8 Months Afuera

Scraps

2010-09-28T00:09:00.002-05:00

Now that Miguel is in school, Michael is back to work, I have resumed my freelance work and career gyrations, and the 2009 taxes are finally done (thank you extension), it is probably fair to declare our sabbatical over. The dust, or ash, is settling.

In our fast packing prompted by Tungurahua's outburst, we seem to have misplaced the small pile of scrap paper we used for capturing memories that had not made it into the blog. I realized they were gone while we were doing our taxes. I would have easily traded the banker's box worth of mail we accumulated while we were gone for those wisps of memories (including two place-mats from our mother's day date at Luna Runtun). As disorganized as I can be, I am ruthless about holding on to paper scraps, which is why I still have an assortment of incriminating notes passed between me and Lisa Rosman back in 8th grade.

I can picture where I last saw our notes. They were tucked into a file folder I had brought to Ecuador for one of the projects I was working on. Having completed the project, I think I pitched the folder as we frantically tossed everything into bags while our windows shook from the volcano's blasts. Serves us right for getting spooked.

At first I was devastated. These were the notes I planned to work from as I sifted through the 4000 plus pictures and rounded out our report--if only for ourselves--of this amazing journey. I do not lose notes. I might not ever go back to look at them, but I know they are there--my brain's external hard drive since my memory can not be trusted.

But maybe Miguel's can. He still talks about Joanna's chickens, Adita's glue gun, Wouter's car and Tungurahua's ash. He wants to know when we can visit Jim, Marshia and Simon again. Perhaps all that matters is that he was happy there and that we weathered more time together as a family.

Yeah, yeah. I want my damn details back! Compounding matters is that we hardly wrote at all while on the road this summer. It's all receding into a blur of different skies. Because I always remember the sky, even as the words, thoughts and events of the day slough off.

Maybe that is why I keep traveling. Unable to remember adventures of the past, I keep itching along for more.

I do not remember many details about the cross country hitchhiking trip with Billy when I was 20 but I do see the indigo sky trimmed with lingering sunset and rising stars dwarfing the big rigs pulled to the side of the road. (Why were we stopped? What state were we in???) I remember benign warm clouds tucking us in on an uncertain evening as we crashed--I think--in an RV campground with canned goods and hope for someone else's fire and can opener. And the stretched as tight as a powder blue hospital sheet sky above the embankment that led to my first and only freight train hopping experience.

I never got around to writing about that trip--one of my great regrets. But then there are the trips I did write about, the epic bike rides with friends over the years, but those notes are buried in journals I never read so maybe it does not matter if I write or not, or if those scraps turn up.

Just means we need to start planning some more adventures.

high tide

2010-09-02T23:05:00.000-05:00

In keeping with the coastal theme of my last post, I declare today's133 to be my high water mark. May it take less than 8 months to lose the15 pounds of junk in the trunk I accumulated during our travels.

According to various charts and measures, and the unyielding waistlines of all of my clothes, I have officially popped out of the "healthy weight" range for my 61 inches.

Was it all those chocolate bolitas from the panderia around the corner?
Living in a small town--ie, short commutes--for 5 months?
Hitting 38 years?
Being on an anti-depressant?
Eating out many times a week?
Slouching in a rental car for three weeks around the Pacific Northwest?
Poaching food from Miguel's plate? (he seems to have left his pudge behind)

Makes me wonder how much more I would have gained if I hadn't been running, hiking, swimming, biking and doing yoga. Then again, exercise is what has always allowed to me ignore calories; maybe I got a little reckless. A three mile hike is no match for three of those bolitas!

Well. We are home now. There will be longer commutes (mixed blessing), more home cooking and less partying. This is a challenge, not a crisis. I love challenges. Oh, but how I hate watching what I eat.

Got the alarm set for a morning run. Come on exercise--do your thing!

Back to Work

2010-08-31T21:11:00.009-05:00

Today was the last official day of my 8 month sabbatical and a fine day it was.

It started with an early run through Humboldt Park, followed by a trip to another nearby park to play with Miguel.

For lunch, Miguel and I headed to Revolution Brewing. I couldn't resist ordering a Working Man's Mild to commemorate my return to the workingclass. While sipping the session ale, I pondered the old Oscar Wilde quote: "Work is the scourge of the drinking classes."

Josh happened upon us and joined us for lunch. We discussed plans for Labor Day weekend and the scent of work seemed to permeate the air.

After a relaxing afternoon, Charly (Gin's mom) watched Miguel while Gin and I pedaled off to a yoga class. We returned home to a lovely meal and a delicious chocolate cake made by Charly. Gin, Miguel and I blew out eight candles, one for each month of our sabbatical.

In some ways, the exotic part of the sabbatical seemed to end 10 weeks ago when we returned to the US (see my final post from South America and Gin's reflections on returning to Chicago for some observations).

Since returning to the States, we've spent time with friends and family-- bike rides, renting cottages, dancing naked in the streets, etc. It's been great to reconnect with our loved ones while moving through life at a less hurried pace. I think I'll return to my job refreshed for the important work that lies ahead.

As the Rev. Sam Barker said at our wedding, the greatest gift we can give one another is the gift of our time. Eight months is a fine gift and I hope there's much more to give.

Intertidal

2010-08-26T23:54:00.000-05:00

I am in love with low tide,
the slipping back ocean cover
airing out the swingers of the coastal edge.

The plump, tangled starfish seem especially exposed.
I know I should not touch, but my finger reaches
and strokes, looking for soft like a slick thigh,
and is surprised by the cool, rigid shell.

Lots of Purple Rain

2010-07-29T23:32:00.014-05:00

Last Friday's torrential rains kept us out late. We danced in the street while water gushed into our basement, climbing up the wheels of dozens of snoozing bicycles.

There is a certain smell when the first drops hit the hot streets and brittle window screens-- a dusty, blooming, friendly city smell that has always pulled me outside while others scurry under the awnings. I remember long walks during summer storms from my growing up years in Hyde Park, watching tired lawns perk up, and scuffed sidewalks gleam with temporary polish, enjoying the quiet and solitude, a transformation more subtle than a snowstorm, but no less exhilarating.

We were celebrating a friend's 40th birthday. At 11pm we started sending our sitter apologetic, hopeful texts. Do you mind if we wait until it clears a bit? No problem. She had biked too, and was not eager to suit up in the storm. We asked again at midnight and one more time until we agreed that we would just return when the rain stopped and/or we were done kicking up our heels.

Michael and I had brought dueling 80's dance mixes. We have a funny, sparring relationship about music. He probably has better, more sophisticated taste (for example, he actually listens to lyrics, whereas I am a sucker for anything that gets my bottom shaking), and is a master of putting together mixes. But right before we left for the party, I realized he had no Eurythmics and only one Prince song on his mix. I also thought some of his choices were too slow for a dance party. He protested, conjuring up memories of soundtracks from his housing co-op days in Michigan. I snarked back something about him being older and not a "girl." The gauntlet was down and I was challenged to come up with my own playlist in 30 minutes.

I am glad we brought the extra music. Michael's songs got everyone moving, even those I had scoffed at. But around midnight, his list was winding down, the rain was turning up, and no one seemed in a mood to stop dancing. Enter my combo of Cyndi Lauper, David Bowie, Stevie Wonder, The Pretenders, Annie Lennox, B-52's, Peter Gabriel and Prince.

Long story short--there was much dancing. The warm, relentless rain was seductive. We opened the front door to their graystone and let the music hit the street with the water. We followed with bare feet and then bare everything. Laughing and bathing in the purple rain, letting it fall on our heads like a memory. . . .

We were 30 and 40 somethings, not so much grasping at old memories but feeling strong and joyful about where we are now. These are friends I have known for over ten years. . . not growing up friends, instead growing older together friends. We all carry our own associations with these songs of our youth, but share more recent adventures: crazy bike trips, raising kids, tilting at windmills and breaking up concrete.

I can picture them chasing the rain--maybe even the same storms--as kids in Detroit, Boston, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Evanston, Wheaton, Rogers Park.

The evening finally wound down at 3am, as the trees dripped echoes of the storm. I biked home in heels and a borrowed T-shirt. When Michael and I opened the door to our basement and saw how the rain had worked a different kind of magic on our block, we laughed and groaned, snapped back into "responsible adulthood."

We spent the next few days cleaning out the basement (sewage water-ewww!), but I am still grateful for the storm and more memories.

Landing

2010-07-21T00:34:00.001-05:00

Lifting off from Quito for the last time, I looked hard at the shrinking pastel-concrete apartment buildings climbing up the mountains below us, like watching someone running after your train until they are a tiny speck waving an even tinier handkerchief.

I didn't cry. I had done that when leaving Banos. The last weeks of our time in South America were more like a vacation, 3 days here, 4 days there, enough time in airports and cabs to keep us from getting too attached or nostalgic. Still, leaving Quito, our pass-through city for many of our trips, did have some heft.

"I know this airport. . . We've been here before. . . " Miguel had murmured, barely awake in just underwear and my sweatshirt.

I did some rambling writing on the plane, I guess my way of turning away from the mountains and focusing on the next part of this journey (our "sabbatical" does not end until September). Somehow a month has passed and I haven't gotten to posting it. Coming home has been intense--busy and wonderful, including a trip to visit my parents and a week at the Indiana lake shore. Now we are home for over two weeks before heading out west. I feel like the plane is finally touching down for a spell.

This is what I wrote between Quito and Houston, June 17.

******
We're going home, trading concrete for bricks, contour for a still ball on Chicago's flat streets. Saying goodbye to being able to play in the streets.

We joke that we did this trip, in part, to cheat a winter. We wanted time outside (afuera) and time together. Sure, Michael and I both had some projects to work on, but mostly we saw this as a chance to really focus on our family. In some ways, I see this trip as a tribute to Michael's Mom and Dad, who, on humble salaries, always managed to get 5 kids out on epic camper van adventures.

Maybe we could have done "more": learned more Spanish, gotten to know more people more deeply, gone further with our projects. . . but I don't think that's what we wanted. As I let my mind relax and float over images from these last five months, I don't see the scenery from all the runs I described in such detail on the blog, or Michael's cerveceria, or my computer (even though I spent plenty of time pecking away at this machine.)

What I see over and over again is Miguel's back, running ahead of us, down the long, warm, wide sidewalks in Banos. I am not yelling after him to slow down or stop at the corner. He knows by now, and also, there is not so much traffic anyway. It feels safe, maybe in the way a small town might feel safe.

In the last 5 months, hardly a day has gone by when Miguel has not spent a lot of time outside, interacting with people and places. In the pic here, he is running along his "track" in Cartagena, a plaza that leads to the gate of the walled old city. We let him do laps, which involved a few seconds of barely being able to see him. How strange to feel safer there than in Chicago, or maybe it's just that this trip overlapped with him easing into a more responsible age.

Right now, he is conked out on my lap in the plane--#3 of 4 on our 2 day, somewhat backtracking journey home. We had to get up at 3:30am to be at the airport for our 6am flight, which felt excessive. But there were lots of lines, and we all got patted down tons of times. My checked bag was picked for extra screening, and I was taken down to the tarmac for a visit with security. Maybe the bag of rocks from Ecuador's coast looked suspicious. Michael had certainly thought it was silly for me to haul them.

And I am thinking my Spanish is at least somewhat serviceable (thanks to Mayra's Spanish School.) I managed to save us $120 bucks in exit fees. Pagamos dos semenas proximas cuando visitamos Colombia. Necesitamos regresar a Quito antes salimos por estados unidos. Estamos aqui in Quito por solo un noche, menos un noche!

The fee collector eventually agreed that we should not pay twice in two weeks to leave the country and asked for proof of our Colombia trip. I thought our passports should be sufficient, but she needed evidence from yesterday's airline. I somehow was able to communicate our predicament to the Avianca rep, get the docs I needed and all was well.

Things I will miss from our time in South America: (I hate to make generalizations, so preface all the following with "Of our limited data sample")

I will miss the easy formality and the care people take putting them selves together. Not too fussy, but so many of the men and women who crossed our paths just looked good. Lots of sharp hair cuts and very few dunlops. US tourists seem so slouchy and sleepy, especially in the airport. (Note my child walking around in undies and a sweat shirt.) No wonder people were always trying to shine my shoes.
I will miss not feeling short
Being immersed into another language
Being outside in so many senses of the word
4 1/2 hours of "1/2 day" school.
Miguel's teachers, Adita, Joanna.
Being able to hop on a bus and get to so may different places
Having only 4 bags of possessions
Being able to pop in on Jim, Marshia, Mayra, Wouter and our other friends
The time to think
Runs on dirt
Vistas, peaks, thin air
being out of the US
New friends we just started getting to know--I am looking at you, Daniela and Rebecca
Ronit and Gilad, our yoga teachers, in pic above
the Posada's sala, food, staff, Simon and views of the waterfall and mirrored windows of the house across the street
The French restaurant's shade garden and rickety play set, the front yard at Daniela's Casa Del Abuelo, zip line park, pastaza (esp the view from Rebecca's Casa Verde), bike ride up to Lligua, Sauce bridge
hot baths
mini power outages
chocolate bolitas from the panderia around the corner
seafood
warm water to swim in
so much time together

I will not miss

poop on the sidewalks
crappy butter
bus exhaust
being a tourist
stilted conversations
large roaches
listlessness
crappy beds
eating out so much
elusiveness of whole wheat flour
so much time together (sometimes it was a bit much for this introvert--still I wouldn't trade it for the world)

I am looking forward to

friends and family
my garden--thank goodness for perennials
parkways
wood floors and long hallways
baseball games
excellent oil and vinegar
bitter greens
my washing machine
running in Palmer Square
road bike tires
bagels
good butter and chocolate
working hard

Ok, one blog post down, about 30 more to go to catch up on on the thoughts and memories swirling around my head. Good thing I was looking forward to working hard.

Wisconsin Brewpub Odyssey

2010-07-07T20:32:00.032-05:00

There's nothing quite like being dwarfed by a six pack. Bust out the bifocals and see if you can find me and Josh in the picture below.

After six months of enduring Ecuadorian lagers, it was time for a pilgrimage to the world's largest six pack and a six day, 300-mile bike tour to some of the Midwest's best brewpubs.

DAY 1: La Crosse

We began with a pint and fortifying lunch at Chicago's new Revolution Brewing. We filled a couple of growlers and then pedaled downtown and boarded an Amtrak train for the 5-hour trip to La Crosse.

We rolled out of the La Crosse depot and it was just a short ride to the Pearl Street Brewery. There, Joe Katchever has breathed new life into a derelict shoe factory by launching a craft brewery and tasting room.

John Greenfield had scheduled to read excerpts from his new book Bars Across America at Pearl Street, but the train was late and the crowd had thinned. So instead, Joe gave us a brewery tour while we sipped on his wares. The Hemp Porter was fantastic and his operation was inspiring.

Next, we did a quick roll by of the City Brewery and the world's largest six pack. We ended the night at a local beer bar before flopping in our motel.

DAY 2: Sparta Elroy Trail

Joe had tipped us off to the Corner Bar brewery in Reedsburg , which we had somehow missed on our itinerary. We decided to bike the additional 20 miles to Reedsburg on Day 2 (resulting in an 85-mile day) in order to have dinner and pints at the Corner Bar.

We rode the famed Sparta Elroy Trail, said to be the country's first rail-to-trail bikeway. Just before sunset, we rolled up to the Corner Bar. We enjoyed the excellent spread of ales and, as a bonus, prime rib happened to be on special. Chef Max cooked the steaks to perfection. Kevin's veggie burger was reportedly delicious as well.

After a couple of hours of eating and imbibing, we retired to a renegade campsite a couple miles out of town at a highway wayside.

DAY 3: Brewpub Desert

Because we had ridden 20 extra miles on Day 2, we were able to spend less time in the saddle on Day 3 and take advantage of a rich Wisconsin cultural opportunity.

House on the Rock, an architectural wonder and unrivaled collection of oddities, was on our route and we decided to spend a few hours exploring. And besides, the day's itinerary took us through the West Central Wisconsin Brewpub Desert, so there would no breweries en route.

We left the bike trail's railroad grades behind and pedaled on the state highways, clawing up and cruising down Wisconsin's roller coaster-like hills. We arrived at House on the Rock in the early afternoon and booked a three hour, self guided tour. The collection of calliopes was mind blowing. We all walked out glassy eyed and overwhelmed, if not inspired.

After House on the Rock, we pedaled on to Governor Dodge State Park and camped temperately amidst scattered showers.

DAY 4: Madison

After crossing the Brewpub Desert, during Day 4 we entered the promised land.

We rode the Military Ridge Trail and arrived at the Grumpy Troll Brewery just in time for lunch and a draught. We had a sampler of their more than a dozen offerings and each honed in on our favorite. Mine was the Grumpy Creek, a light bodied, assertively hopped pale ale-- hop-licious!

Next up was Madison. We met up with Don Vasa, brewer for the Great Dane Pub, at their west Madison location. Great Dane is one of the best brewpubs in the country and every beer I tasted was excellent. Kevin had a spectacular stout, Josh drank the Peck's Pilsener and I had a weisbier.

Josh is good friends with Don, who officiated Josh and Krista's wedding. Don and his wife Cathy generously offered up their home as crash space for four smelly cyclists. As an added bonus, Don's band buddies hung out and we had a impromptu jam session into the wee hours.

DAY 5: Lake Mills

We met up with my old co-op friend Brian Dalhk for breakfast and then said farewell to John Greenfield, who cut off to get back to Chicago for work.

This would be an easy cycling day, clocking in at less than 40 miles, giving us ample time to frolic at the beach and pay our respects to Tyranenea Brewing Company. Tyranenea is cracking into the Chicago market with assertive brews, the flagship being their Bitter Woman IPA. We enjoyed a lovely sunset from their veranda and a few great pints. Stand outs included the Scurvy IPA, Black Hawk Porter, and some intense fruit beer whose name escapes me.

Our campsite was a couple of miles from town, in a mosquito refuge. It was a hot night full of hungry bugs. Josh decided to hit the road at about 3am. Kevin and I followed him at about 6am, breaking camp in a napalm fog of voracious bloodsuckers.

DAY 6: Homeward Bound

We were blessed with mostly downhill riding and clear blue skies. Somehow, we had stayed south of the torrential thunderstorms forecasted for much of our trip.

The bug induced exodus had a negative effect on our itinerary. We had hoped to stop at Randy's Fun Hunter Brewery in Whitewater, but with our early morning departure, we cruised through town 2 hours before they opened.

Kevin and I pedaled the 60+ miles to the Harvard Metra stop by 12:30pm. There, we met up with Josh, who had biked through the night and napped away the morning on park benches. We had enough time for lunch and a quick Budweiser before catching the train back to Chicago.

Final trip stats: 4 cyclists; 300 saddle miles; 6 brewpubs; 91 pints.

And finally, Ecuadorian lagers are a distant memory.

weeding

2010-06-21T00:10:00.004-05:00

My garden does not make sense. I plant perennials too close together, because I don't always trust time. The next season, I get mad when they elbow each other. I prune when I should sit on my hands and sit on my hands when I should prune. I alternate where I should mass, and I plant penstemons where they will stretch and flop for the south leaning sun.

I argued for depaving and doubled our permeable "land" a few years ago. I've got lots of nice pictures and memories of the back yard. Still, I never did get around to watering the astilbes until last summer. Finally, I am seeing some blooms. . . .on one of them.

When I think about how interested I am in gardening, and how many resources I have for gardening, and how much I think about our little plot o land and how many talented tenders o land I know, I think my garden should be further along. The problem is that when I have a chance to got outside, I just poke around. I have a big conceptual picture (such as a tall, colorful, undulating linear prairie type garden along the east fence we share with the Head Start), but no real strategy for implementing it.

Coming home in mid-June, I am confronted with the fact that I have few perennials that bloom in early summer, and that once again we will loose this year's apples. The front and back are lush with weeds. A few blue purple tips of sage, some straggling blue columbine flowers, and dozens of rose hips make me wish I had pictures from spring. The pic above is from late in June last year; this year, the rose and penstemon must have bloomed much earlier.

While gone, I was surprised by how little I stressed out about the building or the garden. What will be will be. But as our return approached , I did start getting anxious--more about the garden than the home.

Thankfully, Karen--who rocks her garden, and who has given me many plants that thrive despite my willy nilly approach--did some work in our yard during a spring heat snap when we were still out of town. Her report prepared me for the weeds, but also affirmed that other plants were doing their thing.

Last year, I dismantled much of our back garden in an effort to fight the rats. I relocated many of my happy perennials, including a lot of coneflowers, from the west side of the yard to the east, in soil I have been carefully amending for a few years. But one of our tenants accidentally planted a cover crop there last fall, not aware of my relocation efforts.

I came home to a lovely sweep of rye (?) shading and asphyxiating the coneflower transplants and many other plants I had forgotten about, including raspberry canes from Karen. In the front yard, violets have swallowed the coral bells I transplanted (more rat refugees) and the hydrangeas I bought with a gift certificate from my mom.

Today my dad helped me weed while I pulled out the cover crop. I found that many plants survived, probably thrived, with my six months of neglect. But the coneflowers are tiny, shadows of how they grew last year. I hope they will now be happier with more breathing room.

I still want to reorganize some of the perennials the way I might move furniture around, but I can hear the voices of more patient gardeners telling me to wait until fall. Even if all I do is weed this summer to uncover and encourage my efforts of years past, I should be in good shape to be strategic (right??) this fall.

Bogota--Streets for People, and Art (part 1)

2010-06-16T00:35:00.002-05:00

I was thinking of saying, out of habit, that the best way to see a city is by bike, but really maybe the best way to see any place is just to go.

Michael and I had been eager to visit Bogota ever since its former mayor, Enrique Penalosa, came to Chicago to keynote a Break the Gridlock conference in the early aughts. He rode in Critical Mass with us and, at the conference, shared inspiring stories of initiating Bus Rapid Transit corridors, wresting street space from cars for bikes, and organizing ciclovias on Sundays--all in a city 3 times as large as Chicago. Visions of this transportation paradise enticed us to pick Bogota as a place to visit after our time in Ecuador.

We took a long cab ride from the airport, grinding across town in heaps of traffic, along a road under construction. The driver grumbled about the new bus and bike facilities; we expressed our enthusiasm for them and explained that we were not in a hurry, despite the fact that Miguel was in full melt down mode. The driver attempted to lighten the mood by going deep into the 80's music catalog. When Michael reminisced about delivering newspapers by bike with a transistor radio blaring "My Sharona," the driver insisted on giving us a copy of one of his mixes.

