. . .

I have really enjoyed setting up a new kitchen with Michael and am grateful that we both have the skills and desire to cook for our family and new friends. (More on that later.)

And speaking of kitchens, I am off to do some punching and kneading.

 

View from our old 3rd floor kitchen in Logan Square.

Look Who's Blocking Traffic

On my way to the hardware store this morning, I saw a crowd of people blocking the street up ahead, some holding placards. I thought maybe workers were striking or some other civil disturbance was brewing.

Upon closer inspection, I discovered a much more important event was taking place. The contestants for the Miss Ecuador beauty pageant are in town this weekend and a photo opp was causing the ruckus.

Luckily, I happened to have a camera in my pocket, so I jumped into the paparazzi section and snapped off a couple of photographs.

Difficult to get a bad shot with subjects like these!

Brewery Update: New Logo & Mash Tun Conundrum

Equipped with a 30-day trial copy of Photo Shop, Jim has been busily creating a beer label for La Cascada Brewery. Our apologies to the Virgen de Agua Santa . . .

Meanwhile, I've been gathering together brewing equipment so we can make a trial batch. In assembling a guerrilla brewery, the mash tun is the most challenging piece of equipment to concoct.

A mash tun is a container where malted barley is soaked at about 155F for about an hour, converting many of the malt starches into sugar, which will later be metabolized by the yeast to create alcohol. After an hour or so of soaking, the sugary water (called wort) is drained out of the bottom of the mash tun.

Since not many large containers have bottom drains, it forces the DIY brewer to improvise. The most common makeshift mash tun consists of a retrofitted picnic cooler.

Last weekend, I bought a 10-gallon cooler and began working on converting it to a mash tun. I need to drill a drain hole in the bottom of the cooler and create a manifold to hook up to the drain to assure uniform drainage.

I'm making the manifold from plastic tubing that is specified for hot water use and I got to wondering if the plastic from the interior of the cooler might leach some nasty chemical into the hot mash.

So, yesterday I sent a message to the manufacturer (a Colombian company) and the friendly customer relations rep responded that the cooler is 'designed to conserve cold, not for hot food or liquids.' He said the insulation is made of polyurethane. In a follow-up message, the rep said the interior of the cooler (which will be in contact with the wort) is made of polypropylene, a plastic commonly used for dishwasher-safe food storage containers-- which means it can probably withstand the heat of the brewing process.

To get some more info about the appropriateness of converting coolers to mash tuns, I also sent a message to Igloo to ask if their 10 gallon cylinder cooler is designed for liquid beverages up to 180F. Igloo coolers are probably the most commonly used coolers by homebrewers.

Igloo responded that their cooler isn't intended for hot beverages either and that the cooler may fall apart at high temperatures. In addition, the one-year warranty would then be voided.

Taking matters into our own hands, yesterday we fired up some hot water and put it into the cooler to see if the heat would violate the integrity of the cooler and/or if any plastic leaching was evident in the water. I'm happy to report the cooler withstood the hot water test: it didn't fall apart and there was no evidence of plastic residue in the water

If Jim and Marshia decide they like brewing and it's economically feasible, we'll probably look at assembling an overall system with a metal mash tun that can brew bigger batches than our current 10 gallon capacity.

Until then, I'm installing the drainage system into the cooler and aiming to brew our first test batch next week.

And Jim is working on securing the town priest's blessing for our logo. It's best not to upset the Virgen de Agua Santa, who has a long history of protecting Banos from volcanic devastation.