After Miguel took a very long nap, we went for our first walk around our hostel. Like in Quito and many other truly old cities, the streets and sidewalks are narrow, with colorful, sturdy buildings facing each other--close enough to toss a bag of sugar from one across the street to another. There tend to be few parkways or tree lined streets; instead, the open spaces are in secret courtyards and expansive plazas and parks.

We quickly stumbled into one of the plazas and Miguel chased pigeons around for a while, a great way to stretch his legs. He kept disrupting? adding to? other people's photo shoots. We then wandered around looking for a cash machine, which afforded us the opportunity to cross many streets, sometimes more than once, as we followed false leads and backtracked.

It was rush hour, and a surprising number of roads were closed to cars. People were everywhere, filling the space between buildings, paying no heed to where curbs normally separate legs from machines. Miguel quickly got used to the freedom, and we had to keep grabbing his hand at intersections: "Honey, careful, this street *does* have cars."

As the sun was setting on the vast urban valley below, we found a cajero (after I finally asked some store keepers on hat row where we might find "una maquina que dar dinero. . ." Horrible Spanish but it did the trick.) The streets also reopened to cars, which zipped around like angry bees. I grabbed Miguel's hand a little tighter, and took the curb side of our now limited to sidewalks journey.

We ate tamales on the 2nd floor of a tiny cafe that has been open since the early 1800's. Ten diners chowed elbow to elbow in a space much smaller than standard restaurant bathrooms in the US.

The next morning, as we left our hostel, we were intercepted by a small parade, maybe 20-30 people including girls dancing in bare feet. They were accompanied by what appeared to be city workers wearing uniforms that read something along the lines of "Bogota Positivo." Penalosa and another progressive mayor, Mockus (now in a run-off election for the Colombian presidency), both did a lot to promote the arts and public performance to bolster civic pride. Watching this jaunty parade taming the streets and teasing out smiles from sleepy residents made me think about how easy it can be to spread a little joy.

I then saw a bunch of wheatpaste posters, urging "no mas falsos positivos."

"Oh no!" I thought, "Some folks are not pleased with the efforts at public pep!" Turns out these posters actually decry the internal war in Colombia, where the "military" gets rewards for killing "guerrillas," and sometimes just takes peasants from villages as victims--ie, "false positives.". . .The poster means no more killing of innocent civilians, and presumably no more killing in general.

Sometimes I am disgusted by how easy it is for us to stay in the cozy tourist slipstream. I have been in South America for nearly half a year, and yet remain horribly illiterate about local politics, economic issues and cultures. Maybe, for me, travel is not so much about learning as wonder and then going back home with a stronger desire to learn more.

Back to the slip stream. . . Michael reported on much of our day already, so I will skip to Sunday, the eagerly anticipated Ciclovia.

Our morning again began with some surprising street art. Local police officers blocked intersections so that groups of people could use colored sawdust to create religious mosaics carpeting the streets. We saw one group consulting with a priest (?) in full black robes. He must have been seven feet tall. At first I thought he was on stilts and just part of the overall spectacle.

We had breakfast at a french pastry shop with Margaret, who then gamely accompanied us to the military museum. Miguel wanted to see the planes and canons. . . we try to balance this with much talk of non-violence. "Sweet pea, please remember to use words, not hitting, if you are angry." I have been thinking lately that it's also important for him to learn to sometimes keep words in his head.

She, Michael and Miguel managed to dodge the longwinded explanation of the uniforms display, leaving me behind to nod and smile at the earnest young man trying to explain in quick Spanish the differences between the eras. I think I did catch that at some point large posters were used to ask Colombians to donate money to clothe and equip soldiers. He also made a point of showing me the lone female mannequin.

At the end of his speech, I thanked him and excused myself to look for my family. He would have talked more, but I explained that Miguel really just wanted to see the planes again. Michael laughed at my politeness, but hey, I can be a monologuer too.

Speaking of, this is getting long, as usual, so I will save the ciclovia report for my next post, which I hope will be before we get back to Chicago where all my memories will start to melt and seep into remembrances of other trips to old, bustling cities.

Cartagena--Our Last Days in South America

2010-06-15T11:13:00.041-05:00

After breathing the high mountain, Andean air for most of the past 5-1/2 months, we decided to spend our last week in South America at the Colombian beach.

First on the docket was a few days of exploring the old walled city of Cartagena. We then had hoped to find a quiet stretch of beach to laze around and reflect on our last days in South America, before embarking on a circuitous, 2-day flight itinerary back to Chicago (via Bogota, Quito, and Houston).

In Cartagena, we hunkered down in a colonial house for a few days that had been converted to a basic hotel, with the central courtyard dug out to make way for a swimming pool. While preservationists would undoubtedly wring their hands over the anachronistic swimming hole, it offered the perfect respite from the blazing hot sun and stifling humidity. We typically spent half the day wandering the colonial city and the other half splashing in the pool with Miguel.

The Cartagena walled old town is lovely, with surprises around every corner that defy modern urban planning grids. Unfortunately, though 3-year-olds enjoy chasing pigeons through plazas, they don't typically appreciate history or architectural flourishes. Miguel has been a trooper, but Cartagena's cultural treasures don't do much for him. Gin aptly observed that Cartagena would be a lovely place for a romantic (child-free) getaway.

To escape the hot sun one afternoon, we made an unplanned visit to the Palace of the Inquisition. I was congratulating myself because kids are admitted for free. Then, we came upon the displays of the guillotine, hangman's noose and various implements of torture the Christians used on suspected witches. Luckily, we were spared having to explain the ghoulish displays as Miguel effectively distracted himself running about the palace's courtyards.

We also made a few excursions around and near Cartagena. Our first trip was a city tour in a Chiva (open air) bus around town. The tour bus was full of friendly Colombian families and we made lots of stops for photos, including a couple of places we hadn't previously visited.

Our next trip was to the mud volcano about an hour north of Cartagena. This tour consisted of climbing to the top of a 50-foot 'volcano' and bathing in a big mud pool (sort of like quick sand except our bodies were buoyant) and then cleaning the mud off in a nearby lake. It was a fun and very strange experience. Miguel particularly enjoyed himself-- playing in the mud is much better than roaming through hot, old cities.

While exploring Cartagena, we learned that our plans to find a nearby tranquil stretch of beach were ill-conceived. Aside from a few very high end resorts, we heard from other travelers that the towns within a few hours of Cartagena didn't have nice beaches. And perhaps due to the history of military conflict, Colombia hasn't developed much infrastructure for international travelers.

We toyed with the idea of spending a couple of nights at a posh resort, but our last minute booking efforts weren't successful. So instead, we decided to spend our beach days in a section of Cartagena on the Caribbean that caters mostly to Colombians.

We booked a room in the Hotel Caribe for five nights, a place reminiscent of an old Miami Beach or Hollywood resort. The hotel has a sprawling complex of amenities (mini-golf!) and greenery that is centered around a lovely pool where lounging movie stars wouldn't seem out of place.

The proud peach walls of the Hotel Caribe are about 100 yards from the sea. It's an urban beachfront that compares favorably to our own neighborhood Diaper Beach back in Chicago--dirty, but full of life. Here, roving cumbia bands serenade bathers and ever-present touts peddle everything from cold beer to jewelery and boat trips.

Although our beach unwinding time has been different than planned, it has allowed us to reflect on our time in South America before heading back home.

We feel fortunate to have had so much family time and glad that we haven't driven each other too crazy. We feel good about taking on new challenges and projects, such as improving our spanish, Miguel having his first school experience, helping our friends start a microbrewery, and Gin expanding her consulting work. We've also enjoyed many adventures and spending time with old and new friends.

We feel refreshed for resuming our lives back in Chicago. And we're optimistic for the challenges that lie ahead, except for the next two days of air travel detention.

Post-Banos Travelogue

2010-06-05T20:43:00.023-05:00

I love to travel. But raising a 3-year old can be an adventure enough without the challenges of life on the road. So, when Gin and I first planned our 8-month sabbatical, we knew that we would need stability. We established our 2nd home in the lovely mountain town of Banos, Ecuador for the first 5 months.

Last week we pulled up stakes from Banos (coincidentally, just as the local volcano began to erupt), for a 2-1/2 week jaunt to the Ecuadorian coast and Colombia before heading back to Chicago and stateside adventures. Other than a few relatively short trips that we took from Banos, this would be our first real taste of 'hard core' travel.

We started by flying to the Ecuadorian coast town of Esmeraldas and spending 4 nights on an isolated stretch of beach. Traveling during the low season meant we got the nicest cabana at our rustic resort, close to the crashing surf. Miguel enjoyed playing in the waves, and Gin and I enjoyed our barefoot beach runs.

After the beach, we flew back to Quito and spent a sleepless night (was it the abrupt sea level to 10,000 feet altitude change?) before flying to Bogota. By the time we got to Bogota yesterday, we were all exhausted, but managed to stroll around the historic La Candaleria district before collapsing in our hostel, which was converted from a 400 year-old home.

One of our main reasons for coming to Bogota was to check out the bike facilities. Bogota is birthplace of the ciclovia, where streets are closed to cars every Sunday to make way for bikes and other non-motorized users. We rented bikes today from the gringo bike tour company in the historic area in preparation for tomorrow's ciclovia, though we're a bit concerned about their road-worthiness.

After a trip up the teleferico (a huge cable car) to the Montserrate chapel overlooking the sprawling Bogota valley (see picture at top), we visited the Botero Museum. Miguel didn't seem very taken with the chubby subjects of Ferdinando Botero's paintings. Instead, an abstract work by another painter entitled "Exploding Cathedral" (see below) caught his fancy.

Tomorrow, we meet Margaret (Miguel's former nanny) for breakfast to catch up and debrief on her week around Cartagena. After breakfast, we'll ride the ciclovia and maybe visit the military museum to feed Miguel's fascination with cannons.

On Monday, we fly to Cartagena for a week on the Carribean Coast before embarking on the epic journey back home. Meanwhile, we'll try to walk the fine line between adventure and exhaustion of life on the road with a three year old.

Playa Freewrites

2010-06-05T16:23:00.002-05:00

I recently started coaching a woman on her writing (thank you email and Skype!) and the process has been making me think about how I can be better about quick, daily, unconstrained writing. While we were on the Northern coast of Ecuador, at the beach, we had no internet access. I was surprised (not really) by how much better able I was to just sit and write. I am not saying what I wrote was "good" but the process certainly felt good.

Playa Freewite #1 (June 1, 2010, 10:46am, 15 minutes)

Being here, on a fine pale stretch of sand, remarkably soft given the pounding of the surf (I guess that's what daily pulverizing does), makes me think of St. Pete Beach, Florida.

That beach of my childhood had the promise of Don Ceasar's ice cream sundaes a long mile to the left. The pink behemoth of a building anchored that side of the beach, pulling my short legs along with the promise of a cool sticky treat. A shorter mile to the right, the beach petered out into a rocky outcropping and mundane condominiums.

My grandparent's building was in the psychological middle.

Being here, on the fine, pale, clean stretch of beach also makes me think of the Gulf Coast. St Pete Beach was on the gulf side, although maybe what side you're on doesn't matter anymore. Even here, in another ocean, I feel the oil seeping. I feel helpless and guilty; all our hands have some of the black stain. No amount of walking and biking can make up for all my air travel over the years.

My Spanish teachers, Marco grande y Marco pequeno, explained that Banos' culture of tourism is only a few decades old; before, it was a small farming village like the ones on the other side of the mounatin, the ones that get washed away every few years when Mama Tungurahua clears her throat. But Banos has always been beautiful and perfect. What happened a few decades ago? Ah, cheap oil. . . more mobility accessible to more people.

Yes, my hands are dripping with black stuff too, as I explore the world, type on plastic letters, and read through plastic frames.

I guess I could stop writing, but silence isn't helping much, and I wonder, is this fake guilt? Guilt for show? No, I don't think so.

God, I dread the label of the hand wringing, overly self aware, consumer who bemoans the draining of resources even as her own straw is in the tank. But I think the real problem for me is the dreading of labels, true or false. What does it matter what others think, as Karen reminds me. There are much worse things to be dreading.

I am pissed and heartbroken about the oil gushing into the Gulf of Mexico. I could wish for it to be another wake up call to, if not end, then at least seriously temper and taper our addiction to cheap oil. Maybe that's happening, and an ocean away we are not feeling the shifts in discourse. I can hope.

Free write #2 (6/1/2010 2:44pm, 20 minutes)
The ocean waves are scrambling my brain; before I can complete a thought in the sucking back stillness, another curl, roar and crash unsettles me. For the past two nights, my dreams have been vivid, but my sleep unsatisfactory--plunged up and down like laundry in a bucket, dangling from strong, impatient hands.

High tide has been early in the morning. The waves march all the way to the bottom of the bluff this house creaks on. The first morning, I thought for sure they were eating away at the foundation and the house was going to fall.

It reminded me of when my bedroom looked over the blue line tracks, approaching North, Damen and MIlwaukee. I was able to relegate to the background every train but the 3am one. I woke up each night, fearful of "Armageddon" which is silly as I don't really know what that word means. Ah, Christian? literacy via cultural osmosis.

These ocean waves seem serious and strong like a train on schedule. I am impressed, but a little sleepy. I never imagined there would be anything not to love about sleeping right by the beach. Perhaps I am more of a Great Lake person--you get the broad expanse with more of a slurp and glug. Big lake waves are saved for big weather.

The waves here are louder and more relentless than the volcano's rumble we left behind, which is right and good, I guess, as the waves are behaving as they should, whereas if the volcano erupted every 3 seconds, there would be serious trouble. And that's a ridiculous comparison anyway; we are meters from the shore here and were kilometers from the crater in Banos. I can't imagine having my ears much closer to Tungurahua's mouth.

Spoke to Mayra this morning. She thanked us for leaving the DVD player and new kitchen equipment upstairs. School was canceled today in Banos and tourists have emptied the town. Tungurhua keeps shaking her shoulders and clearing her throat. I asked about Jim and Marshia. Tranquilo. Patient.

Playa Freewrite #3 (June 2, 2010, 15 minutes)

How many moths can a frog smaller than my hand eat in one sitting?

We've spent the last 15 minutes watching a frog cling up our window. We are the only guests in this sprawling bluff-top complex. When we turn the lights on, all the moths come our way. Like a lonely diner in the middle of a 2nd tier highway.

This little frog, whose underbelly I have studied for two nights now, also follows the light.

Her body is about about as long and wide as two of my fingers. Her limbs, iridescent, small and strong, remind me of new growth on a tree. No, no. She is all animal, even if her fingers and toes make me think of a climbing plant. How does she hold herself up for so long on this very unnatural pane of glass?? Her belly, bulging with at least 5 months now, must do some of the work. She makes me think of child's pose, core muscles, chickens, lizards, Kermit, Gollum and us.

Another one down the gullet.

When we came home tonight, she was on our outside windowsill, as if she was waiting for us to turn the light on. We obliged and exclaimed. Miguel climbed to the top of the table to watch. She did nothing much but adjust her pupils, oblivious or indifferent to our tapping on the glass. A few minutes later, she lept a foot into the air, grabbed the window and gulped down a moth. Just as easy and fast as blinking. All three of us were amazed; I don't know if that says more about nature or our lack of exposure to it. She proceeded to slowly explore the window, angling for more treats. We could see the moths working their way down into her belly.

As I wrote this, she fell down. She was going for another moth and slipped. I was confident she landed on the ground just fine, anchored by a very full belly. Then, in a blink, she was back. On the bottom pane, carrying some dirt on the belly, ready for more. Wow.

Walking in Miguel's Shoes for a Long Day

2010-06-05T15:34:00.005-05:00

Many of the books we consult during "parenting crises" remind us to be empathetic. At the end of the day (especially after the end of a long travel day), Miguel is a small child, with different needs and global understandings. This can be easy to forget, especially when he holds his own in conversations with, admittedly, generous adults.

The trip from the mountains to the coast was a little rough. He and I were at each other's throats much of the day. I knew most of his "misbehavior" and my shorter than usual fuse were related to all the changes, and the fact that we were cooped up most of the day in various forms of transport. Still, my empathy tank kept running low. If Miguel could write, here is what his journal entry from May 30th might look like, if, er, he wrote with my voice. I can't wait to read his own pieces.
****
Woke up in a strange, but comfortable bed, in a room with my parents. Mom and I goofed around with all the pillows while Dad showered. She tossed the pillows from one bed into the other so I could catch them. I built a baseball stadium and invited her over for a White Sox game. When she came to my bed and gave me her ticket, I thanked her and told her it was now a church. She helped me build a little steeple, but it kept falling down.

We tried to go to breakfast, but nobody was up yet at our hotel. I was mad because firewood was stacked in what I usually use as a pretend canoe. Mom suggested I try the sofa instead. She just doesn't get it. (Mom defends herself: "Hey, I was still recovering from having poured myself a cup of coffee, only to discover it was the cold, leftovers from the day before.)

I ran around with Dad while Mom continued "repacking." I think she was just hiding from us. Breakfast eventually came as other guests woke up at more reasonable times. I ate my crepe and demanded more. Mom gave me hers. Thanks, Mom! The best part was that she had also given me her old cell phone from Chicago that had been unearthed during the move from Banos. She let me have it!!!! There was a crying baby at breakfast and Mom suggested I let him see it for a few minutes. He smiled. Maybe sharing has some upsides.

While Mom and Dad settled up the bill, I hung out downstairs with Luis, our taxi driver. He let me sit in the truck and then the driver's seat. Whenever Mom would poke her head downstairs to see if I was making trouble (way to show your trust, Mom), I would tell to go back upstairs in Spanish. Luis thought was was pretty funny. After I started hoking the horn, she came storming down the stairs again and told me to stop. Why does she always show up just when I am starting to have a really good time? Luis didn't seem to mind. Everyone else was laughing. She said something about other guests sleeping. Always thinking about "other people" instead of me.

We started off on the long ride to Quito. When Mom and Dad realized the seatbelts actually worked in the taxi, they insisted I use one. We have been in Ecuador for months, and we hardly ever use seatbelts. Sometimes we sit in truck beds and on top of busses. So why were they all of a sudden telling me to buckle up??? Make up your mind, people. I like to be on my knees; I can't see out the window when I am sitting.

They asked Luis to stop so we could have a little time out, my first one in a long time, really. (This is true and I feel guilty that during these last few days of travel, we have had more need for cooling off than in the last few months.) After we all settled down, I agreed to a compromise--that I would sit on Mom's lap with the buckle around both of our hips. She taught me to watch big drops of rain fall down the window. I asked if I would ever see Simon again, and we talked about being sad to leave Banos and our friends. Then I conked out and slept for a few hours, waking up as we rolled into Quito, which has houses climbing up the mountain sides.

We stopped by a hotel to drop off some of our bags that we didn't want to bring with us to the beach. It turns out that some of my toys didn't even make it out of Banos. When I asked Mom where my sword was she made up some story about not being able to bring swords on planes. Couldn't we put it in the checked bags, like Daddy did with his pocketknife? Why do *they* get to decide what *I* bring?? How would she feel if I decided to just leave some of her clothes behind? (Mom's defense: I did ask Miguel 's input for books and toys to give away to friends in Banos. He was willing to part with a few, but I did make some other executive decisions. I gave away a lot of my clothes too. . .Kiddo, when you can carry your own luggage, we can talk again about what gets to come along.)

My day started looking up when we got to the airport. Planes!!!! We got some lunch and Mom and Dad let me pick out a small treat for dessert. My meal came with Coke too, but they said no to that at first, and Daddy started drinking it. Hypocrite. Then they let me have a sip, and told me I could choose to have the last few sips of the drink, or have a dessert. They have this think about pop being like a dessert. I don't get it--they let us drink Coca Cola at school! (This is one of my few complaints about Miguel's school--so many sweets in so many forms. The sugar barrier has been broken in a big way!)

For dessert, I picked a marshmallow bear on a stick. As we walked outside to get to the domestic terminals, I saw a man with a huge shotgun standing in front of a truck. I told my mom I was going to go talk to him, and she clutched my hand and got all tense. "No. Way." I asked and asked why I couldn't go talk to him, and she mumbled something about him being very focused and us not wanting to bother him. Mom and Dad get weird whenever I bring up guns and killing and hunting.

We went through security and did a great job staying close. Mom rubbed my hair and gave me a compliment. Finally--I did something right today! When we got to our gate I saw some planes. I got permission to run to the window and they even let me use one of the cameras. I saw people walking outside and a yellow brick road leading to the planes. When it was our turn, we followed the road. I skipped ahead. Mom kept reminding me to stay on the path. Duh, I know!!

On the plane, we fought some more about me having to wear a seat belt. I squirmed and yelled while she glared and sighed. She thinks that if she doesn't yell, she gets credit for being calm. Ha! I know every little face twitch. On the upside, the flight attendants gave us boxes of juice before take-off.

After a too short plane ride, we walked down to a steaming hot tarmac. When they said we were going to the beach, they failed to mention it would be hot. They *know* I like to be cold. When I tried to take my shirt off, Mom said--you guessed it--no.

I killed a moth while we were waiting for our bags. Dad got upset. I don't see the big deal. They kills flies all the time.

It was so hot in the taxi, and we had another fight about the seat belt. She won, again. We were stopped right outside by a bunch of police in gray uniforms, with guns (not like I can talk to Mom about that), and Dad made up something about them checking for seatbelts. Whatever. (They needed to see all of our papers.. . something about issues related to being so close to the Columbia border.)

Mom was right that once we got going, the wind from the windows would cool us off. She even changed seats with me, so that I could be by the window that worked. We joked about our hair dancing, and I gave her a kiss. But then we started bickering about something. I think it was that I got upset when I spilled half the bottle of our water. Mom wanted me to just Get. Over. It and stop complaining. She even suggested it might help cool me down. She wasn't the one sitting in a puddle of water. She and Dad changed seats shortly after that. Dad found a piece of card board for me to sit on. Thanks, Dad.

When we finally pulled into our hotel, no one was around. Cerrado. But someone finally showed up, and after he let us pick out a room (we had our choice, being the only guests), he TOOK ME ON A SHORT RIDE ON HIS MOTORCYCLE!!!! I can't believe my nervous-nelly parents let me do that (me neither--maybe we were overcompensating for the seatbelt struggles? Come on, the kid's got to have *some* fun.) I wanted to drive it myself but, again and again: NO.

Then, Dad and I walked down to the beach. I ice skated on the sand (his words) and played in the warm waves. Ah. . . . this day was turning out to be all right. But just as I was starting to get comfortable, once again the BOSSES intervened. They think giving me a two minute warning somehow makes up for the fact that THEY CONTROL MY DAY!! What if Mom was working on the computer and I just decided her time was up? Sure, a two minute warning would help her finish her sentence but she'd still be pissed.

When we got to my pile of clothes, I sat down in a pile of sand. Dad lost it, grabbed my arms and yelled something about "Now you have to take a shower to get all the sand off" while Mom looked horrified and came to my defense: "It was an accident--he didn't know that would happen!!" I liked that she understood, and helped Dad understand, but I don't like it when they start to bicker too.

The highlight of dinner was that they let me have a little ice cream for dessert. I was in a grand mood throughout the meal, but they just kind of sat there like lumps, piping up every now again with an annoying reminder to be careful. Do they think I knock glasses over on purpose?

I saw a frog outside and Dad let me chase her around, but he wouldn't let me catch her due to the earlier moth incident.

After dinner, we returned to our rustic cabin. Another night in a strange bed. Thankfully, my bunnies (and my parents) were close. I don't buy Mom's story about ghosts living in Antarctica.

rushed goodbyes

2010-05-29T14:11:00.002-05:00

The best-laid plans of mice and men go oft awry, especially when volcanoes erupt.

Yesterday, at around 10am, we got our first ever phone call from school. In the brisk stream of Spanish, I was able to fish out the key phrase: small problem with the volcano. ¿Necesitamos cogerlo *ahora*? I asked a few times to make sure I understood. Si, they wanted us to pick him up ASAP. Nosotros vamos a llegar en 10 minutos.

My heart sank. It was Miguel's last day of school, and we had planned a going away party for him during the last half hour. For days, his teachers had been talking about how sad they were that he was leaving. When we got the call that school was closing early, we were just getting ready to pick up the cake and walk to the photo place to make prints of pictures for his teachers and our other friends.

Empty-handed, we hopped on our bikes and pedaled quickly to school.

Earlier in the morning, Michael had noticed a mushroom-shaped cloud over the local volcano and a graybrown ashy smudge spreading over town. As we rode, we saw people on corners talking and pointing in the direction of the peak, invisible from most parts of town, but always present. Parents walked home with children in a rainbow assortment of school uniforms. Radios were turned on louder than usual.

But it felt more festive than tense. Locals here know the drill. It's not to say that they do not take Mama Tungurahua seriously. But, they have been through so many escalations and de-escalations of activity that they have a better sense of when to worry.

Banos is on the "safe" side of the mountain. In the picture above, you can see the ridge--and the statue of the virgen--that help protect the town. The crater tilts away from Banos, so the lava, mud flows and ash tend to spill down the northwest side, which is where villages have been evacuated.

I was emotional when we rolled up to the strangely quiet school courtyard. Most of the kids were already gone. Miguel's teachers were on cell phones, trying to track down stray parents. Thankfully, Miguel did not seem too aware of the canceled party, though he did ask, "Donde esta' mi torta?" (Where is my cake?)

As we were leaving, I hugged Adita and told her that she was the perfect teacher and thanked her so much for all she had done. She started crying and took Miguel in her arms to say goodbye. I chomped on my lips to try to stem my own flow of tears; I didn't want to distress Miguel. Adults understand goodbye more than kids do. As we left, Joanna, Adita's assistant (and Miguel's sometimes after school babysitter), ran after us with a folder of his school work. This opened my faucets.

I had so wanted to give Miguel and his classroom community a proper celebration. We are deeply grateful to them for making Miguel's first school experience so positive. And I am very proud of the way Miguel handled the challenge of a new place, new people and a new language. As we left, I promised to send pictures, such as this one of him and Joanna.

We biked to the cake shop to pay for the cake and explain that we would pick it up later. We figured we would share it with friends, maybe at the Posada for dinner.

We swung by the bus terminal to see if the road to Ambato was open. We were told that it was sort of open. When I jokingly asked if it would be open tomorrow, they said of course. I looked for their crystal ball, and chuckled at their certainty.

When we got home, my nerves were shaken by both the emotional good bye and the deep rumblings of the mountain, which were louder and more frequent than anything we heard earlier in our trip. Mayra, our landlord and Spanish teacher, called me downstairs to watch the news with her. All the airports in Ecuador were closed due to ash, which seemed crazy to me, because Banos, so close to the peak, was fine. The weather graphic showed the direction of the plume--straight to the coast, away from Banos. Still, with the windows rattling every 15 minutes, we decided to start packing.

I had planned to be methodical, using Friday and Saturday to gently extricate ourselves from our home of the last 5 months. Instead, I threw things haphazardly into our bags. One hour later, I sat in the living room, not pleased with the packing job and unsure what to do next. So, we decided to head to the Posada to camp out for a few hours.

We had a leisurely dinner with Jim, Marshia and two families we have become friends with through yoga. Rebbecca and Daniella have boys close in age to Miguel. I wish we had connected with them sooner, and look forward to keeping up online. Daniella is from Quito. Spanish is her first language, but she speaks flawless English. She has promised to make me keep working on my Spanish. Her Facebook updates are the perfect length for me to puzzle through.

Miguel did us the favor of falling asleep in one of the Posada's guest rooms, so we could spend some more time with Jim and Marshia. We will miss being able to pop in to visit them. They left a big hole in Chicago, and we are so grateful to have had this time to reconnect. They are great friends, collaborators, role models, and, of course, hosts.

We debriefed our five months in Banos while listening to Jimmy Buffet's "Volcano" on repeat:
Hey I don't know
I don't know
I don't know where I'm a gonna go
When the volcano blows

After shuffling a sleeping Miguel home into a taxi, we spent an uneasy night listening to volcanic explosions every few minutes. It was sort of like living next door to a bowling alley, but scarier. The most incredible part was seeing lava fireworks above the ridge line. This picture shows the view from our bed, with a bit of a zoom lens action. The white cloud is the top of a plume. That's where the fireballs were last night. Makes me wonder how high the lava was flying.

Today, we plan on leaving town a day early and spending the night at Hacienda Manteles, about twenty miles away from the volcano. If the sky is clear, we should have quite a pyrotechnical show courtesy of Tungurahua.

Leaving is bittersweet. We just returned our bikes to Jim and Marshia for our last goodbyes. On our walk home, Miguel and I stopped into the some of the local stores, including the panderia around the corner, to say that we were going home. I made sure to explain that it was *not* because of the volcano. I detected some skepticism, but insisted that it was simply time for us to go. Thanks to Mama Tungurahua for making it an exciting exit.

otro lado and acro-yoga

2010-05-24T23:17:00.001-05:00

One of the most special, and surprising, parts of our trip has been studying yoga with Ronit and Gilad, a couple from Israel who, like us, have been visiting Ecuador for a few months. Ronit is the teacher, and Gilad helps with corrections and translations. They are both beautiful, generous, fun, talented people. I'll have to devote a whole other piece to just them.

Their home base is downriver from Banos, in a hut of sorts on the other side of the Pastaza River. It is only accessible from the main road by a rugged hike down and across the river. The property is called El Otro Lado (The Other Side) in honor of its tucked away location. They usually teach in Banos, but last Thursday we were invited to their place for a daylong special workshop about designing your own yoga practice.

The idea had been hatched by a small core of their regular students, including Rebecca in the pic to the left, who owns a beautiful eco-lodge just outside of Banos. But by the morning of the workshop, word had spread. When our transport pulled out of Banos, 14 students were crammed into the diesel saturated truck bed.

We called from the road to to update our hosts on the size of our group. They have no cell signal at home, but Gilad was waiting for us at the bridge--the one spot where they can get service. He ran back to their house to let Ronit know, so she could adjust her plans and he could prepare more lunch.. . no small feat seeing as they have to plan all their shopping ahead of time.

When we got to the bridge, Gilad was nowhere to be found. Another man informed us that the little wooden 'no more than 5 at a time' structure was closed for maintenance. We protested that we had an appointment on the other side, but he stood firm.

The cables were gooped up with pink petroleum moisturizer; it's encouraging to know that these bridges do get some TLC. This bridge is a popular destination for viewing the Pialon del Diablo, apparently voted the 7th prettiest waterfall in Ecuador. A bus load of school kids, with a shockingly low adult to child ratio (actually, I don't think I saw any adults), were swarming around as we tried to convince the guard to let us through.

I think the children's field trip was thwarted by not being able to go on the bridge. Instead of crossing, they streamed into the cafe (see building to the right in the pic). But we would not be deterred. After a few moments, the children cleared out and the guard wandered off. We made a mad dash (more of a bit by bit dash, to avoid overtaxing the structure), hands resisting grabbing the slippery cable-railings.

My uncle, Jim, was part of our group. I wasn't sure how he would feel about our renegade behavior, but he gamely scampered across with us, after stopping to take some pictures. Many of us yelled, "Hurry, Uncle Jim!" because the guard was starting to follow us with a stick. When we breathlessly reached Ronit and Gilad's place, Gilad explained that the "guard" is a disgruntled ex-employee of the property who likes to make a fuss and exert power he really doesn't have.

Ronit and Gilad were as warm and friendly as always, even though it was clear that our numbers posed some logistical challenges. Every inch of floor was covered in mats, but there was not enough room or mats for us all. Some of us volunteered to practice without mats. Others offered to practice outside, on the porch just off the main room. We crammed in, elbow to elbow, and proceeded.

I love the way she always arranges us in a circle. It feels more intimate and collective than having the teacher in front with neat rows of students behind. In these particularly tight quarters, every sun salutation brought the tops of our heads into hair mingling proximity. I think the closeness loosened us; there were more chuckles, groans and empathetic asides than usual. This was not each person on their own yoga mat island. We worked as a group, and when a gigantic butterfly zipped across the doorway, causing Ronit to pause and exclaim, our heads turned as one.

We ended the morning session with a brief introduction to acro-yoga, which involves one person acting as a base to support their partner in various flying-type poses. After she and Gilad demonstrated, we dutifully broke into groups of three (you need a spotter to prevent a crash landing). My trio struggled a bit, but with Ronit's help, we were able to take off. Gilad, being quite tall and strong, was pressed into service as a base for other struggling groups. It was a blast, and reminded me of younger, more adventurous days of dancing and performance. That's Uncle Jim below, looking like he has just flown in through the window.

After that, she led us through a meditation and then it was time for a feast, including delicious, homemade baba gonoush. I feel guilty relegating the meditation to a phrase, especially as Ronit reminds us to not cut short the meditation, breathing and relaxation aspects of our practice. She joked that people will devote time to the physical practice of yoga, but when it comes time for final relaxation, it's easy to be called to or distracted by competing obligations. But the mental work is as important as the physical.

After lunch--glowing, relaxed, and full--we crammed into to the main room for the afternoon session on doing your own home practice. This was mostly some frameworks via Ronit talking, doing demonstrations and referring to the hand outs she had made for us. They included some dear examples that remind us she is working in a 2nd (english) and 3rd (spanish) language. My favorite: the "worrier" pose. (that's so me!!!) Also, the sequence of poses in the handouts moves from right to left, as a Hebrew text. Gilad's spanish is a little stronger than hers, so he often translates during the classes. But her spanish is getting so good that she can lead a class in spanish too. It's inspiring and humbling to meet so many truly multi-lingual people.

Looking forward to tomorrow's yoga with kids workshop!!

Sauce Trail

2010-05-21T22:11:00.001-05:00

Summary
Moderately strenuous 2-3 hours loop connecting the San Fransisco and Sauce bridges. The trail climbs above and follows the contours of the Pastaza River, dipping towards the halfway point to cross a feeder stream. It offers spectacular views of Banos and the river valley. On clear days you can see Tungurahua brooding over town. More pics are at my post about the first time I found the Sauce bridge.

Description
For those who prefer to take their dose of steep up instead of down, I suggest starting the loop at the Sauce bridge instead of the San Fransisco. Also, on the mountain, I think it's easier to figure out how to get to Banos than to Sauce.

From the Posada del Arte, head towards the evacuation route. I prefer the dirt road that takes you over the eastern ridge of town. If you take that route, when you reach Amazones (about 15 minutes later), cross the road, and head left for a few yards so you can also cross over to the smaller road leading into the suburb of San Vicente.

Walk down that road a few minutes until you see the turnoff for the small paved road to the Sauce bridge. It is not well marked. Look for a street sign on a beige building that says Sauce. Turn left and walk about 5-10 minutes until the road ends. Turn around occasionally to see if you can see Tungurahua's peek over Banos. You'll walk past Fuvirese, the local organization that had done a lot to help make Banos more accessible for people with physical disabilities. (For example, Banos has many curb cuts to help with wheelchairs.) You'll also walk past an old school playlot.

When the road ends, keep going. A steep footpath switchbacks down to a narrow bridge that gets you about as close to the Rio Pastaza as possible in Banos.

Cross the river and get ready for plenty of up. Remember to look back (and catch your breathe) to take in the panoramic view that includes the Ulba waterfall far to the left (down river) and, if it's not cloudy, the top of Tungurahau over Banos to the right.

It's pretty easy to follow the trail, although at points it looks just like a thread in knee high grass. It passes by a property with an amazing tree with low draping branches that scream for climbing. Alas, an angry barking dog keeps visitors at bay. The times I have been, she has been tied up. Still, it never hurts to keep a rock in your pocket.

Keep going. You might see land crabs skittering about. Once you pass by the bench of love, you are pretty much done with up. I think.

The trail will start to gradually lose elevation as you near a small river that feeds into the pastaza. If you pass a beast of burden along the way, pass in front. At the river, keep a look out for for fish catching dogs. On a recent trip, I saw two dogs nonchalantly walk into the river and catch some trout! It was amazing and baffling until we realized the nearby trout farm. Michael's theory is that they toss dead fish into the river. But I swear I saw a struggle as the silver scales flashed in the dogs' teeth.

Cross the river and take a left. The road will take you back to Banos via the San Fransisco bridge.

following my nose

2010-05-21T12:16:00.006-05:00

Last year, Michael, Miguel and I attempted to hike the Sauce trail, which starts in town by crossing the sturdy new bridge across the Pastaza River. You climb up a ridge and roughly follow the Pastaza's contour. Then, it's down and across a feeder river, up again, with more across and down until you connect with the Sauce Bridge and recross the river, east of Banos.

We ended up getting turned around, either hiking too high or too low. We scanned the river for signs of another bridge, but the Pastaza twists and cuts deep; it can be sometimes hard to see into the canyon from far above. With a hot, hungry, cranky kid on our back, we turned around.

Towards the beginning of this trip, I made some half hearted attempts to find the Sauce bridge, with no luck. Then, on one afternoon when I was going stir crazy with a little too much family togetherness time, I studied the map, laced up my running shoes and trotted out determined to find it.

I soon reached the town downstream, San Vicente. I saw encouraging road signs for La Puente, but no evidence of the bridge. Some local kids tried to direct me back to the main bridge in Banos. When I explained I was looking for one closer, they directed me further downstream to Ulba. "No hay otro puente mas cerca??" I pleaded. An older boy intervened, and confidently waved me along.

With nothing to lose, I followed the trails of his gestures down a long quiet road. I could hear the river raging, but saw nothing that looked like a bridge approach. In fact, the road appeared to dead end. I almost turned back, but not eager to return home so soon, I edged over the top of the road and saw a foot path zig zagging steeply down.

The river got louder. The narrow path plunged another level to reveal a small bridge, swaying in the sun. I had been looking for a modern, car carrying behemoth, and was treated instead to wooden planks, grimy cables and perfect solitude.

The angling late afternoon light followed the river and warmed the tall canyon walls. I studied the fierce currents thirty feet below and the calm band of blue sky a hundred feet above, and declared it to be my new favorite place. For not the first time in Ecuador, I thought about Middle Earth, and how it is now so much easier for me to visualize Tolkein's terrain. Goblins and hobbits and elves oh my!

I crossed the bridge and scrambled up the steep, rocky path. Up and up until I found a warm spot to sit in the stubby mountain grass. Looking back over the river valley and towards Banos, I was surprised to see both the elusive volcano's peak, and the stunning Ulba waterfall (you can sort of see the waterfall in the pic below.) With deep gratitude, I soaked in the sun, bent my ear to the sounds of the trees and bushes swaying in the canyon winds, and slowly swung my head back and forth to take in the outlines and details of the expansive view.

On the way back, I thought I smelled lilacs. Memories of midwestern spring surged, and I spent 10 minutes sniffing up and down the road, looking for the source. A corner plot of tall white flowers? Maybe. The garden fronting one of the nicer houses? No. The grove of citrus trees with delicate blooms. . . maybe? maybe?? Sniff, sniff. Nothing. Come back breeze!!! As soon as I walked away, I caught the scent again and dashed back to the trees. Unable to figure it out, I proceeded home, eager to share my new favorite place with Michael and Miguel.

The Best of Banos

2010-05-19T08:12:00.012-05:00

During our penultimate week in Banos, we've been graced by a visit from Gin's Uncle Jim. Partially inspired by reading our blog, Jim is spending a week here, providing us with the perfect excuse to revisit all of our favorite local places.

We started off by meeting Jim at Hacienda Manteles-- a lovely country inn about a half hour outside of Banos. During our visit to Manteles, we were treated to spectacular views of a snow covered Tungurahua.

We also hiked into the nearby cloudforest, slogging up a river (wellingtons provided by the Hacienda) to a couple of secluded waterfalls.

The rest of the week will be filled with hikes, bike rides, yoga, lounging in the baths and enjoying the local hospitality.

On Saturday, we'll pedal 65 kilometers down the Ruta de Las Cascadas (waterfall alley) to the jungle town of Puyo-- the marquee bike ride of the region.

It's lovely spending time with Jim. He brought the sunshine with him, as well as a sunny demeanor and a suitcase full of brewing supplies.

We're just hoping we can keep up with with his spry legs on the hiking paths and bike routes.

Carboys on Parade

2010-05-13T14:14:00.012-05:00

We've been brewing weekly over the last month and the beer is beginning to pile up.

We have 30 gallons in the carboys right now-- two batches of our signature Throat of Fire Pale Ale and one batch of Atahaulpa's Golden Ale. We also have one batch in bottles that we're currently serving-- Eruption Porter.

Jim will be buying a simple keg system in the next week, which will cut our production time in half by eliminating the onerous bottling process. The kegs will hopefully help solve an over-foaming problem that we've had with the Eruption Porter. We've also re-doubled our sanitation efforts in the brewery and are using new yeast to counter any contaminants that could be causing the geysers.

As our Banos departure date at the end of May quickly approaches, Jim and Gloria (a manager at the Posada) are gradually taking over the reins at the brewery.

Most importantly, it looks like we'll have plenty of beer on tap for our Banos farewell party!

stuck in the shallows

2010-05-13T09:42:00.001-05:00

Had a bad run this morning. It was a struggle to make it to 25 minutes. I walked the rest of the way. Maybe I need to find a new sport, or maybe new lungs. My hope was to be able to easily run 60 minutes by the time we leave Ecuador. While I could probably claw my way through a very slow hour of running, it would not be fair to say that I have met that goal. But, at least I can say that I have tried.

Every time I recover from a respiratory illness, it's like I go back to the beginning with running. My legs are strong, and my brain is able to push me past many tough spots, but at a certain point I just. . . . can't. . . . breathe. Today's humidity probably did not help. My diaphragm is simply not able to pull air into the bottom 2/3rds of my lungs.

I've always had a problem with deep breathing, which could explain my tendencies to get anxious and frenetic. Even now that I am relaxed, filling my lungs takes an epic amount of concentration and time, and then I feel like I am going to pass out. Yoga is helping. But I wonder if I have some form of exercised-induced asthma.

I skimmed a book recently that talked about finding the sport that is most suited to your body. Maybe I am more of a sprinter than a marathoner. Dance was always good, because I could catch my breath while the teacher demonstrated the next steps. But I really do want to be some kind of a runner; I have found nothing better to give my mood a boost.

Ah well, it's all data. Instead of saying, "I give up!" it's better to think "What do I need to do to get better?"
Looks like I need to keep working on breathing (and avoiding respiratory illnesses!) But I don't think I'll be signing up for any marathons any time soon.

snowpants in summer

2010-05-09T20:39:00.000-05:00

It was a little cooler than usual today, so locals broke out the winter gear. With only about a 25 degree range to work with, Banenos shiver and grab scarves at 65 degrees while summer-desperate tourists walk around in short sleeves. The babies are especially overdressed; I have seen more snow pants here than in Chicago.

Since we have been here, my shoulders have rarely tensed with chills. Even then, the solution has been simple--a sweater, maybe with shawl, for "frigid" nights that graze the 50's. Having spent 5 months between around 55 and 80 degrees, I am nervous about returning to Chicago. Back home, I am almost always cold, even in summer thanks to air conditioned businesses. One of the best things about working from home in the summer is that I can bask in the balm. The horrible part is that in the winter I want to crank up the heat during the day when no one else is home.

The only way I am going to survive next winter is a serious investment in gear. No longer a fast or longish distance commuting cyclist, I can't rely on the cardio burn to keep my core warm under a flimsy rain jacket (bikewinter heresy, I know!) And Miguel is going to need some new snow pants for that 3 mile bike commute to Mitchell School. I like the burgundy ones on the boy in the middle of the pic below, taken on a mid 70's evening

Why are we going back to Chicago??

living like a local tourist

2010-05-09T16:19:00.002-05:00

Five months is a strange amount of time to visit a place. It's hard to throw down roots with purpose, knowing that we're not staying. But little nodes of connection grow anyway; we're transplants in water, stretching tendrils out every day. Leaving will be hard.

I am thinking a lot about water, as it has been raining so much lately. Warm, moist air rolls up from the Amazon, along the Pastaza river canyon. When it hits the altitude and cooler air, clouds appear from "nowhere" and, lately, drop inches of rain at a time. I have never seen weather change so quickly or so much. At one moment, the mountain view from our kitchen window is erased in gray. Look again and green bulk is back, with a train of cotton balls chugging in front of it. 5 minutes later, maybe there is a rainbow, or it's so bright you need to close the blinds. Or, the mountain is gone again, and rain is sending people running.

There is a part of me that feels like I am getting to know this place. I've started to notice changes in the plants. Unlike the dramatic lockstep approach of spring in the midwest, the plants pulse to rhythms I do not understand. It's easy to think everything is in bloom all the time, but a few weeks ago I was excited to see new pink flowers at the tips of one of our neighbor's trees. On some of our routine hikes, yellow and red flowers have replaced the white and purple of January. Miguel's favorite park is surrounded by different trees; some droop white, others red flowers. I think both have gone through two bloom cycles, at different times, since we have been here.

Well, I didn't mean to write about water and plants when I sat down. But as our Ecuador trip draws to a close, I just need to write as much as I can. All paths will lead to memory, and in this case back to my point, which is that I want to start paying more attention to some of the "touristy" details of this trip. We tend to write about things like parenting, making beer, baking, biking, hiking--things we do at home (granted, w/o the topography). We take pictures of mountains, not people, in part to respect the people who live and work here. I don't need to worry about the volcano being offended by my camera.

But, ever deadline driven, it's time to bust out the camera and freewriting to help remember the many facets of our journey. Today, we did something popular with Ecuadorian visitors to Banos--had Miguel pose on a fake pony for a picture. This is apparently a very traditional thing to do. There is strong association of local photographers who do this work and have their own section of the town cemetery. Which I also want to write about--ack!

We also stopped by the main church, which Miguel loves. Towards the beginning of the trip, he saw a face in the lights of the church at night (above the large circle--see picture above). It is now known in our family as the church with the face. Michael, having been raised Catholic, sometimes takes Miguel in for a proper visit. When Miguel asks me to take him, I demur explaining that I am not really the church going type. I never know quite what to do.

It was packed today, maybe because of Mother's Day. Older women thronged the entrance pushing candles on the many pilgrims. Children crawled under the pews and families spilled out to the sides. I joined Michael and Miguel as they lit a candle for Michael's mom. I do not know who Miguel lit his candle for. We had to remind him not to blow out the other candles.

Happy Mother's Day Gin!

2010-05-09T07:15:00.007-05:00

Erupting Ale & Spent Grain Bread

2010-05-06T10:05:00.008-05:00

May marks our last month in Banos. As our departure date approaches, we've been brewing weekly to work out kinks in the system so that La Cascada Brewery will be a sustainable operation after I leave. Our most recent batches are Peregringo Porter, Atahualpa's Golden Ale, and Throat of Fire Pale Ale.

The porter was bottled last weekend and during yesterday's brew session, I noticed that there appeared to be a bit of agitation in the bottles.

When we opened up a bottle an eruption ensued, though fortunately, not an explosive eruption. The bottle oozed an unending river of thick foam. When we poured the beer off into glasses, it tasted fine (though a little on the sweet side) and sported a hearty head.

To see the eruption in action, see Jim's video below.

We attributed the eruption to bottling the beer before the yeast had a chance to metabolize an adequate amount of sugar during the primary fermentation. We should be able to resolve this problem in future batches by better monitoring the specific gravity (which tells how much sugar the yeast has eaten) prior to bottling. Jim is also looking into purchasing some kegs, which are much more forgiving on issues regarding excessive carbonation, thanks to pressure relief valves.

In the meantime, we have ten gallons of erupting ale on our hands.

Living on the side of a volcano, it didn't take us long to think of a marketing scheme. We changed the name to "Eruption! Ale", with each bottle promising a pyroclastic show. So far, tourists seem to like it-- maybe we're on to something.

After yesterday's brewing session, I brought home a couple of pounds of spent grain. Each ten gallon batch of beer produces about 24 pounds of spent grain, which we've been giving to a local hog farmer.

Gin baked some of the spent grain into two loaves of yummy bread. I think she may be on to something, too!

Parenting Just Got Easier--Send in the Clowns

2010-05-01T08:56:00.015-05:00

Last night, while Gin was snuggling Miguel as part of our nightly bedtime routine, I overheard him ask, "Where does fire go when it goes out?"

I piped in from the other room, "Yeah, mommy, I've always wondered about that, too."

Gin dodged the question by asking me how I would explain it. I fumbled with a pseudo-scientific explanation centering around energy and re-actions.

Fortunately, after Miguel fell asleep, I came across an article in the New York Times about a new, helpful video from the Insane Clown Posse.

The video, "Miracle", makes the job of parenting easier by providing the perfect answer to these types of questions-- "It's a Miracle!"

So, all you parents out there, next your kid asks how magnets work, you'll be prepared!

Pedalling up the Mountain

2010-04-26T08:46:00.012-05:00

On Saturday, Jim and I rode to Las Antennas, a 1,800 feet climb straight up the mountainside opposite of Banos. I last pedaled up this steep ascent in January, back when I was preparing to lead mountain bike tours. Since then, I haven't led many tours, instead focusing more on launching our upstart brewpub, La Cascada Brewery.

When I first slogged up this grueling 2-hour ride, I considered the climb a serious physical challenge to my city legs, that were more accustomed to Chicago's pancake-flat grid. As I've been hiking and biking quite a bit in the mountains over the past few months, I figured this ride would again be challenging, but no marathon.

Jim and I planned to meet Gin, Marshia and Miguel at the top and spend the night at a cabin with panoramic views of the volcano and town below. I loaded up two panniers with sundries I would need for the overnight, but somehow neglected to pack any snacks for the ride up.

Jim and I started grinding up the mountain at about 2:45pm. Less than an hour into the ride, I started to get that light-headed, bonky feeling. My bike is a little to big for me and I struggled a few times to keep from spilling as we swerved up the switchbacks.

About an hour into the ascent, a car honked a double-beep greeting behind us. It was Gin, Marshia and Miguel riding up in a taxi to meet us at the top. I gave my family a happy hug, threw my panniers in the taxi's trunk, and rangled a banana and tangerine out of the food bag. My blood sugar quickly rebounded.

Ya llegamos? we jokingly asked the taxi driver. No, you've got a few steep kilometers to climb, he replied.

The taxi departed and with renewed vigor, I began grinding up the switchbacks. About 45 minutes later, we passed the only tienda on the route and we couldn't resist stopping for a beer. We drank our Pilseners at a makeshift mirador-- a simple bench looking over the valley that we christened the "Beer-ador."

After our high mountain happy hour, Jim and I pushed on for the final 15 minutes of the climb. Miguel greeted us at the last switchback and jogged alongside us as we victoriously approached the cabin. We were greeted with a delicious spaghetti dinner courtesy of Marshia and lovely panoramic views.

Pity Party

2010-04-26T02:37:00.002-05:00

Ouch! Not again, cold.
Pinhole swallow--damn tonsils.
I want my mommy!

It's been barely a month since I finally kicked my last multi-week bout of the cold? flu? >>>bronchitis to the curb. If my throat was not in such excruciating pain, I would scream about being sick again.

I am on night two of bad sleep with aches and chills all over. I'm moaning like an gnarled crone and my cauldron sized tonsils are thwarting efforts to hydrate.

The reason I want to have a temper tantrum is that my tonsils always seem to blow up at the slightest provocation, ever since I was a kid and had strep throat at least once a year.

I wash my dang hands all the time, eat well. . . . what more can I do to ward off the creep and crud?? After my last round of sickness, I started using a neti pot. It's helped so much with my sinuses. You hear that cold virus--I've been irrigating my nasal cavity. How did you sneak in???!!

Wah, wah, wah. I usually try to stay away from complaining on this blog because 1) I am living in Ecuador, without really working, luxuriating in time with my family and the mountain paths. 2) Most of my complaints are run of the mill, "that's just life" kind of things--a lot more people have more legitimate things to complain about 3) I don't want any future employers to stumble across this and think, "What a whiner!" It's bad enough that I can be longwinded.

But I am making a little exception tonight while I wait for some "symptom relief" meds to kick in. Have already breathed in some hot steam, wrapped my neck in a hot compress, and squeezed some honeyed-tea down my throat. I also ate a few squares of milk chocolate, which were silky soothing.

Is it too late for me to have a tonsillectomy?

Ok, end rant. Life is good.

Miguel's First Report Card

2010-04-23T09:18:00.002-05:00

Last week, Miguel's teacher handed us a tiny slip of paper, this time addressed to Padre de Familia. We hoped it was not another announcement of days off. We deciphered that we needed to be at school a little early the next day for a parent meeting and report card pick up. Phew!

I love the way they save paper (and money) by sending home two sentence announcements in 10 point font. Instead of making 25 copies, the teachers print out two sheets and cut the announcements into one inch strips. All of the other notices had been addressed to Madre or Mamita. We teased Miguel's teacher about it and she laughed, explaining that "padre" means head of household, but can be a man or a woman. Uh-huh.

Michael and I nervously arrived on time the next day, to a nearly empty classroom. The children were playing in another part of the school. A few other parents were already scrunched into the tiny, color-faded, wooden chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of the white board. A cryptic, rhyming three line message below BIENVENIDOS! said something about buying small cups.

There was no space between the chairs, so one parent merged into the next. Mostly women, most of whom were well dressed with impeccable eye make up. We recognized many faces from drop off and pick up.
Adita, Miguel's teacher, bustled around the room, pausing for a moment to say we would wait about ten minutes for more parents to arrive. I peeled myself up and walked around the room, looking with both former-teacher and parent eyes.

By my measures of a great learning environment, Miguel's current classroom is mediocre. It never seems very messy, just sort of spare and worn with minimal decoration or indication as to what the children are working on. Thankfully, they spend a lot of time outside--in the school playground and at the park a few blocks down the road. But, inside, the essentials are in place--lots of room to move around, music, blocks for fine motor activities and riding toys for gross motor and diversion. When he started, Miguel was obsessed with the motorcycle and got into frequent scrapes for not sharing.

Every kid has a special spot in the room where recent work hangs under their picture. As I walked around the room, I stopped in front of Miguel's passport photo (all we had when we registered), and my parent eyes took over. On Miguel's coloring projects, there are rough scrawls on the pictures, but most of the other kids have actually, dare I say it, "colored in the lines" or at least made much closer approximations. Miguel's general lack of interest in sitting down to color, draw and try to make letters has been on our minds. We are not sure if it's due to his eye, his temperament, the fact that he doesn't seem to have picked a dominant hand, or that Michael and I aren't the best with arts and crafts either. Seeing what other, mostly younger, kids are doing with with their "written work" is illuminating.

At last, the parent meeting begins. Adita holds court in front of us, her words running together. The faster she talks, the more I squint my eyes, as if reading her lips will help me understand. I am watching every body motion, the faces of all the parents, trying to squeeze out some comprehension. She's tossing a wooden block in her hands. Looks a little menacing, but she's smiling and they are all laughing. She points to the words on the board. Ah, she needs us to buy cups. Then, all of a sudden, she's singing a little song, the parents are passing the block one person to another like a hot potato and then-oh no!--I am holding the block and she has stopped singing. Everyone looks at me, waiting.

I look at Adita in panic. She repeats the instructions, more slowly, but kindly, as always. She is so patient and loving with our whole family. It appears that I must read the lines on the board. I do so, haltingly. People cheer and the game continues. Only when the hot potato lands in another parent's hand do I finally understand: it's a tongue twister, an ice breaker. She holds the other parents to a higher standard of speed and fluency.

Adita is a warm, confident women--sturdy and graceful. Broad forehead, hair pulled back, usually in stretchy slacks and a blue school tunic. She often wears green or blue sparkly eye shadow. Miguel adores her, and her assistant, Joanna. So do we.

After the light hearted beginning, she launches into an impassioned monologue, hands behind her back, swaying slightly. She has incredible presence, like an opera singer. We catch words and gists--thank you so much for being here. . . we need more toilet paper. . . something about blank CDs. . . .something about manners at home and at school (if you tell your kids to shut up and let them throw garbage on the floor, how do you think they are going to act here?!) After every request or chiding, always an earnest por favor. Please make sure your kids eat before coming to school so they don't collapse on the rug at 9:30 am. Por favor.

She mentions something about gym and starts to read every child's name, followed by their grade. Some parents squirm uncomfortably in the cramped seats, no doubt unnerved at this public display of whether their child is super, poco or just plain old satisfactory. I do not think there were any public pocos. Miguel got a super. Woo-hoo! Especially since he used to refer to the gym teacher as the mean lady upstairs.

Finally, she distributes the blue report cards, and does some more talking. If you want your kids to read, read with them at home. Please do not compare your child to another child--they are all learning in different ways and at different rates. Grades are not so important at this age. Don't hesitate to talk with me and Joanna. Por favor and gracias.

Still, my eyes did roam a bit as each parent anxiously undid the classic tri-fold card stock. A few kids had red boxes, indicating poco satisfactorias. I was relieved to see that Miguel was all yellows and greens. At first I thought green was "super," assuming the classic traffic stop hierarchy, but another parent helped me out. "Que es mas bueno? Verde o amarillo?"

Yellow--which makes sense as he was super-yellow for English (we didn't even know they were learning English), music and pre-matematica. He was satisfactory in areas like pre-writing, sharing, finishing work. . . .oral language too, but because of the Spanish. If anything, my kid is verbal!

I was impressed and touched at how right on Adita's assessments were. She is an astounding teacher who knows and cares deeply for her students. Every morning, she greets each child with a smile and a bear hug. At pick-up, she has a kind, informative word for each parent. She's got those strong early childhood educator knees--always squatting down to their level, never bending at the waist. She's warm but also firm, brisk and quick eyed, able to encourage little builders at one table to add more blocks to their towers while monitoring the motorcycle detente across the room. From her, Miguel has not only learned a lot of spanish, but also about quadrilaterals, keeping rhythm, using scissors, coloring and sharing with other children. (She also inadvertently taught him about hot glue guns, a story for another day.) And they share many jokes.

To know that Miguel is learning, laughing and being loved while we are apart gives us such comfort and joy. We wanted this first school experience to be mostly about learning Spanish, getting along with other kids and developing an open, positive feeling about going to school in general. Mission accomplished. Still, we're paying attention to those areas where he is not as strong--armed with some new coloring books and crayons, maybe we can help him move from green to yellow in pre-writing before we leave.

Monkeying Around in the Jungle

2010-04-16T09:53:00.021-05:00

Last Friday during afternoon pick-up at Miguel's school, we received a surprising note from his teacher. In recognition of El Dia de Maestros (Teacher's Day), school would be shut Monday and Tuesday.

While this seemed like short notice for a school closure, it was much better warning than we received for the surprise Semana Santa school holiday in February.

We had already been planning a weekend trip to the jungle town of Puyo, so with the 4-day weekend, we decided to extend our trip.

We started on Saturday morning by biking the 65 kilometer Ruta de las Cascadas (Waterfall Alley). The road plunges from our mountain hometown of Banos to Puyo, gateway to the jungle. I'll leave it to Gin to describe the spectacular 5-hour five journey since she has an intimate history with this roadway.

Miguel was great during his 5-hours of bike seat confinement, thanks to the aid of a nap and the munching of a whole package of Ritz crackers. In Puyo, we checked into the El Jardin Hostal, located alongside the Puyo River. The Hostal's rooms wrap around beautiful gardens stocked with resident parrots and tortoises and strewn with lots of comfy hammocks.

After the long bike trip, Miguel was very excited to find a gentleman renting battery-powered go karts near our hotel.

While we hope that Miguel will share our car-free ethos as he grows older, his enthusiasm for his first experience behind the wheel does not bode well. After a few crashes into other go karts and various park amenities, he quickly became a skilled driver.

On Sunday, we ventured to a monkey refuge a few miles out of town, which proved to be the highlight of our week

end. The refuge takes in semi-domesticated monkeys that have been abandoned and rehabilitates them in a jungle setting.

The monkeys were especially fond of Gin, who typically sported two or three monkeys as we strolled through the jungle.

After the monkey refuge, we set out on a forced march across Puyo to visit its famed water park. After about an hour of urban orienteering, we had our first, true Ecuadorian 'Wally World is Closed' moment.

A large sign reading "Disculpa!" (Sorry!) was stretched across the water park gates, explaining that the grounds were undergoing a three week renovation. Disappointed but not defeated, we caught a cab back to the Puyo River and hiked up river to an inviting swimming hole.

On Monday we headed back to Banos. We biked a few miles up the road to the Monte Selva Eco-Parque-- a more secluded spot than Puyo's water park and, thankfully, not undergoing a renovation. After splashing around for a couple of hours, we loaded our bikes onto a bus for the climb back up to Banos.

We enjoyed our weekend get away to the Jungle and will probably return to Puyo before we head back to the states in June. Hopefully, next time, there won't be any surprising school holidays or water park closures.

Waiting for the Wall

2010-04-13T22:50:00.002-05:00

As always, Michael reminded me to take some form of ID on my run. I rolled my eyes and tucked a business card with his cell number under the elastic of my pants. I told him I would be back in about 45 minutes. “Where are you going?” I don’t know. Do I need to know where I am going? Do I ever ask you where you plan to run? “I always use the same route. . .” Ok, ok, I’ll probably head towards the Sauce bridge.

Miguel tried to strip me of the headphones, but I somehow managed to wriggle out the door. Freedom! I stood outside, untangling the cords, and faced the immense triangle of concrete that comes to the foreground when the sun has set and the mountains have disappeared: on one side is the corner of the soccer stadium with dull whitewashed concrete brick walls, on another, the tail end of our block, which is anchored by our imposing orange building. The buildings across the street hem in the last, shortest side. It’s an intersection or road convergence of sorts that calls for some kind of progressive transportation planning and renegade depaving/gardening. . . but then again it seems to work just fine.

Every morning people stream into Banos to work and go to school. They come from the near by, more affordable town, San Vincente, or further down the river valley. Children walk arm in arm, bright with a variety of school uniforms. My favorite are the red plaid dresses—small squares, almost like calico. The high school students carry wooden briefcases. At least twice a day, we see a stooped man with a frayed blue sweater and bare, gnarled feet pushing an old cart along the street.

Every morning, people stream into Banos, milling in the streets, and every evening they pour out—more on foot than in cars, and more walking in the street than on the sidewalk. As I write, 3 people are standing in the middle of the triangle having an animated conversation, two girls are walking towards town and a man just passed them from the other direction. A few cars also snuck by, calm and yielding.

I will miss these mountains, but I will also miss the feet. The streets here are still for people. Even when streets come together at odd angles and the asphalt oozes into a chalky black triangle, it doesn’t need to be reclaimed. (Though I still think a garden in the middle would be nice.)

Cords untangled, I trotted off. I do not usually run with headphones here. Partly b/c I think I should be more tuned into this amazing environment than to my own private soundtracks, partly as a nod to safety—we are not so much worried about other people as territorial dogs. But, I want to up my time and my speed, and music is the best way to keep me going. Today, I was equipped with about 50 minutes of music, which included a cool down with Massive Attack’s "Blue Lines" and a 15 minute mark boost from Alicia Keye’s "Put It in a Love Song", which is where I always hit a wall.

Gnarles Barkley’s "Crazy" started me off. I cut through the triangle and took the side road down towards San Vicente, past playing children, sleeping dogs, and old men cutting sugar cane. Crossed Amazones, the main street out of town--the route of the waterfalls, the road to Puyo, the home to busses and cyclists and chivas—busy, amazing but not great for running, and stayed on it for a block until I could veer into the quieter streets of San Vicente. Another Alicia Keyes song took me down to the Sauce bridge, on a simple road that took many attempts to find but now seems so obvious.

I am obsessed with the Rio Pastaza in part b/c I cannot get to its shores. It slices deep and loud between the foot of our volcano and the hills? mountains? ridges—I need a geology course—next door. A while back, I wandered through abandoned properties and followed the cow and horse pies to get about 50 feet above the river, but until recently I had no way to get closer; its sheer rocky sides keep the tourists at bay which is probably for the best as Banos’ sewage goes straight—and untreated--into the river.

A few weeks ago, I finally found the Sauce bridge, which sways alluringly about 30 feet over the river. It’s a foot bridge, and the approaches are steep. On the Banos side, guardrails zig zag you down, which cracks me up as there are no barriers on some of the highest, craziest roads we have bussed along. Are these barriers to prevent a horse from tumbling into the overgrowth along the river’s edge? Or maybe they signal a need for containment—keeping the earth itself from sliding into the river?

When I first found the bridge on a late afternoon, the low sun polished the texture of the rocky walls and the water ran gray. Lately it has been dark, like a brown, muscular horse. Night rains have been hard, and mudslides have colored, fattened and sped the river. I never thought a city girl like myself would notice how a river changes and it makes me wonder if I can ever live in a city again.

Because this was a run and not a meander, I turned around at the bridge and heaved my way back up along the guardrails, waiting for that Alicia Keye’s song to kick in and help me keep going instead of succumbing to slow reverie. But no, here was Mr. Rudy Day with "Flawed but Beautiful," one of my favorites—a little slow but the intensity keeps you moving.

Back to the road with a surprise view of the volcano. The day was overcast, so I had not thought to look up before. But there she was, over the clouds, chalky black imposing with maybe a tiny bit a vapor hovering above. Not much activity since January, but still, it’s always a thrill to get a perfect view of the peak. “Well, hello there!” I shouted to Tungurahua, and then looked around to see if I should be embarrassed by the outburst. Nope, all alone.

Since I was still waiting for my wall breaking song, I kept going down river, using a back road I found on a walk the other day. Unpaved and quiet, though I picked up a rock when three dogs decided I was too close to their property. Down, down and more down, behind the grand properties that front busy Amazones.

Surprise views of the river. Kept waiting for that song. Eventually my feeble sense of time and distance took over and told me to turn around. Up, up and more up. Was too tired to even notice what was playing. Back towards Amazones, but instead of retracing my steps, I took the dirt path evacuation route up and over back into town.

More up. No houses. A man? boy? with a blue shirt on a bike whistled from above me. I turned the music down, and again picked up a rock, keenly aware of my temporary isolation. I ran faster, he pedaled in my direction. My eyes scanned and scanned—where the hell did he go? As I crested back into town, three boys on bikes passed me, headed towards the screaming dirt descent. Relaxed, I dropped the rock. Blueshirt, a boy, caught up to me and waggled his bike, strutting hopefully but innocuously. The dirt road eased back into pavement. A small green car with two men were 3 point turning back into town. The kid and the car danced and I snuck through.

Another ten minutes to home. Turns out my playlist was shuffling. I never got the song I needed to break my wall, but managed to be out for more than 45 minutes. A perfect run.

Beer Making Step #6: Bottoms Up!

2010-04-06T19:43:00.000-05:00

Back in January, when we first considered launching a brewpub at the Posada del Arte, I sketched out a simple schematic of the brewing process in Jim and Marshia's guest comment book entitled "Brewing in Six Easy Steps" (see below).

Last week, we finally reached Step #6 in the process: Drink the Beer.

This happy day happened to coincide with a visit from our friends Josh and Krista, and their kids Sophie and Max. Josh is a seasoned professional brewer who just opened a new brewpub in Chicago, Revolution Brewing, so were anxious to get his feedback on our beer, as well as advice on organizing our brewery.

But before describing the first sips of our cerveza, here's a quick travelogue of our adventures with the Sahakian-Deth family.

We took a 4-hour bus ride from Banos to meet up with the Sahakian-Deths at a posh jungle resort called Casa del Suizo. It was a great place for the kidees with buffet meals around the swimming pool and guided tours everyday into the jungle in wooden motorized canoes.

My favorite jungle tour was a visit to a local village where we got to try our luck with a blow dart gun (Josh and I both hit the wooden target monkey with our first shots!). We also tasted the local homebrew-- chicha-- a primitive beer made from yucca. It was great to hob knob with our jungle brewing brethren and taste their beer, even if was a bit sour for our palates.

After having our fill of the jungle and buffet living, we all rode the bus up to our mountain hometown of Banos. There we spent a few days hiking, mountain biking, lounging in the hot baths and simply hanging out. It was great to spend time with close friends from home.

As our first two batches of beer were ready to drink, we took ample opportunities for tasting. Both batches of Throat of Fire Pale Ale were very tasty-- a medium to full bodied beer with an assertive hop edge. Aside from some capping problems with a few bottles that resulted in some flat beer, our first venture into brewing has been an unqualified success!

We'll continue to tweak our recipe and, hopefully, with the bottle capper that Josh brought us, our capping problems will soon be behind us. We are also working to double our brew day capacity from 10 gallons to twenty, which will result in batches of 100 twenty-four ounce bottles. One hundred beers may be enough to provide our brewpub with a week's worth of product, which would then put us on a weekly brewing cycle to keep the beer flowing.

By the time our friends left town, we had worked through all the beer in batches #1 and #2. We look forward to seeing them again in June, perhaps to share a pint at Revolution Brewing. Until then, batch #3 should be ready sometime next week and we need to fire up the brewery as soon as our new grain shipment comes in.

Even when you reach Step #6, a brewer's work is never really done.

Hoppy Easter

2010-04-05T11:15:00.004-05:00

On Friday night, Krista, Marshia and I huddled on the windy terraza, upwind from the men's cigar smoke, talking about Easter. Krista had stashed baskets for the kids in the basement, so they could celebrate after their Sat. night red eye back to Chicago. I confessed to having no Easter plans, explaining that I always feel a little weird celebrating the holiday given my a-religious tendencies. Also, my mom is the queen of the holidays. I prefer to be a kid with Miguel and let my mom do all the work.

When Marshia reminded me that the Easter Bunny can be traced back to pagan celebrations of spring and fertility, I decided to get on board and do something special for Miguel--just as I embrace Christmas as a time to mark and get past the longest, darkest nights of the year. Of course, being in Ecuador, there is no discernible "spring." But I can feel it stirring in Chicago, even all the way down here. And I don't need much of a reason to celebrate, my mom's long shadow notwithstanding ;-)

On Saturday afternoon, Michael, Miguel and I went on a walk. The plan was for the boys to get some ice cream while I did some sneaky shopping for Miguel. Alas, they walked back to the grocery store too soon. Miguel saw me through the doors and had a fit. I looked at Michael with "Get him out of here!" eyes and he tried to hustle Miguel along, but it was clear I need to speed up. I grabbed a few trinkets from the pinata filling isle, looked for some treats (ah-ha! is this a little bag of M and M type candies?) and hurried out.

Later in the day, I went for a run while my own M and M painted eggs. Miguel has been excited about paint lately, so on my way back from the run, I picked up some more art supplies. The papeleria kid wanted to sell me paper at 5 cents a sheet. It took a lot of effort to explain that I need lots of cheap paper for a 3 year old artist. Finally his mom intervened and dug up some notebooks.

That night, Miguel was frenzied with excitement about the Easter Bunny making a visit. He still talks about the one he met at my parents' local grocery store last year--above pic. "How will she get here from Graul's??" he worried. He also pointed out a bunch of possible egg hiding places, including under his bed. He did not go to sleep until after he and the E.B had talked three times on the telephone (ie, his hand on ear). She explained that she would hop, walk and fly to visit him, but that she couldn't come until he was asleep. He explained how to get into our building.

At six am I woke to Miguel hopping up and down in his room, chirping, "She came! She came!" I had placed an egg and the Ecuadorian M and Ms under his bed. Talk about positive reinforcement. My heart warms just thinking about it. In quick time, Miguel found all of his treats, thanks in part to the note left by the E.B that told him how many things to look for (my fear of a forgotten egg under the couch).

The day proceeded as well as it started:

Homemade pancakes with jam
Skyping with my parents.
First family meeting (agenda: gratitude circle, eye patch, morning routine and hugs)
Hike to one of my favorite places--a tiny footbridge over the roaring Pastaza River.
Impromptu visit to the town's temporary amusement park
Quick stop by the Posada (Miguel was starting to loose it. He threw a banana at Marshia. They had been joking about throwing food--sometimes that kid is too literal!)
Return home for a family nap which killed my plans to make dinner
Dinner out
Reading the Hobbit to Miguel
Miguel resisting sleep, but he eventually settling down.

And this morning, thanks in part to our problem solving about morning routines, we got him on the bus, back to school after nearly a week off, with no problems.

Sangay National Park: Pedaling a Road that Nature Abhors

2010-03-24T09:49:00.044-05:00

Road building is often the death knell to the earth's wild areas. Roads enable wildlife poachers, loggers, illegal cattle grazers and squatters to access and destroy wilderness. Recently, a road was completed traversing one of Ecuador's most remote high sierra landscapes in the Sangay National Park.

The Sangay is home to a dazzling array of wildlife, including over 500 species of birds and rarely seen animals such as spectacled bears, tapirs, and pumas. The National Park includes over 1,000 square miles of rugged land, ranging from tropical jungle on the east and soaring westward to high paramo with snowy peaks above 15,000 feet.

Fearing the negative impact of road building, and specifically the Gaumote-Macas road, the World Heritage Foundation listed the Sangay National Park as endangered back in the 1990s.

Last weekend, my brother Donald, Jim, Marshia and I set out to bike the controversial road from the high paramo Atillo Lakes region down to the jungle town of Macas. We hired a truck and driver who drove us from Banos at 7am, arriving at about noon in the small, high sierra village of Atillo. We enjoyed a lunch of fresh trout at Atillo's lone restaurant and then pedaled up the road to the Lagunas de Atillo-- a half dozen pristine mountain lakes.

The Lagunas de Atillo are well above 10,000 feet in altitude and from there we began our long descent down the new road.

In less than an hour, we had plunged down about 2,000 feet through high virgin forests. We stopped at a bridge with a vista of one of many waterfalls and hoped that we weren't racing downhill too fast without taking adequate time to enjoy the spectacular scenery.

Since the road is new and far off the tourist circuit, we didn't have much information regarding the mileage to our endpoint in Macas. Jim had his GPS along that showed we were about 40 kilometers from our destination as the crow flies at 2pm, so we figured we had plenty of time given our rapid downhill speeds.

We continued on for a few hours seeing no signs of civilization other than the road itself. No telephones lines, no buildings, no cow pastures-- only an occasional rusty sign urging us to protect the Sangay wilderness.

The road followed the contours of the conical mountainsides, weaving north and south to cross tributaries over bridges (and sometimes, we pedaled through water rushing over the road).

In some places, the wilderness had struck back at the thin ribbon of civilization that we were following. The most dramatic example was a bridge that had crashed down into the valley.

There were also long sections of the road that were buckling and crumbling away, as if the wild mountainside was rejecting man's small patch of impervious, asphalted flatness. Much of the road was dirt and rock and washouts were frequent.

As the afternoon wore on, we realized that our circuitous route was much longer than Jim's GPS bee-line. Also, as the sun began to dip behind us, we encountered more stretches of uphill road.

Darkness fell and according to roadside signs that began appearing in the late afternoon, we were still about 30 kilometers shy of Macas. We rigged up flashlights on our handlebars and pedaled slowly down the rocky road. We dismounted to walk our bikes up the steep uphill parts.

After about an hour and a half of slowly making our way through the darkness, we flagged down a convoy of 3 pick-up trucks coming down the road. The family, who had spent the day fishing high up in the mountains, generously loaded up our bikes and gave us a lift to Macas, probably another 20 kilometers or so.

Safely in Macas, we checked into a hotel and ordered pizzas. We recounted tales of our endurance and rescue from the wild. And we raised cold bottles of Pilsener to toast the forces of nature that abhor a road.

on top of the bus/on top of the world

2010-03-20T11:54:00.006-05:00

It is easier and cheaper to travel hundreds of miles across Ecuador than it is to get across town in Chicago. But the ode to Ecuador's transportation system will have to wait for another day, as I am experimenting with making my posts shorter. (Oops, just finished writing this, and the ode is here anyway and the post is long. Even when I try to focus, I suffer from logorrhea. Skip to the 2nd half of post for pics and description of the final thrilling ride up to Chugchilan.)

Today's topic is Part 1of our Andean vacation: our journey from La Cienega to the Black Sheep Inn which reminds me of this joke we heard on our last trip to Ecuador: A priest and a bus driver are both at the pearly gates of heaven. The priest, of course, assumes he'll get an easy pass into eternal bliss, but St. Peter says, no you're going to have to wait awhile. The bus driver gets waved in quickly. The priest protests, and Peter explains: "When you were doing your job, everyone fell asleep. When the bus driver did his, everyone prayed."

On Sunday morning, Michael, Donald, Miguel and I strapped on our backpacks and walked the two miles from the stately hacienda of La Cienega to the Pan-American, the main road which runs north/south through Ecuador (and from the top of North America to bottom of South America, minus the Darien Gap), along the Avenue of Volcanoes. Think I-95 along the east coast in terms of purpose, but a rural highway in terms of feel. There is one travel lane in either direction. Traffic--mostly buses and flat bed trucks-- moves quickly and aggressively.

What makes car-free transportation so easy in Ecuador is the fact that these hurtling vehicles will stop on a dime, anywhere, to take on or discharge a passenger. The day before, on my way to meet my family at La Cienega, I had kept my eyes peeled for the sign on the side of the highway. "Pare, por favor, pare!" I shouted to get the money collector's attention. We overshot it by about half a mile, but still--I can not imagine a Greyhound bus stopping in the middle of I-95 at a small road dozens of miles before an official stop. Even if the driver wanted to, it would be too dangerous to drop someone off in the middle of a highway. Here, the system seems designed for permeability of movement.

Anyhoo, (argh, I am getting long winded already!), within 2 minuets of us reaching the highway, we were on a bus headed to the town of Latacunga, where we would transfer to the next bus. To flag down a bus or car, you wave towards the pavement, like you are patting a large dog. Someone will most likely stop before you have a chance to pee in the bushes. Compare that to having to wait 15 minutes at the Armitage bus stop!*

We made it to Latacunga, where we had to wait about an hour for the next bus to the small Andean town of Chugchilan. That would be like pulling into Rockford and only having to wait a short bit for a ride to a hamlet in the Illinois hinterlands. But the US rarely even has bus service to such places.

While Michael and Donald looked for a place to eat, I chaperoned Miguel at the barber shop. He got to sit in a horse shaped chair, and experience a razor on his neck for the first time (my heart in throat). Now he looks sort of Amish, or, as one of his teachers proclaimed on our return, like an Ecuadorian. I am not too keen on it as it reminds me of traumatic bowl cuts from my childhood. This pic is pre-cut.

Soon enough, we were on the next bus. Off the main drag, the vehicles are creakier, stinkier and more crowded. We crammed in, and Michael asked about being able to sit on top of the bus, for the amazing view of switch-backing our way high into the Andes. We were told we could climb up for the 2nd half of the three hour journey.

When the time came, Miguel was asleep, sprawled across his seat and my lap. Not 5 minutes after Michael and Donald had gone above, Miguel woke up, mighty peeved that the boys had left him downstairs. He was also alarmed that other people had taken their seats. In an effort to comfort him, I took him in my lap. Within seconds, a tired woman sunk next to us.

Miguel started protesting loudly: "Why is she in my seat!! Where is my Daddy?? It smells here!!!" He was right--it was getting kind of ripe. The bus stopped again, and in an uncharacteristic moment of decisiveness, I hauled him off the bus and yelled at Michael that we were coming up. "I don't think that's a good idea," Michael replied with mild alarm. But since I didn't think cramming back into that bus with a screaming child by myself was a good idea either, we climbed up the narrow metal ladder, wiggled into our sweaters and rain jackets and held on for a gorgeous, precarious, butt splaying ride.

I have been on this route before--a narrow, unpaved, bumpy road that teeters on the edge of the mountain. If you are squeamish about heights and your brain has a tendency to fly towards worst case scenarios, it is best to sit on the left side, which grazes the mountain wall. If you are more adventurous, sit on the right and look down at the deep rocky valleys below, and wonder why there are no guardrails. I guess it's best to just trust in the skill of the drivers and the fact that they know this road as well as I know certain seemingly bike-dangerous streets in Chicago.

This was my first time sitting on top, which is reserved for large cargo and thrill seeking travelers. The metal slats of the rack kept wedging into our butts, which was particularly uncomfortable on the bumps. Other than that and the occasional ducking to miss low hanging branches, or as Miguel called them "pokey outy things," the trip was amazing.

Donald's back rest was a 50 pound sack of grain. At my feet, a bag wriggled with guinea pigs. All around us: family farms quilted impossibly at 60 degree angles on the somewhere between jagged and rolling terrain. As far as the eye could see--clouds, distant peaks, and every shade of green. Every now and again, the bus stopped to let off a passenger near small houses brightened with clothes drying on the line. Over time, the cargo rack emptied until it was just us and a bunch of plantains.

Sometimes the bus slowed or stopped to yield to sheepherders, or groups of children walking the many miles home from school. The most stomach churning moment was when we had to pass another bus. We were on the "time to pray" side of the road.

We did make it to our destination safely, of course. In fact, we produced the biggest drama of the trip. In an effort to spare the ticket taker one more climb up the ladder, we decided to hand the plantains down to him. I picked them up and staggered under their weight. One plantain weighs nothing, a hundred on the stem--wow. Donald took them from me and leaned over the side of the bus, trying to hand them off. To our embarrassment, they instead sort of fell on his head and then bounced to the ground. Locals playing volleyball in the dusty town square were amused. I imagine the owner of the plantains was not. I wish I had thought to offer to pay for the damage, which thankfully seemed minimal.

Standing clear of the jettisoned plantains with Miguel in his arms, Michael keenly observed: "Sometimes, the best way to help is not to help."

A ten minute walk later, we were at the Black Sheep. A door to door trip from one tucked away inn to another, spanning six hours, hundreds of miles, a whole lot of up and just a few dollars. I love how easy--and dramatic--it is to get around this country!

*One could argue that I am romanticizing Ecuador's transport, which might reflect a lack of financial resources (for buying cars and for road building) more than an environmentally gentle approach to transportation planning--especially when you breathe the nasty back clouds belching from the old buses. Still, to me, it seems to move people with remarkable efficiency.

first trimester grades

2010-03-12T21:15:00.011-06:00

This meta photo shows pictures from this trip (green wall) and pictures from home (peach wall) put up as part of our grade A nesting efforts.
We are about a third of the way through the sabbatical, and about halfway through our time in South America. We are also entering a few weeks of having visitors. Michael, dear husband that he is, suggested he and Miguel go to La Cienega without me today, so I could have some quiet, alone time before meeting up with his brother Donald. I will join them tomorrow night.

Since I have long forgotten how to go out on a Friday night, I am staying in and doing some writing about how the trip has gone so far. No grade inflation or use of the curve here, more like a criterion referenced test, but I am not actually sure what all the criteria for success are, or how I would know we had met them. (A nod to my former colleagues at Mitchell School. Go Bobcats!)

My grading scale looks like this.
A=Doing great! Exceeds the standard, whatever that is.
B=Doing fine. Meets the standard
C=Pretty close. Approaching the standard. Not a crisis, but you can do better
D=Get your butt in gear. Yesterday!
F=I don't do F's.

Household--A.
This is a giveaway, like giving me a high grade for talking or breathing. Nesting is what Michael and I do. Our kitchen is stocked, personal photographs are on the walls and we never leave the house or go to sleep with dishes in the sink. Living in a small-ish apartment makes cleaning and decorating easy. It also helps to not have a lifetime of junk with us.

Parenting--B
I could not be more proud of Miguel. Of the three of us, he is doing the most in terms of immersion into a new language and culture. He loves his teacher, is picking up a lot of Spanish and is getting along with his peers. At the zip line park, he now knows that he must "compartir" (share) and take turns. He's also getting stronger by the day. He and Michael called me when they got to La Cienga, which is about about a 2 mile walk off the Panamerican highway. He gleefully (and breathlessly) proclaimed that he walked the whole way.

We have solid routines, he gets plenty of sleep, we feed him reasonably well, we are on top of his eye problem, we read to him. . . . and we are being better about controlling our anger and having a consistent, empathetic response to his age appropriate meltdowns and button pushing. When we have problems, we research how we can deal with them. So, I am feeling OK for now about our parenting. Of course, that might (will!) change in two weeks. It always does.

What will it take for us to get an A? 1) We could do better with exposing him to a variety of foods. 2) We need to do more arts and crafts and fine motor, pre-literacy stuff with him 3) Michael and I should reduce our computer time when Miguel is awake. 4) I'd like him to have more outings and visits with other families.

Health/Wellness: C

This is one category where it is tempting to grade on a curve. Sure, we are more physcically active and probably have a healthier diet than lots of people, especially in the states, but that does not excuse the fact that I am carrying an extra ten pounds around my belly--yes, a dunlop, see pic! All three of us are having a little battle of the bulge, but it's the worst with me. Don't know if I am suffering the effects of age, good living, too much computer time or all three, but I have finally had to give up on trying to fit into the shorts I packed for this trip. I remember when I used to eat two candy bars before lunch period in HS (damn those fundraisers), and suffer minimal damage. Oh well. In truth, I feel great so long as I am wearing clothes that fit.

We are trending in a positive direction. We're doing weekly yoga classes and trying to establish our own home practices. I started using a neti pot to help with my sinuses and wonder why I haven't been using one my whole life. Been doing a lot of happy nose breathing the last few days. I am also starting to do push ups and am getting back into running and swimming. We are both drinking less. But I still struggle to resist seconds and sweets. I might just need to invest in a lot more billowy shirts, such as the one in the picture of me adding plants to our rooftop terrace (see nesting, above).

Learning Spanish: D

Michael disagrees with me on this one, as his Spanish was stronger than mine to begin with. His is serviceable, and he worries less than I do about being correct. All I know is that we have this amazing chance to really grow as Spanish speakers, and I feel this goal has been swept aside for other projects. My slow progress is inexcusable, especially given my skills with language in general. I need to spend less time checking my FB feed and more time studying. And, maybe I should start doing some blog posts in Spanish. I know I can do better, and I will. So there. Watch out!

Projects/Personal Growth: B

I might give Michael an A on this one, given his efforts to help start a brew pub at the Posada. He's also doing a great job writing. Though he has not had many takers for this bike trips, he isn't marketing them aggressively, either. I think he knows he can't go full tilt on brewing and biking as that would compromise time with Miguel. For me, it's hard to say. Maybe more of a C. I have worked on some freelance projects, and put together a proposal for a writing coaching project. I'm writing, reading, mulling and playing on-line Scrabble. I guess I just don't have anything going on that is quite as exciting as Michael's projects. I do need to start putting more energy towards developing a business plan and marketing strategy (is that redundant?) for my freelance work. Maybe I can get extra credit for 1) being a bread baking, domestic goddess and 2) teaching Marshia's 3 times a week English classes for four weeks while she was in the states. . . that was a great learning and social experience and it felt nice to volunteer.

Those are the big categories, but I also reviewed our goals and fears as we were hatching this scheme last year. In addition to the above, we wrote about:

Time outside/adventure--One of the reasons we did this was to skip a Chicago winter. Sure, I am all about bikewinter.org, but we didn't relish another 4 months of struggling to get Miguel layered up for outings. Also, this environment is so much more kid-friendly. Wide sidewalks, low volume car traffic. . . my heart sings instead of constricting with fear whenever I see Miguel running ahead of us. I think Michael wishes we were doing more grand outings. For me, I just feel grateful every time I walk outside with short sleeves.

Making Friends/Community--Books warned that it is much easier to socialize with with fellow travelers and expats, in part because of language barriers, in part because locals tend to be booked up with their own family obligations. That has been somewhat the case with us. For example, we became close with our neighbors across the hall, Chris and Connie from Ontario, who were volunteering in Banos for two months. (The picture is of Connie and the mural they worked on. We helped a tiny bit too.)

But we have also made friends with some local families. (Though, now that I think of it, each of these families is comprised of a local who is married to a non-local.) Regardless, we have already hosted some dinners and roof-top parties, and are friendly with other people we interact with on a daily basis--the ladies at the panderia and other tiendas around the corner, Miguel's teachers and bus driver, the people at the pool, our Spanish teachers, the staff at the Posada who are always so friendly, loving, generous and patient with Miguel.

We even had the English students over the other night, to celebrate Marshia's safe return, and our new friendships. I learned that Lincon is a pioneer of organic pest and disease control for crops. I had known that he worked in agriculture, but needed the more relaxed setting of our living room, cerveza and Marshia's bi-lingualism to get the details. I would love to make a website for him. Speaking of Marshia and Jim, we are very grateful to be able to spend time with them, scheming about projects and continuing to grow together. They are dear friends, partners and role models.

Finances/Homefront:--So far, so good, thanks to great tenants and the building management help of our friend Melissa. I put a lot of work into getting the building and yard "ready-enough" for our departure and have been surprised by how little I have stressed out about the property. Seeing Chicago friends write of spring does make me wonder how the garden and apple tree are doing. On the money front, we're doing OK, I think. That reminds me that I need to do the bills before I leave!

School/Socialization--I worried greatly about how Miguel would fare in school. It's like he is getting a preview of Pre-K next year. His teachers are so loving and patient, and he loves the "bus" ride. At first, Miguel was sometimes rough with the other kids, probably in part because he was new and could not communicate. He seems to be doing much better (even though he complains about a "mean boy" who sometimes hits and pinches) and I am less worried about how school with be for him next fall. Assuming we get into a pre-K program. . . ack! That's one stressful thing about not being in Chicago to work on.

Slow Down--Michael hoped this trip would help us slow down. That makes me smile a bit as this is the same man who thought that having a child would slow down our lives. I'll have to leave this one for him to comment on. Sometimes I feel we are still too busy, but that could be because I have the inner conflict of always wanting to have my fingers in something while also desiring time for doing a whole lot of quiet nothing. Like tonight! Although I guess writing this doesn't quite qualify as nothing.

So, goals for next trimester?
1) Write more and *shorter* pieces for this blog, some in Spanish.
2) Kick up the Spanish studies
3) Do more projects with Miguel that involve fine motor skills. Stay on top of his eye issues.
4) Build up to an hour of running, 45 minutes of swimming and 10 push ups. Plus, develop at home yoga practice.
5) Focus on developing and marketing my freelance business.
6) Keep having people over to our nest.
7) Sit on my hands around sweets. Sometimes.
8) Keep taking pictures.

Throat of Fire Batch #3, Mashing-In

2010-03-11T08:29:00.006-06:00

With Batch #1 in the bottle (Forty-eight 24-ouncers that should be ready to taste in about 2 weeks) and Batch #2 in the corboy, today we're brewing Batch#3 of Throat of Fire.

We're tweaking our pale ale recipe a little, striving for perfection to please Mama Tungurahua and the Virgen de Agua Santa.

Jim is meeting with the local padre later today to secure a blessing for our brewery, as well as clearance for our proposed slogan-- Hecho con Agua Santa (Made with Holy Water).

Special thanks to Bob Battenfield for the mashing-in photo!

Bike Boulevards Article in Momentum Magazine

2010-03-10T20:39:00.009-06:00

An important goal of our sabbatical is to write more. It's been fun to chronicle our adventures with blog posts, and we have also been working on some other writing projects as well.

As we prepared to leave the states back in December, I was finishing up an article on Bike Boulevards for Momentum Magazine (thanks to Gin for editing help!).

The article was published in the March issue of Momentum and online. I've also included the article below.

Bike Boulevards Now!

By Michael Burton

Photography: Michael Burton

Photograph by Michael Burton

Once upon a time, bikes were the king of the road.
In the 1880s, American cyclists led the Good Roads Movement, which paved the way for a nationwide network of streets primarily meant for bikes. By the 1920s, however, automobiles dominated most roads, crowding out bikes and making many streets unsafe for cycling.
Over the past 15 years, Chicago cyclists have reclaimed at least the margins of many roadways, with the establishment of nearly 150 miles of dedicated on-street bike lanes.
And, if Sarah Kaplan has her way, bicycles will soon again reign on some Chicago streets.
“Bike lanes are great,” said Kaplan, a 30-year old law student. “But it can be scary to ride next to traffic and that keeps a lot of people from biking. People should be able to ride and feel safe the whole time.”
Just like the Good Roads Movement over a century ago, Kaplan has called together fellow cyclists to make streets better for biking. Their first meeting in November 2009 was attended by a group of enthusiastic bike activists. The result is a new grassroots group called Bike Boulevards Now! that is advocating for special streets in Chicago to be designed to be safe, pleasant and comfortable for cyclists of all ages and abilities.
Bike boulevards, which have been established in a few West Coast cities, are usually residential streets designed to optimize the flow of bike traffic over long distances, all while diverting and slowing down cars. Often, streetscapes and beautification elements are added, such as signage and planters. The result is a quieter, safer road that is ideal for cycling and that improves the quality of life for area residents.
The goal of the City of Chicago’s Bike 2015 Plan is to establish 10 miles of bike boulevards by 2015; Ben Gomberg – bicycle program coordinator at the Chicago Department of Transportation – calls this a “realistic goal.” Planning is underway for a pilot project next year.
“By spring of 2011, if not sooner, we’re hoping to have the first bike boulevard installed,” Gomberg said. “We would want it to be a meaningful length, longer than a couple blocks, and it would hopefully straddle two wards.”
“We will begin by identifying one or two potential locations where we can get local funding and support through Aldermanic menu funds,” he added.
While local financing may avoid red tape associated with state and federal funding, the high competition for these dollars could pose a problem. With tight city budgets and increasing demands on discretionary funds, it may be tough to sell the idea of Aldermen paying for a pilot bike boulevard.
“Bike Boulevards are something I’m willing to do,” said 35th Ward Alderman Rey Colon, whose ward includes much of the Logan Square community. “It depends on the cost range. Fifty thousand dollars is not so bad. But if it’s $200,000, it’s a challenge.”
In the meantime, Kaplan said the main goal of Bike Boulevards Now! is to build a groundswell of popular support. The group is launching a monthly series of family-friendly group bike rides called “Kidical Masses” to build excitement and spread the word about bike boulevards. The first Kidical Mass ride will be held Saturday, March 20, starting at 9 a.m. at Palmer Square. A second Kidical Mass is scheduled for Saturday, April 17 at 9 a.m. in Lincoln Square.
“There are thousands of Chicago cyclists who will support this,” said Kaplan. “And there are lots of people who would like to bike but don’t because they’re afraid of traffic. I really think bike boulevards will cause an explosion in the number of people cycling in Chicago.”
For more info, see www.bikeboulevardsnow.org

oxygenated, plus mini-guide to Banos

2010-03-09T13:14:00.059-06:00

I drafted this on Saturday night, but didn’t post it because Michael opined that it seemed more like a journal entry than a blog post. I think I will add some value to this one by trying to better explain where we live, as it relates to the volcano and my running route (the eventual topic of this post.)

The pic below shows the peak of Tungurahua, our volcano, puffing in the top right corner. Below the cloud line, there is a little river valley for the Bascun. To the left (east) of the valley is a green ridge. Below that green ridge is Banos. The idea is that lava during an eruption would flow down the side of the volcano into the Bascun valley; the ridge protects Banos. If you look closely, you will see a white speck on the right hand side of the ridge--that's the mirador we have written about. Notice how the ridge hugs Banos to the south. If you keep going east, you can go past the other edge of the ridge (see pic below this one). In the event of a volcano alarm, we are supposed to take refuge on the other side of that ridge.

This picture shows the eastern side of Banos. It's like the extension of the left hand side of the pic above. The volcano and Bascun valley are out of site to the right. In this pic, you can also see the river valley of the Pastaza , which edges Banos to the north. The Pastaza keeps going east, eventually draining to the Amazon. To the west, it climbs into the Andes. When I describe my run way at the bottom of this post, I am talking about a shortcut over the bottom of the end of the ridge and running down the river valley to the next town, Ulba. This is also the road we take to see the waterfalls.

See the top of the ridge over Banos in the pic above? That's the town of Runtun. The pic below is taken from a cafe on top of that ridge. This pic shows Banos, and the mountain range on the other side of the Pastaza. The main bridge over the river is to the left side of the picture. You can see the road climbing up the mountain from the bridge. That's the road Michael takes up to the 'Antenas.' This ridge is also the vantage point for the pictures above. We spent the night on top in a little cabin and had splendid views of the volcano. Our house is near the soccer field closest to the river.

Doing a 360, the pic below is taken from near the Antenas. Marshia and I are watching the volcano. Banos is down below the clouds.

8:08pm, Saturday March 6
I am giving myself 30-45 minutes to write before Michael and I UNPLUG and play some scrabble.

We are online way too much, hardly giving our friends and family back home a chance to notice that we are gone. I like the fact that we are writing--I know from experience that if I don't write, I will forget the details, the texture of this trip. I appreciate being able to put our words and pictures online b/c it seems a tidier way to store them than in the countless journals I have tucked away in various corners of our house back home.

Another benefit is that it forces some editing and censoring. While this means I probably leave out the more interesting stuff, it’s better than all the embarrassing, “draft thoughts and emotions” sections of my journals. Still on my list of things to do when we get back: go through all the old personal files and compost most of my papers. On the downside, I don't cut as close to the bone when I write anymore. Not that I am dishonest, just I used to be more honest, more willing to take risks. Maybe just younger.

But that is not what I sat down to write about. And now it is 8:15. Focus, focus!

***
When I woke up today, I took a deep breath and then hid in the bedroom, reading, for about an hour while Michael and Miguel went through the morning routines. The breath was notable because it was the first deep one I had had after a few weeks of respiratory problem. I was hiding because I was in a funk, which began the night before. I needed some alone time, away from my family.

All of the travel-with-kids books we read before this trip gave a warning along the lines of: Don't do it unless your marriage is very strong. Even then, be prepared for strains and challenges. Thankfully, Michael and I DO have a very strong relationship, but still, so much togetherness, especially for this introvert, can put me on edge. The fact that at least one of us has been ill (not seriously, just enough to trigger more missed school days, inside time and fatigue than we would like) for the last four weeks hasn't helped.

Disclaimer: I'm just sayin', not complaining. Life is very, very good. I'm just drawing my fingers over the rougher edges for a bit.

8:25. Gah--I haven't even gotten to the run, the geography lesson or my rant about health care.

Michael and Miguel left me alone to read Wallace Stegner's Angle of Repose (wow, great book--that will have to be another post) until a luxurious 9am. When Michael came in to see what kind of family adventure I wanted to have, my face must have communicated that I was hoping it would be more of a Daddy and Son morning, so they went off in search of terrabitas and trout. I promised I would go for a run.

Yesterday morning was Michael's turn to be cranky. He had tried to get his brewing day started off early, but something was wrong with the gas line and he was snarling and snippy so I not too subtly suggested he go for a run. He did, and came back aglow. Neither one of us has done much running lately, which is not good for the family temper. I don’t understand how so many people can get by—and maintain their relationships-- on so little exercise.

After they left, I puttered around the house and picked a bunch of photos to have printed to hang next to our new map of Ecuador. We're only here for 5 months, but have made ourselves a nice little nest. Which makes me think of Angle of Repose again. So does journaling.

By noon, I finally laced up my running shoes. The house was clean and quiet (ah!) and I had a thumb drive bursting with photos. I hopped outside, walked a few blocks to a photo place and starting jogging with no particular destination in mind until I saw the signs for one of the city's evacuation routes. Miguel's school had hiked this way a few weeks back, for a practice volcano drill. I wanted to see for myself where the town is supposed to go if the alarms go off. I have been to the spot behind the ridge on bike, but there is a walking shortcut.

I promised myself that I would run for ten minutes. My lungs still felt kind of weak. Then ten became 15 and I was still heading down the river valley. The evacuation route eventually connects to the main road out of town. The traffic volume is not high, but it is fast, and the bus exhaust is thick and black. Having made it this far, I aimed for the bridge near Ulba, knowing that I could walk back. My new goal was 30 minutes.

I was pissed to once again be aiming for 30. 30 should be an easy minimum for me by now. My goal is to run easily for an hour, to do a 10K in less than an hour and a 5K in less than 25 mins. All very reasonable, if I could just stick with it.

I hit the bridge at around 20 minutes and turned around, embracing the up, which is so much easier on my knees. The last few minutes were brutal. I propelled myself remembering how I would push the Mitchell girls last year, as part of our Girls on the Run program. This was their revenge for me saying, “Just two more minutes, slow down if you need to, get to the next light pole." I kept checking my watch, which seemed to stay on 1:07 forever. Finally, I hit 1:10 and was done.

It rained softly for the long walk back, during which I had all kinds of DEEP THOUGHTS, including about Stegner's descriptions of the West, but alas, my time is now up again. Gah! Why do I always take so long to get to the starting point??

8:47pm (I did go on to beat Michael at Scrabble ;-) And here is one more volcano pic, zoomed in from the Antenas.

La Ruta de las Cascadas

2010-03-06T14:30:00.036-06:00

While I've spent many days pedaling little-known mountain roads around Banos, today Miguel and I rode the most popular bike ride in the area-- La Ruta de las Cascadas.

The ride follows the paved Amozonas road, which descends from Banos for about 60 kilometers to the town of Puyo-- gateway to the jungle. Along the way, it passes dozens of waterfalls and many other points of interest.

Today, we saw a woman bungee jump from a bridge, pedaled our bike under a waterfall splashing across the road, rode a tarabita (cable car) across the river valley, hiked along a trail and saw wild orchids, caught a trout and had it cooked up fresh for us, and then, flagged down an open air chiva bus for the ride back uphill into town. All this on a 4-hour bike ride!

Throat of Fire, Batch #2

2010-03-06T06:38:00.005-06:00

After worrying about our first beer-making session for La Cascada Brewery on Tuesday, the batch started bubbling away on Wednesday, indicating that the yeast is metabolizing the malt sugars and magically transforming the sweet water into beer!

We decided to brew batch #2 last night, another version of Throat of Fire pale ale. We tweaked the recipe by increasing the malt by 10% and adding some more honey during the boil to make a heavier beer. We were able to harvest yeast from one of the carboys of batch #1 (thanks to Josh for the inter-continental coaching!).

We tasted batch #1 while transferring it into a clean corboy and harvesting the yeast. It tasted great-- very hoppy, but probably a bit lighter body-wise than we want. It will be good to see how our heavier batch #2 compares as we hone in on a recipe.

Next up is bottling batch #1 on Wednesday or Thursday. We will do some more improvising by re-using old bottle caps and hammering them on to Pilsener bottles. Then after 2-3 weeks of bottle conditioning, it will be time to drink!

La Cascada Brewery Batch #1: In the Carboy!

2010-03-03T07:59:00.023-06:00

After assembling the makeshift La Cascada Brewery for the past month, last night Jim and I finally brewed batch #1. The recipe is an American Pale Ale that we're calling 'Throat of Fire' -- the Quichua name for Tungurahua, our local active volcano.

The brew session took about 5 hours and pretty much went off without a hitch. Though in taking a brewery through its first batch, there will always be some challenges. The potential problem I'm most worried about is that at mash-out, the wort temperature was in the mid-140f range-- about 10 degrees cooler than ideal for starch to sugar conversion.

Hopefully, by sparging with water at 170f, enough of the malt starches were converted to sugary goodness that will be eaten by the yeast, creating alcohol and magically transforming sweet water to beer.

Typically, brewers check the starch/sugar conversion by measuring the specific gravity of the wort or by doing a starch conversion test. Lacking equipment and materials, we weren't able to perform either of these tests. If the yeast starts metabolizing the sugary wort like gangbusters over the next day or two, we should be ok. If not, next time we'll need to use more hot water during the mash to keep the temperature up.

It's been fun using the mechanical side of my brain to assemble the brewery and puzzle through ways to improvise with the limited equipment and materials available here. Building a mash tun from a picnic cooler, complete with a drain manifold and sparging apparatus in the top, has been at the center of our efforts.

Simply utilizing on-hand equipment and adapting it for brewery use has also been satisfying. A good example is Jim's kitchen grinder. While the grinder is much smaller than a brewer would typically use, we were able to muscle through 20 pounds of two row malt in about in an hour and a half of grinding.

The brewery project has been greeted with universal enthusiasm. Both townies and travelers are thirsty for good beer as Ecuador's beer selection is pretty much limited to a couple of uninspiring lagers.

And it's also been great to get support from so many people for launching the brewery, including: the micro-brewers in Quito and Cuenca who have offered input and advice; brewing buddies back in Chicago (especially Josh) who have been a sounding board for ideas and provided guidance; friends like Jay who have brought us brewing supplies from the states; and, most importantly, Gin and Miguel who have been generously tolerant of another project eating up my time!

So, assuming there's enough sugar in batch #1 for the yeast to do its work, Throat of Fire should be ready for tasting in about a month. And if there's not enough sugar to make the yeast happy, it will be back to the drawing board.

Regardless, after an evening of brewing, Jim and I puffed on Cuban cigars in front of the Posada while contemplating the La Cascada de la Virgen de Agua Santa, our brewery's namesake waterfall. Hopefully, in April, we'll be hoisting tasty tankards of 'Throat of Fire' while enjoying the same vista.

flora, full moon and other ramblings

2010-03-01T11:47:00.003-06:00

We had a great, sunny weekend, with lots of family time. We were all feeling better, after nearly three weeks of the whole family being in and out of sick bay.

Saturday, we went for a hike and Miguel caught his first fish while I continued to try to take "nature" pictures. I need to study up and be more intentional about using the digital camera. When I was a kid, I used to take rather nice pictures with my grandfather's old Ziess-Ikon SLR camera. I knew how to play with shutter speeds, Fstops etc. But with the digital camera, my biggest struggle is with light and focus. Even so, I am including some recent pics in this post.

After lunch, Michael and Miguel took a pick up truck to Banos, while I biked up the river valley. It was the first time I had done any exercise of note in a few weeks, and it felt great. I was grateful for a granny gear, and didn't mind the slow going. It's cheesy to say, but I'll say it anyway: the sky was a brilliant sapphire set in emerald mountains. It reminded me of mid-July days back home, without the topography, of course, and I was missing our biking buddies. When is the Starved Rock ride coming to Ecuador?

Later in the day, our neighbors came over after Miguel was asleep so Michael and I could go on a date (I even put on some make up--below). We were celebrating the full moon, which signaled the end of my month of sobriety. I very much enjoyed our french meal with a bottle of rich red wine, though I wish I had abstained from the extra glass when we stopped by the Posada for dessert. I was a little cobwebby on Sunday morning, which was actually a good reminder to me of why I want to take a more temperate path in the future.

This month will be the real test--if it is a struggle to stay within seven drinks or less a week, I think I'll just stop drinking for good. But, I think I can do it. I felt great last month (well, except for the being sick part). One bummer is that, unlike the last time I stopped drinking for a spell, I did not lose any weight. I still can't quite fit into any of the shorts I brought from home, so I might just have to break down and buy some new clothes. Grrr. Is this what happens in your late 30's???

Miguel has been a peach to be around lately. Our "discipline drama" from a few weeks ago might have just been related to him being sick. But Michael and I are also doing a much better job of staying calm. One of my favorite times of the day is right before Miguel goes to sleep. First we read him a few books, or chapters of Stuart Little, which he loves for some reason. Reading this book again as an adult, I find Stuart to be a bit snobby and I don't at all like the way he leaves home in search of Margalo without telling his parents. Nope, don't like that part one bit. . .

Anyoo, after we are done reading, he and I snuggle in his top bunk. If I am patient and keep my mouth shut, he will talk and talk and also ask all kinds of deep questions. Recent topics have included life and death, and what things are alive versus just being objects. "Is my bed alive?" No, it's an object. "Are Nani and Grandpa alive?" Absolutely! "Are busses alive?" No, but they can move with the help of gasoline. "Are plants alive?" Why, yes they are. Eventually I moved into the Well, what do *you* think? mode of response. He has also been tackling like vs love. Right now, he loves everybody and everything. He is uninterested in the nuance of dear friends vs acquaintances, and especially doesn't understand why we won't say that we love Bas, our upstairs neighbor, who although quite a nice fellow, just doesn't quite meet our criteria for love.

The other night, Miguel started giving me a Spanish lesson right before he drifted off to sleep. He asked me to start saying "siéntese" (sit down) and "no toque" (don't touch) because that's what his teacher says at school. I can totally imagine those being common commands in his classroom. It is a very loving, positive place, so I am not concerned that those phrases were on his mind.

Hmmm, what else can I rattle on about? I stopped writing to have a luxurious skype chat with Jessica. Been loving skype for staying in touch. I know I should unplug more often, but sometimes I get lonely for those conversations that come so easily with old friends.

Yesterday, Michael led a bike trip while I hung out with Miguel. We had some funny experiences that I will need to write about later (note to self--remember meeting the gusano man). Michael and I both got our first sun burns of the trip. We are very good about sunblock, but yesterday was a scorcher in terms of the brightness of the sun. I was not wearing a hat and I think I got a bit of sun stroke. Slept with a bucket next to the bed b/c I thought I would throw up. I am only burned a bit in my chest. Poor Michael--he has a helmet burn: white forward and red face.

Well, that's enough for now. Not very focused, but so what. I really need to be better about writing more, even if it is only to help us remember this very special time of our lives.

Atahualpa's Gold, Revisited

2010-02-28T15:52:00.007-06:00

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!

2010-02-27T14:32:00.017-06:00

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

2010-02-26T21:33:00.002-06:00

"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

2010-02-23T05:59:00.001-06:00

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

2010-02-16T08:18:00.018-06:00

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

2010-02-12T08:07:00.007-06:00

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

2010-02-06T10:19:00.002-06:00

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

2010-02-05T11:04:00.005-06:00

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

2010-02-03T18:36:00.018-06:00

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.

Parenting on Sabbatical

2010-01-30T12:54:00.028-06:00

A collaborative post by Michael & Gin

While sometimes we feel like we're playing hooky on sabbatical (even though we're surprisingly busy), there's no doubt that this trip is hard work for Miguel. Which, in turn, means hard, but mostly joyful, work for us.

Miguel is rapidly growing both physically and cognitively. He is an eager student of the world around him, trying to make sense of it all. Just being a three year old is plenty of work without immersion into a new language, starting a new school and adjusting to the upheaval of a new home.

Fortunately, Miguel seems well suited to travel. He adapts reasonably well to change, embraces new challenges, and is positively gleeful about meeting new people.

Sure, Miguel kicked and screamed every morning during the first week of school and was overjoyed when he saw us each day at pick-up. But during the second week, he only screamed at drop-off. And last week, the early morning tears seemed to be giving way to an excitement to greet the new school day.

Similarly, our de riguer afternoon question of "How was school today?" to which he consistently responded "Bad!" during week 1, suddenly changed to "Good!" last week. He is also showing more interest in Spanish words: por favor, gracias, de nada, agua fria, abaho, arriba, ayuda, pare. . .

Yesterday, Miguel made a developmental leap at the hot baths. He has had a healthy fear of water, holding on to us tightly in the pool, even when he's floating in his inflatable duck.

"Daddy I want to do it by myself!" he proclaimed when entering the pool. With a big smile on his face, he floated a few feet away and looked back with pride at his accomplishment. He spent the next hour enthusiastically practicing his kicking to locomote, never more than few feet from our grasp, but definitely on his own.

While it's wonderful to bear witness to these developmental advances, there are challenging times as well.

Miguel can still be very rough--with kids and us--and seems uninterested in other kids his age. Steven, the lovely 3 -year-old downstairs, would like to play more with Miguel, but the relationship has been a bit rocky. Miguel much prefers the company of adults and bigger kids. Maybe that's an only child thing--Gin was like that too.

Yesterday afternoon, we invited Steven up to our apartment to play and Miguel made it clear he didn't want to see him. Later, when we were having our building potluck on the rooftop terraza, he refused to share anything with Steven.

Since Miguel doesn't nap any more, we wonder if he is just exhausted in the late afternoon/ early evening. After about 5pm, he is cranky and short tempered. He is usually in bed by 7pm and up at about 6am. Maybe we just shouldn't expect much of him after 5pm?

We need to make sure we are providing Miguel with all he needs to develop and succeed-- hard work even during our 'vacation.' Our next Kindle book purchases might have to be about parenting. Perhaps we are adrift after having graduated from the What to Expect, Happiest Baby and Dr. Sears canon. We welcome suggestions!

Frustrating times aside (today he drew on the door with a pen, despite rarely having interest in drawing on paper), we are so proud of the way he has been handling this transition. He's a hiking, talking, questioning, cooking dynamo. We just want to do a better job handling the challenges.

Lunar Care for my Liver

2010-01-30T08:38:00.001-06:00

The table with three livers stopped me. My hand poked my abdomen as I compared the livers of a healthy person, a moderate drinker (glossy with fat and twice as large as the healthy one) and a heavy drinker (dark and shriveled).

I was visiting Body World, the controversial plastination exhibit that shows the human form in an astonishing array of skinless undress; muscles, skeletons, bones, organs arranged to recreate graceful, intimate and athletic poses. The whole thing was shocking and a little disturbing but what has stayed with me, even five years later, is the image of the fatty liver.

While Michael is gearing up to produce booze, I am pondering curtailing my own consumption.

I came of drinking age while report after report vaunted the health benefits of red wine and around a dining room table that often boasted 5 star cuisine, engaging friends, sparkling conversation, riotous games and generous pours of fine beverages. I have tried to carry this tradition to my own table; I love hosting and celebrations, the glow of friends and family breaking bread and sharing toasts.

And because my life is good, it seems many days offer a reason for celebration. Somewhere along the way, the routine was established that seeing friends means sharing a drink or two or three. On quieter nights, unwinding means having a drink or two with Michael. After particularly stressful (or productive) days, splitting a bottle of wine. In summary, I have become an everyday drinker.

I used to think this was OK, especially given 1) my overall physical health 2) how much water I drink 3) wine's purported benefits and 4) it's not like I wake up in the morning craving a drink or nursing a hangover. (Ok, sometimes I nurse a hangover. . .but much less frequently now than when I was in my 20's.)

Then again, in the afternoons I do sometimes quip, like my grandfather: "It's 5 o clock somewhere!" My grandfather was in many ways a model of health. In his 70's, he was fitter than most people in their 20's. He took long walks along the beach every morning, capped by proper, shore-parallel swims in the Gulf of Mexico. His meals were small and balanced. But I bet his liver was not in great shape. I suspect that, like him, I make healthier decisions before sunset than after.

I used to be, at times, a heavy drinker. No need to go into the details, but it's fair to say there were many great times and many I regret. Over the years, I have cut back, downgrading to 'moderate.' But still, it's fair to say I am at about 14-20 drinks a week, because I drink pretty much every day and, yes, it's hard to stop at one. What an uncomfortable thing to write.

I talked to my doctor about this, and she was not overly concerned, citing my overall health, self awareness and the fact that daily drinking is not uncommon in many cultures. However, she encouraged me to stay within the recommended guidelines for women for "low risk" drinking--no more than seven drinks a week and no more than 3 on a given day. Men have a higher threshold--14 a week. Not fair--I think I could easily stay within the parameters for men.

A few years ago, before Miguel was born, I stopped drinking for a month to see if I could do it without major stress and because I wanted to recalibrate my habits (part of the move from heavy to moderate). It was a little challenging, especially in social situations and because I really do enjoy wine with my dinner. Without trying, I lost over 5 pounds--a stark reminder of all the "empty" calories in alcohol.

I think it's time to redo that experiment, in the hopes that it will eventually help me stay within the recommended guidelines. And if I can't, well. . . I think that says something concerning about my relationship to alcohol.

Of course, one could say I am overthinking (who me??) and challenge my reliance on the federal government's take on what's healthy, when diet sodas are included as "Go" foods in their otherwise admirable "go, slow, whoa" categorization of foods.

But I have plenty of reasons to keep dialing back my consumption--mental health, financial, muffin top eradification. . . and I really, really didn't like the looks of those sick livers. I don't eat 1-2 pieces of chocolate cake every day. I shouldn't have 1-2 glasses of red wine either.

Oh, but if I could , if it was healthy, I could happily live on ample amounts of coffee, bread, cheese, garlicky greens, chocolate and wine, with lots of exercise and water, too.

Tonight we are organizing a building potluck on the rooftop terrace. It will be night one of my temperance. My strategy is to have fizzy water with limes on hand. In general, I think Michael and I could be better about opting for tea after dinner over booze.

Last night, I watched a spectacular full "Wolf" moon rise over the mountains. Supposedly the best we will have all year, due to its proximity to the earth. By the next full moon, I'll see about stepping off the wagon--just in time for Micheal's first batch of beer to be tapped.

La Cascada Cerveceria is Born!

2010-01-29T10:48:00.016-06:00

After our fruitless search for beer-making supplies Tuesday in Quito, yesterday Jim and I called Cuenca's La Compania brewpub to inquire about buying brewing ingredients.

After a little haggling, La Compania Brewery owner Pedro Molina agreed to sell us about 100 pounds of grain, and some hops and yeast -- enough ingredients to brew about 50 gallons of beer!

As Ecuador doesn't produce malted barley or hops, the ingredients are imported from Argentina and cost much more than back home. In Chicago, barley goes for about 50 cents a pound. Here we are paying over four times that amount!

Wheat, which is often combined with malted barley in beer recipes, is available here. Today, I bought 5 pounds of wheat for 4o cents per pound-- a much more reasonable price.

Now that we have a line on brewing ingredients, La Cascada Cerveceria is officially on the map! The brewery's namesake is the town waterfall, La Cascada de la Virgen, which is a block away from Jim's hotel and the brewery.

The next step is to get the equipment together for our brewery. Below is a preliminary list of brewing equipment.

Thanks to Josh Deth of Revolution Brewing for already providing advice on the brewery set up.

We would greatly appreciate any ideas and feedback from other brewers among our readership as well. Here's our equipment list:

Brewery Set Up List
Mill to crack malt
Large Pot (Will use a Posada aluminum pot to brew first test batch of 5 gal.). Will need larger pot (prefer stainless) to increase batch capacity.
Burner/ Gas
Cooler/ Mash Tun. A 48-quart cooler will be big enough to adapt as a mash tun for 10 gallon batches.
Fittings for Cooler/ Mash Tun:
-- 12” of 3/8” Copper pipe
-- 24” of stainless steel washing machine hose
--4’ of 3/8” plastic tubing
--3/8” hose clamps
--rubber stopper
Thermometer with probe
Heat Exchanger--Copper or Stainless Tubing
Hydrometer
4-5 fermentation tanks. Will start with plastic water containers
Caps or corks for ferm tanks-- Rubber Stoppers or adapt plastic caps?
Bottles/ Caps Save Pilsener bottles/ caps; experiment with plastic
Dedicated fridge for conditioning/ storing beer

Longer term:
Investigate availability of 5 gallon soda kegs
Investigate retrofitting dairy equipment for production brewery

With any luck, we'll brew our first test batch sometime next week. Until then-- Cheers!

Quito Whirlwind Brew Tour

2010-01-27T07:59:00.034-06:00

Tourists are drawn to Ecuador for its breathtaking mountains, dazzling array of flora and fauna, cultural treasures and friendly people.

Nobody visits Ecuador for the beer.

The beer sector of the economy is monopilized by Cerveza Nacional, S.A., which offers three brews: Pilsener, Club, and Conquerer. Each has a skunky aroma and sour taste. After one or two bottles, instead of feeling a pleasant buzz, a headache begins to set in. Somehow, Cerveza Nacional has crafted beers that bypass drunkenness and produce an immediate hangover.

Ecuadorian cerveza is so bad that beer-lovers are often driven to do the unthinkable-- drink red wine.

The only alternatives to Cerveza Nacional's domination of the beer market are two brewpubs in Quito and one in Cuenca. Sadly, our town (Banos) has no brewpub, so the nearest decent beer is a 3-1/2 hour bus ride away in Quito.

Jim would like to rectify this situation by launching a brewing operation in conjunction with his hotel, the Posada del Arte. As I'm a homebrewer with about twenty years of beer making experience and am a silent partner in Logan Square's new Revolution Brewing, Jim has asked me to help him get started.

Beer is basically made from four ingredients: malted barley, hops, yeast and water. The only ingredient available locally here is water. Apparently, no barley or hops are produced in Ecuador and must be imported.

In order to obtain ingredients to brew a couple of test batches, we've been reaching out to the three Ecuadorian brewpubs, hoping to buy enough supplies to get started.

So far we've talked to the owners of both of Quito's brewpubs: Annalucia from the Turtle's Head and Sandra from the Hotel Savoy. Both have been very generous in sharing thier experiences and advice about the brewpub business.

Sandra from the Hotel Savoy invited us to come to Quito and see her brewery, so on Tuesday, Jim and I took an early bus from Banos to make a daytrip to Quito. After the 3-1/2 hour bus ride, we boarded Quito's Trole, an electirc bus rapid transit system, for an hourlong ride into town.

The Trole was tightly packed with passengers. Shortly before we reached our destination, Jim realized that a thief had slashed his pants and stolen his billfold, which cast a bit of a pall on our venture.

We arrived at the Hotel Savoy about a half hour before our scheduled meeting with Sandra, which gave us some time to have lunch, sample their beers and recover from our negative Trole experience.

The Savoy was built in the 1970s by Sandra's family (her father is from the U.S. and her mother is Ecuadorian) and is a modern, 8-story highrise near the airport.

Every 20 minutres or so, we were shaken by low flying jets coming in for a landing, which was strangely comforting as opposed to the frequent volcano rumblings back in Banos.

The Savoy was pouring two of their own beers-- Roja, an amber ale, and Negra, a porter. Both were a welcome relief from the usual Ecuadorian cervezas.

Sandra sat with us for about an hour, telling us the history of her hotel and their venture into brewing.

In 1996, the Savoy brought a 600 gallon brewing system from Canada. Sandra's brother Roland studied brewing and led their beer making efforts. Apparently, Roland's wife preferred life back in the states, so they returned to the east coast. Now the Savoy's beer is made by a Florida brewer who flies in every other month to make a few batches.

Sandra led us on a tour of the brewery and gave us complimentary glasses of beer as we talked shop. Unfortunately, she is nearly out of grain and couldn't sell us any ingredients. But she is about to order a new batch of supplies and offered to ship some ingredients for us, which could arrive as early as March.

Sandra showed us around the rest of the hotel as she and Jim compared notes on the hotel business. The Savoy is an amazing facility that hosts many business meetings and weddings, with the top floor meeting rooms offering panoramic views of the city and surrounding mountains.

Sandra sent us on our way with four 3-liter water bottles filled with beer. We walked to a nearby kitchen supply store and bought two beer mugs to add some dignity to our 3-1/2 hour, boozy bus ride back to Banos.

At 9:30pm, about 12 hours after leaving Banos, we arrived back at the Banos bus station and spilled out of our seats for the short stumble home.

While we didn't secure the needed ingredients, it looks like we've tapped into a supply line to launch the brewing venture. Next up is to start assembling a makeshift brewery and see if we can obtain ingredients any sooner from the Cuenca brewpub.

The Great Race to the Top

2010-01-23T14:42:00.001-06:00

(my attempt at a 10 minute free write)

Last night Michael and I had a fun debate about running and biking up a steep grade. At what point does cycling become the less efficient form of movement? I need to look that up some day, but in the meantime, this morning we had a little race across and up town, to the start of the mirador hike.

I left right as Michael was putting Miguel in the bike seat, sprinting faster than usual. At the church, I veered into town, down a one way that I knew Michael and Miguel wouldn’t turn on. I did not want to get passed early on. My bet was that my advantage would be on the final ascent.

Through the church square, weaving between fake miniature horses (a town tradition is to take pictures of children in the saddle) and tourists—both local and international. Along Ambato Street, crowded with shops and women sitting in doors croqueting doilies. Past the men pedaling carts up the street. About halfway up, I cut over again, to meet up with Montalvo, where I predicted I would find Michael and Miguel. The only question was whether they would be in front or behind.

Behind!

As I rounded the corner, I saw Michael pedaling hard and heard Miguel shout, “You can do it, Mommy!”
I sped up, in spite of the increasing grade. I kept looking behind. The gap was increasing. I saw Michael straining, zig zagging a bit to avoid gravity’s pull.

Of course, there’s no doubt who would win on a race back home!

But my small accomplishment, if you can even call it that, seeing as I wasn’t hauling another person, was soon dwarfed by Miguel, who walked over 700 steps to the top of the mirador. On his own. (OK, with a candy assist at the end) In fact, once he got to the overlook, he kept going, up the last stairs to his “posada,” a little place above the Virgen with a gate he likes to close to fellow travelers. They are usually charmed, and he usually opens the gate without me having to intervene.

I am so proud of my little hiker. He even walked part way down. We took a path to loop back, and taught him how to walk sideways—and zig zag—on steep descents. Eventually, he did hitch a ride in the backpack, while I dawdled and took a lot of pictures. My bum knee hates down, so I always take it slow.
It’s not like it’s a competition or anything.

Paying Tribute to the Mountain Gods

2010-01-21T18:31:00.034-06:00

After reacquainting myself with the mountain roads around Banos over the past two weeks, I now have five solid bike day trips that I can lead.

Jim has been leading a few trips a month while juggling his innkeeper duties, and I'm hoping by doing a little marketing to Posada guests, there will be enough demand for me to lead a couple trips a week.

So I put together a flyer advertising the day trips and posted it around the Posada. I hope to get some nibbles to guide trips next week.

In the meantime, to offer my tribute to the mountain gods, I decided today to ride to Las Antennas, a steep two-hour, 1,800 foot climb straight up the mountainside opposite Banos.

I rode a truck up to Las Antennas twice last week, where the High Mountain Hacienda and the In Search of Atahualpa's Gold rides both begin. Gin always snickers a bit when I start off a bike trip by riding in a truck. I'm conflicted by the 'petrol assist', but the truck ride greatly extends the range of daytrips by bike.

Jim has ridden up to Las Antennas and reported that it takes two hours, or an hour and a half if you're Lance Armstrong.

This morning, I cued up a peppy REM compilation on my IPOD and started grinding my way up the mountain. Here's a play-by-play of the ride.

20 Minutes Up: My plan to ride all the way up without my feet leaving the pedals is thwarted as I drop my sunglasses. I take the opportunity to stretch my legs while eating a banana and enjoying a birds eye view of Banos.

40 Minutes: A strange coincidence? My clipless pedals rebel and I take a minor spill as Michael Stipe sings "Everybody Hit the Ground" in the King of Birds.

60 Minutes: I stop for a water break and to take some pictures of Banos with El Altar far off in the background (voted Ecuador's Prettiest Peak, 2003). Las Antennas doesn't look that much higher up. Maybe I'm climbing like Lance in the Alps.

75 Minutes: I think I can. I think I can. I've got to bring toys for the good little boys and girls on the other side of the mountain . . .

90 Minutes: Las Antennas seem to be getting further away and the track is getting steeper!

100 Minutes: Another false summit. I try to console myself with the great views of Tungurhua across the valley, though her peak is obscured by clouds.

110 Minutes: I guess Lance has nothing to fear from me. It looks like there are just a few more switchbacks until the top. Michael Stipe singing "I Am Superman" gives me a temporary adrenaline boost.

118 Minutes: I reach Las Antennas, with 2 minutes to spare! I meet Manual, who works at the antennas, and he offers to take the obligatory photo of me at the top.

I needed to pick Miguel up from school in an hour, so I didn't tarry.

I cued up the latest Pretenders album, Break up the Concrete, and began rolling back down the hill. It was amazing weaving at break-neck speed down all the switch backs I had just slogged up.

Twenty-two minutes later, I sped across the San Francisco bridge at the bottom of the road, before Chrissie Hynde had a chance to sing the album's title track, an ode to the jack hammer.

While I don't think there's much commercial appeal in getting tourists to pedal up to Las Antennas, it felt fitting to pay tribute to this steep road and the mountain before launching a new mountainbike touring venture.

24 Hours in Quito: Bikes, Beer & Bureaucracy

2010-01-19T09:45:00.023-06:00

On Sunday morning, Jim and Marshia joined me, Gin and Miguel for a overnight trip to Quito to ride the 'ciclovia'. Every Sunday, a north/south route of streets running the length of Quito is closed to cars to make way for cyclists, walkers, skaters, etc.

We loaded 4 bikes and a bike seat for Miguel into the under-carriage of a bus and frittered away the 3-1/2hour bus ride from Banos to Quito, munching on snacks bought from hawkers who boarded the bus at each stop. My favorite treat was a creamy coconut ice cream bar.

The new Quito bus station is located on the south side of town and the bus dropped us conveniently near the southern starting point for the ciclovia.

We slowly meandered a dozen miles north along the ciclovia, enjoying the sunny day, the sunny dispositions of our fellow street-reclaimers, and beautiful vistas of Quito's buildings creeping up the surrounding mountainsides. Miguel got in the spirit by wishing onlookers 'Happy Friday!', his mantra when we ride Chicago's Critical Mass.

After about an hour of pedaling, we reached Quito's Old Town. The route snaked through steep, cobble-stoned streets, tightly lined with centuries-old colonial buildings.

From Old Town, the ciclovia led us to the city center, where we took a break at the newly renovated Parque El Ejido. Miguel romped at a play ground and did some pedaling of his own on a rented bike. The park also has some stalls selling Otavalan clothes and crafts. We bought a matching family set of burgundy fedora hats and a tapestry for our Banos apartment.

After the park, we followed a bike lane another mile to our hotel and dropped our bags. We then strolled a few blocks to Quito's only brewpub, the Turtle's Head, and schemed about launching our own guerrilla brewery over tasty pints and pub grub.

The next morning, Jim and I biked to the Ministerio de Extranjeros to try to fix some visa problems, while the ladies and Miguel shopped. After a couple of hours of waiting in line and getting my documents 'just right', I finally emerged from the visa process victoriously. It only took a total of three mornings in bureaucratic detention since arriving in Ecuador to secure my six month tourist visa.

On Monday afternoon, we biked the dozen or so undulating miles back to the bus station. This time, we had to share the streets with cars, trucks and diesel-belching buses. Though Quito has some nice bike facilities (bike routes that run through parks and on-street bike lanes), the vehicle clogged streets are not very bike-friendly. We saw only a handful of cyclists.

We enjoyed a relaxing and snackful bus ride down the valley of the volcanoes back to Banos, although clouds precluded any volcano views. We got back just before sundown. I don't think our tired legs had to pedal once on the mile long trip home--a benefit of living downhill from the bus station.

The Less-Traveled Hacienda Route

2010-01-16T10:30:00.028-06:00

On Friday, Jim and I pedaled in search of a new bike route to one of our favorite destinations-- Hacienda Manteles.

The trip started with the same truck ride as the Atahualpa's Gold Ride to El Triumfo, an 1,800-foot, half hour climb up the mountainside opposite Banos to Las Antennas.

After bidding farewell to our driver, we pedaled up another 1,600 feet and veered west at the road junction, instead of taking the eastbound road to El Triumfo.

Shortly after the junction, we came to a turn-off for a small, lightly traveled road that we had heard ends at Hacienda Manteles. We took the road less-traveled, and that made all the difference.

The seldom-used dirt track climbed a few hundred more feet and then plunged for an exhilarating, hour-long ride. We splashed through streams that ran across the road, dodged rocks and plowed through mud with gravity swiftly spinning our wheels down the mountain.

We enjoyed beautiful vistas of the verdant valley below, but clouds and intermittent drizzle blocked views of the volcano and more distant peaks.

At 12 noon, we rolled into Hacienda Manteles just in time for lunch. We enjoyed Ceasar's (the proprietor) hospitality, dinning on hearty plates of steak and roasted chicken.

Last year, Gin, Miguel and I had stayed at Manteles for a few nights. The Hacienda has purchased and preserved a few hundred acres of nearby cloud forest and paramo and offers wonderful hiking and horseback riding trips. The Hacienda is also a working farm and its menu includes many of their own meats and vegetables.

After lunch, we felt refreshed enough to tackle another grueling 600-foot climb to the nearby hilltop village of San Jorge. From there it was another hour-long screaming descent to the town of Patate.

We pedaled through Patate's beautiful new town square and biked down a street that was closed to cars with a brass band playing-- they must have known we were coming!

Outside of Patate, the road plunged once again until it crossed the Pastaza River. At the riverside, we bought potted flowers for our wives and then caught a public bus onto Palileo, and then another bus back to Banos.

It's amazing how a bike can be loaded on top of most any bus in the country with little fuss. Combining the bus and the bike (and the occasional hired truck) allows us to venture far afoot without having to pedal all the way back home, giving access to many 'less-traveled roads'. Somewhere, Robert Frost is smiling.

runners don't need trucks for up

2010-01-14T20:22:00.002-06:00

While Michael has been going on epic bike rides, I have stayed closer to home, in part because I am not as big a mountain biker as he is, but mostly because I am wrapping up some freelance projects. Got a big deadline to meet next Friday, with lots of work to do before now and then, but that's OK.

Being stuck at a computer doesn't feel so bad when I can look up and see mountains all around. But I also feel guilty to be sucking up electricity. Today as I ran, I thought about the environmental effect of my slow creative process. If I could just speed up my work, I would use less resources *and* have more time for grand excursions. The daily black outs keep me on my toes, and remind me to unplug, even when the lights come back on.

Until I finish my projects, I am sticking to quick jogs around town. My favorite route swings by the cemetery, which is perched above town. The last few blocks are a killer ascent. The road then curves around the ridge, affording a straight on view of Tungurahua's peak (see picture above). It is that ridge which has protected Banos from lava flow in the past.

From the road, you can scramble down to the Bascun Creek where a bridge was washed out during the last round of volcanic activity. (There are other bridges not too far away.) You can sense the difference a few hundred feet can make in the course of catastrophe. And maybe I have catastrophe on the mind, with all the suffering and chaos in Haiti right now.

People still have to cross the creek, and no one likes to detour much (first rule of pedestrian planning). A makeshift plank footbridge serves the purpose for now. You can't see it from above town, so I feel I have done my scouting duty to the Posada del Arte. Jim and Marshia can tell the hiking/biking turistas that the short cut to El Salado hot springs is intact, if you have decent balance and are not afraid of getting your feet wet.

The creek is one of my favorite places in Banos. It's easy to forget about the bustling tourist mecca just blocks away. The first time I came, I made way for about 8 horses making the crossing with their cabellero.The man used the plank, the horses gracefully picked their way through the water rushing over the rocky river bottom.

Today, I intercepted a local women who was trying to cross with her crying toddler, bike and an enormous load on her back. Desperate to feel useful, I shouted something about "ayudar" and thankfully she understood that I wanted to help her instead of needing help myself. She crossed with the child and I carried the bike across and up the embankment for her. "Yo tengo un hijo tambien. Entiendo es deficil. . . " In my horrible Spanish explaining that I have a little boy too and know it can be hard. She nodded and smiled.

Michael sometimes gets a lift from trucks on his bike tours, cutting out some of the up to make it easier for amazing views, and incredible descents. (Which involve plenty of up, too, don't get me wrong.) For me, I much prefer running up and strolling down.Way easier on the knees.

My goal is to be able to run these mountains for over an hour. Who knows, maybe I will start my own trail running side shoot to Michael's bike tours.

Pedaling for Atahualpa's Gold

2010-01-13T19:30:00.027-06:00

Atahaulpa, the Incan king, is rumored to have stashed heaps of gold in the impregnable Llaganates wilderness outside of El Triumfo. I biked to El Triumfo on Wednesday, and while I didn't find any gold, I treasured the beautiful scenery and great mountain biking.

In 2004, Jim, Marshia and I led a series of group bike trips around Banos. Over the past week, I’ve been reacquainting myself with the local routes as I prepare to lead rides again on a regular basis.

The trip started with a truck ride 1,800 feet straight up the mountainside opposite of Banos. I hopped out the truck bed at Las Antennas, a high plateau with transmission towers, and followed a dirt road with the help of Jim’s GPS. The only other traffic on the road for more than two hours consisted of a few farmers on foot and a couple horseback riders.

I pedaled up 2,400 feet in two hours, reaching an apex of nearly 10,000 feet. It was a mostly clear day and the views were stunning.

I caught a glimpse inside Tungurahua’s smokey cone as it exhaled clouds of smoke every few minutes, followed by the familiar rumbling that we’ve been hearing in town, but are having a hard time getting used to.

In the distance to the west, I saw Ecuador’s highest mountain, Chimborazo. Some say Chimborazo is the highest mountain in the world. If you measure altitude not according to sea level but distance from the center of the earth, Chimborazo towers over Mount Everest, due to the earth’s equatorial bulge.

After snapping some photos of the panorama at the top and wolfing down a banana, I rocketed downhill towards El Triumfo. About two miles outside of El Triumfo, I encountered a back hoe and bulldozer widening the road, making the route temporarily impassible to motor vehicles. I walked my bike through the soft earth, around the heavy machinery, hoping these ‘improvements’ won’t result in the paving of this wild, back country road.

At the turn-off for El Trimufo, I stopped only long enough to snap a picture of the town sign and say “hola” to some curious school children. I’ve been through the one-road town before, which is a jumping-off point into the unnavigable Llaganates wilderness for treasure hunters seeking Atahaulpa’s gold.

From El Triumfo, I raced down a 2,200 feet slope through the verdant Rio Chico valley. About halfway down, the dirt road turned to pavement. I figured out how to turn Jim’s GPS into a speedometer and was surprised to see I nearly reached 55 km/h – well over the posted 40 km/h speed limit. Not bad for nobbies!

I stopped near the bottom for a photo of the Agoyan damn, which provides Banos with electricity (though apparently not enough, as we've been experiencing 2-hour black outs everyday). Give us back our wild rivers and I'll go back to using candles, but I guess I'd miss my computer.

Soon after the damn overlook, I hooked up with the main road for a 2km steep climb back to Banos. Though I hadn't discovered the lost treasure during the ride, my legs felt tired enough to have won a gold medal.

Tungurahua Today

2010-01-13T18:11:00.008-06:00

Today, I biked to the small hamlet of El Triunfo. The route took me high on the next ridge over from Tungurahua and I was able to see into the volcano's cone.

More pictures and a description of the ride are soon to follow.

It was a clear day and I was also able to see Chimborazo (below), Ecuador's highest peak, in the distance.

A Pilgrimage to the Virgen

2010-01-10T15:47:00.014-06:00

We woke up this morning to a rumbling volcano and our first day of full-on sunshine in almost a week.

To take advantage of the glorious day, we decided to take a hike. We set out for the statue of the Virgen de Agua Santa, a popular 45-minute climb straight up the mountainside with great views of town, and with some luck (and the lifting of clouds), a glimpse of Tungurahua's smokey peak.

The route consists of nearly 700 stairs, some enumerated with white numbers painted on them to help pilgrims mark their progress. We brought along a backpack carrier for Miguel, expecting I would have to haul him up most of the way up like Gin had done the week before.

At first, we set a 'realistic' goal of 75 steps for Miguel to climb on his own before hitching a ride on daddy's back. As we passed stair #75 we encouraged him on with rounds of The Happy Wanderer and he kept climbing.

We took a rest stop and a picture at step #200. Mom ran up ahead and Miguel followed-- and kept climbing, and climbing, and climbing.

Luck was on our side. The clouds lied as we were about half way up, allowing us a view of Tungurahua's peak and billowing smokey plume.

Finally, when we neared step #450, Miguel insisted on riding in the backpack. But first, he posed on step #450 for another photo, waving his fist triumphantly.

When we reached the top, another group of pilgrims were reciting prayers at the Virgen's feet, some of whom had walked all the way up barefooted-- perhaps in penitence? Or perhaps they were pleading for the Virgen's continued protection of the town from Tungurahua's fire?

After the hike, Miguel and I had lunch at the Posada and then paid a visit to the hot bathes, taking advantage of Tungurahua's hot springs to soothe our muscles.

When we got back to our apartment, Gin noticed that from our window we can see Tungurahua's plume rising in the sky (the peak isn't visible from town). As the volcanic activity seems to be steadily increasing, perhaps we'll soon be invoking the protection of the Virgen de Agua Santa, as well.

Rumble Rumble

2010-01-09T07:30:00.006-06:00

At first you think it's thunder, and given all the rain we have been having the last few days**, thunder seems a likely explanation. But there's no lightening and I have never heard thunder in Baños anyway.

Turns out Mama Tungurahua woke up right as we arrived.

**Special note to my parents: don't worry. This town is prepared. And there's always the Virgen looking over us too! **

Last night, I heard quite a few rumbles. I started to think about what we would need to grab if we heard an air raid. Maybe we need to pack a little bag. Knowing we have bikes is a comfort too.

Yesterday morning we heard the sirens and called Marshia in confusion. "Just testing the system," she reassured us.

So, what is the evacuation plan?

First of all, we're not talking a Pompeii situation where she blows in our sleep and that's that. This mountain is watched closely, wired like a patient in the ICU. There will be plenty of warning if indeed the scientists think people should leave. Even then, many will stay. (We won't!)

Some say that these episodes of volcanic coughing and hacking are a good sign--"letting off steam" instead of "blowing her top." Locals say these outbursts happen in threes (always three, right?). The first big one was 1999 (when the town was evacuated and locals stormed back after awhile when eruption didn't seem imminent; the next was 2006, when Jim stayed after much of the town had packed up, and wrote many haunting emails).

Perhaps we are starting to enter a 3rd stage. It will be a treat to see the lava flow again. (Assuming the sun comes back out--we are in the rainy season. Better than the snowy season back home, so no complaints!) But we'll be on one of the early buses out if things really start to rumble.

For more info on Tungurahua's recent rumblings, see
http://volcanism.wordpress.com/2010/01/08/tungurahua-shows-signs-of-awakening/

Why Ecuador? Part 1

2010-01-08T08:25:00.000-06:00

Part 1: 2001--My First Visit to Ecuador

Why 6 months in Banos, Ecuador? It's the question we’re most often asked about our sabbatical.

While there is no lack of good reasons to spend time in this beautiful mountain town, the simplest answer is that our friends Jim and Marshia call Banos home. But the longer explanation includes stories from four previous trips to Ecuador and other life journeys.

This initial installment of 'Why Ecuador?' is a travelogue of my first of 5 trips to Ecuador.

I first visited Ecuador in December 2001, for a month-long vacation between jobs. I flew to Quito (the capitol city), where I studied Spanish for a week.

Quito is a thriving metropolis in a high valley surrounded by volcanic peaks. It was a major Incan city before the Spaniards stole it in 1526. The Incans razed the City to spite their conquerors and the Spaniards rebuilt Quito on top of the ruins. In Quito’s old section, many of the Spanish colonial buildings hauntingly remain, with the imposing facades and cobble-stoned streets changing little over the past five centuries.

After a week of studying in the bustling capitol, I decided to pursue more tranquil environs. I hopped a bus 3 hours south down the central valley of Ecuador (the ‘Avenue of the Volcanoes’, as christened by explorer Alexander von Humboldt in 1800) to check out the small town of Banos.

Banos is another valley town at about 5,500 feet (4,000 feet lower than Quito) with a population of nearly 20,000. It’s perched on the side of the active volcano Tungurahua, Quicha for ‘Throat of Fire’, which frequently rumbles, spitting fire and smoke, but only majorly erupts every hundred years or so.

While other nearby towns have been repeatedly destroyed by Tungurahua’s explosions, Banos has been spared over the centuries, thanks to the Virgen de Agua Santa. The Virgen is an apparition of the Virgin Mary that has become the town’s protectorate and who has been known to frequent a local waterfall.

I studied Spanish for a week in Banos and then was joined by Jim and Marshia, who I had earlier convinced to fly down and spend a week with me. We explored the Banos area on bikes and with our hiking boots and were awed by the natural beauty and friendliness of the local people.

The town’s combined altitude and latitude (1 degree south) sustain an eternal spring-like climate, and put it in close approximation to the jungle as well as the high sierra. Loads of great hiking and mountain biking trips begin by merely stepping out the door. And at the end of the day, hot spring bathes beckon to relax tired muscles and scores of excellent restaurants to help replenish the body and soul.

When I returned to Chicago at the end of December, a new journey began. Gin proposed to me on New Years Eve 2001 and we bought our 3-flat in March 2002 (thanks to Marshia, who was our real estate agent).

In August 2002, Gin and I were married in a bike wedding at Humboldt Park. Jim and Marshia shared their words of wisdom during the ceremony, not far from the watchful eye of Alexander von Humboldt's statue.

Next Installment: Why Ecuador? Part 2: Michael, Jim & Marshia launch an Ecuadorian bike tour company in 2004.

Miguel's 1st Day of School!

2010-01-05T22:08:00.001-06:00

At 8am this morning, Gin, Miguel and I piled into a school bus (actually, a yellow van) packed with squirming preschoolers. Peppy music blared from the van's speakers as it zig-zagged a mile across the small town of Banos, stopping every couple of blocks to pick up yet another kid.

A few minutes later we arrived at the Infantil Mundial and Miguel embarked on his scholastic career.

One of the reasons we decided to take 8 months off was to spend more time as a family. It's been great (mostly) spending all of our time together for the last couple of weeks. But Miguel needs some time with his peers, and his parents need at least a few hours a day to not be full-time parents. So, we decided to check out the school where our landlord (who lives in the apartment below us) sends her 3-year old son.

Yesterday, we paid a family visit to the Infantil Mundial, which consists of class rooms surrounding a cement courtyard playground with old-school swings, merry-go-round, teeter totters, and some other play areas. Miguel is in the youngest classroom called "Nursery" with a dozen or so of his contemporaries, presided over by a teacher and an aide. The school day runs from 8am to noon and there are a couple of field trips a week, which are walks to local parks.

Miguel has been intrigued by the whole concept of school and is downright enthusiastic about riding a school bus. But given all the abrupt changes in his life over the past few weeks, he was more than a little apprehensive about the latest one, which involved leaving the comforting company of his mom and dad.

When we visited the school yesterday, the principal recommended that we leave and have Miguel try the school for 2 hours by himself. Gin had promised Miguel we wouldn't leave him there yesterday, and besides, we hadn't bought a cell phone yet so the school would be able to contact us in case of emergencies. We all hung out with the class for about 45 minutes to get a feel for it and to see if it would be right for Miguel.

He seemed to enjoy himself with the other kids on the swings and merry-go-round, so we bought him a school uniform, set out to buy a cell phone, and began preparing Miguel for today's two-hour trial run at the school.

As we arrived at school this morning Miguel was a little nervous. When we got into the classroom, he clung to Gin and wept saying that he didn't want to go to school. Our hearts were aching. The teacher recommended we say quick goodbyes and come back in two hours. If there were any problems, she would call us on our new cell phone.

I spent my pre-school days in the 1960s, long before daycare had become a household word. I can still vividly remember when I was 5-years old and my mom dropped me off at our local library's story-hour room. After our moms retreated downstairs to do some kid-free reading of their own, the librarian said if any of us wanted to go back downstairs to our moms, we should go now. I quickly returned to my mom.

Miguel wasn't given this option.

Two hours later, we peeked through the school's gate and saw Miguel playing contentedly on the merry-go-round. He was so absorbed in playing that we almost snuck by him on our way to the principal's office. His teacher told us things had gone well, and also reported that he wasn't much interested in working at the tables in the classroom and that he was a little rough with the other kids.

After we bought some more uniforms, Miguel gave big hugs to his teacher and the aide. I think he may have even said a word or two of Spanish.

Tomorrow, Miguel will try 3 hours at the school. Poco a poco, a scholar is born.

GK Adds:
When we dropped him off today, I remembered that first time I left him at Doodlebug, again just for a little while. He was 10 months old and I was getting ready to go back to work. I went to No Friction for some coffee and ran into one of my colleagues, who was also enjoying some free time before we both headed back to Mitchell School. I can't remember if I cried with her or waited until I got outside.

It's worse now that he can verbalize his feelings so well. "Please stay and play with me here, Mommy." Just seeing his demeanor change today was wrenching and rich--apprehension in the house until we reminded him about his friends back home who go to school. Glee on the bus. Comfort in the school yard. And then the heartbreaking crumbling into my arms once we got to the classroom. I am glad the director shooed us away and glad we went for a run right afterwards; it kept my knees from buckling. But I also wasn't surprised by the news that he had not cried once after we left, or that fact that we seemed so at home when we returned. Miguel, for the most part, embraces new situations with gusto.

Still, tonight, before he went to bed, he told his bunnies all about his day and the report about school went something like this:

"Bunnies, I started school today?" Really? How exciting! How did it go? (I am sometimes the voice of the bunnies.)
"Well, I had a hard day. The teachers told me NO! when I was bothering another kid." Oh, did you make any friends?
"Yes, the teachers are my friends. Steven is my friend" What else did you do? Did you go outside?
"No, we stayed inside." Really? You didn't play outside?
"Yes, and my mom and my dad came and picked me up and then we went to the BATHS! and one was very hot and one was medium and one was cold. And then we went to the Posada del Arte for lunch and I saw Marshia and Jim." Really? That sounds fun? Did you play with any kids there?
"YES! I payed with Reyes and and he had yellow and green money (these were stones Miguel took from one of Marshia's plants and gave to an older boy who was there with a family and quite kindly let Miguel show him all over the place).

And so on. School is going to be hard and good for him. I bet he will be speaking more Spanish than us in no time. I just want to try to be very present for him when he comes home.

bread and garlic

2010-01-05T20:11:00.004-06:00

The bread is on its second rise. This little place is starting to feel like home.

The other night, I wrote about sounds. Today, I am thinking about smells. For dinner, we had leftover spaghetti (a simple meal I made last night) with a side of eggplant, bean sprouts and wheat germ sauteed in garlic.

I had thought the bean sprouts were peas. I bought them, plus a bunch of other staples, from the Mega-Bodega. They came in a bag with no label. Today I saw they had started to sprout a bit, but figured they must be edible having been on the shelf next to the lettuce one day before.

The wheat germ addition was inspired by the fact that it didn't all fit into my little storage container (I am compulsively organizing--big surprise!) I dumped the extra into the fry pan.

With some cumin from the local spiceria (I think I am making that word up), lemon and butter, the dish turned out pretty well. Even Miguel shoveled some "peas" in. It's hard to go wrong with butter and garlic; I think I was mostly just looking for an excuse to make the kitchen smell like home.

It's strange to be off cookbook. I can look for things online, but it feels better for now to experiment. Which brings me back to the bread. I could have searched online for high altitude baking instructions. But I probably would have just meandered from site to site when really I needed to take off my rings and get flour gunk under my fingernails.

So, I mixed together some lukewarm water, leftover oatmeal, honey and yeast. Nothing happened. The cold oatmeal from the fridge had cooled down the mixture. I mixed in some flour, salt and oil anyway, trusting the process. I could smell the yeast trying to wake up.

I lit the oven with a match to warm it a bit, then put the slurry in. An hour later, I had something quite recognizable as protobread. I had to feed it a lot more flour (and wheat germ and raisins) before I could get a proper knead going.

Soon, the bread will be in the oven. I have no idea how it will taste or what its "crumb" will be. I just bet it will smell good. It's hard to go but so wrong with flour, water, yeast and time.

New Home-New Noises

2010-01-03T20:05:00.006-06:00

March 28, 2002. Nearly eight years ago, Michael and I bought a yellow brick 3 flat in Logan Square. After closing, we stopped by what would become--after much work--our new home.

The sky was clear and dark, with a perfect view of the skyline from the 3rd floor. In the picture to the left, you can see the full (?) moon.

But what I remember most about that night is my fear that we had made a horrible mistake. Garish security lights from the used car lot on the corner lit up the dining room. The bathroom was smaller than I remembered. Brown linoleum pooled under our feet.

Worst of all, our new home was loud. Car alarms howled to no one in particular. The Kimball and Armitage busses roared by, setting off more car alarms. Voices and footsteps ricocheted up the 3 stories and around the empty rooms. I felt exposed to all the sounds of the neighborhood, and wondered if we would ever get used to it

We did, of course. And ripped up the linoleum, which had done a great job preserving the wood floors beneath.

Similarly, it won't be long before we no longer notice the din of this apartment: neighbors talking, trucks rumbling, children playing, fans cheering in the soccer field (we can see the stands from our kitchen window--Wrigley Field South), gates clanging, dogs barking like roosters, and roosters barking like dogs.

Miguel had a hard time falling asleep tonight. This is his 5th bed in two weeks. Different sounds each time. The light coming in at new angles. Different sheets, a different distance his foot has to travel to hit the floor in the middle of the night. So much of what we unknowingly count on to settle us has kept changing.

His mood had been fine all day. He was pleased with his new room and bunk bed, especially when informed that he could sleep on top and have a play area on the bed below. This afternoon, he rolled his trains over the comforter's tricky terrain.

But as I snuggled with him after reading the last story, he rebuked me:

"I did not want to come to this place." Which place?

"Why did we come to Ecuador? I did not want to come to Ecuador!" Oh, sweety. We are here so we can spend time together as a family and so you can have lots of fun outside. The weather in Chicago right now is very cold, it's icky. Remember how you hate having to wear so many clothes?"

"Well, Ecuador is icky too. There is poop and garbage on the sidewalks*"

The conversation continued for a long while. I mostly tried to listen and validate his feelings. And as I have done so many nights on this trip, I stayed with him until he fell asleep. I know (I hope) he (and I) will settle in soon.

*In truth, there is no more litter on the streets here than in Chicago. But you do need to keep your eyes open for dog poop.

Happy New Year/Feliz Año Nuevo

2010-01-01T19:54:00.009-06:00

So much is on my mind, but I'll try to keep it brief considering how text heavy and picture light we have been of late. Today we took one of our favorite hikes up to a statue of the Virgen del Agua Santa, who protects Baños from Mama Tungurahua, the active volcano looming behind the town. More on this later.

The hike involves 675 steps*, which would normally be a breeze, but I was carrying a pooped Miguel who had stayed up till midnight to celebrate the opening of a new decade with us. At nearly 35 pounds, he is almost of a third of my weight. Thankfully, our Ergo backback, which we almost left behind, continues to serve us well.**

Jim came along, and carried Miguel down, after we spent plenty of time at the top. We made good use of our binoculars and chatted with locals. Miguel makes friends wherever we go.

*Argh. I am trying to add a quick video clip from the hike up, but the connection isn't strong enough or I am doing something wrong. It features a strong wind drowning out Miguel singing Doe, a Deer as he resists falling asleep. Also has a 360 degree view of the area. Ok, I give up. Will try later.

**No, we are not paid to promote this product. I am willing to promote it for free, as it's been so awesome these past few years. . .it's 2nd in line to biking as my favorite family transport tool. Hmm. Well I guess walking is really number 1, then biking, then the ergo, which really is what makes walking long distances possible, so I guess it's a subset of number one, oh, never mind.

Partial Visa Victory

2009-12-31T11:10:00.016-06:00

After wrestling with the Ecuadorian bureaucracy for 2 days, we left Quito yesterday with a partial visa victory.

Most travelers are issued a 3-month visa upon entering Ecuador with no hassle. Because we're staying longer than 3 months, we've had the opportunity to get well acquainted with the Ministerio de Migracion in the pursuit of our 6-month visas.

Gin and Miguel secured their 6-month visas, but due to a data entry error, I was not able to obtain a Censo Card-- the last step in the process. I made a trip across Quito to the Computo office of the Ministerio de Migracio to fix the problem, which they said will take 24 hours to be corrected.

Hopefully, I will be able to get the Censo Card in Banos. The worst case scenario is I'll have to take a 3-hour bus ride back to Quito to resolve the problem.

With the partial victory, we boarded the bus for Banos late yesterday afternoon, caught a glimpse of a cloud enshrouded volcano (Cotopaxi), and arrived in Banos in time for a late supper and hearty welcome from our friends, Jim and Marshia.

visa anxiety

2009-12-30T11:39:00.002-06:00

Looks like my bus anxiety was misplaced. There is a small prob with Michael's visa, discovered after much, much waiting at the embassy this morning. I felt like such an idiot. We thought we were just going zip over there to pick up the papers. I didn't even pack any toys for Miguel.

Note to self: never leave home without *some* plaything for Miguel. "I spy" only engages for so long. Thankfully, a Columbian family was there with the sweetest toddler and a car, ball and toy giraffe. We banded together, trying to limit the terror our children were inflicting on the officials and other folks in waiting.

It took 10 tries to get a usable picture of Miguel for his visa card. After two hours of waiting, he was done, done, done. After about the 4th picture attempt, Michael exhaled loudly and proclaimed that we should hire a van to take us to Banos, especially since we had to do more work to solve his visa issue. He's now at another office trying to solve the problem. (It seems like someone entered his visa request into "the system" twice.)

I am feeling ok about it all. It's not like we lack time. But I know Michael wants to get out of Quito and New Year's Eve is a horrible travel day, as kids shut down all the roads with makeshift toll booths.

Hoping our next update is from Banos!

Bus Anxiety

2009-12-30T07:47:00.007-06:00

Last night I had a rare bout of anxiety about this trip. More specifically, today's bus ride to Banos. I have made this journey down the Avenue of Volcanoes many times. It is spectacular--breathtaking scenery and on-board refreshments provided by vendors who hop on at the small towns along the way. We will have as much agua purificada, papas fritas and helados as we wish.

This brings me to my first worry: toilet breaks. The ride to Banos can last anywhere from 3 to 5 hours depending on which bus happens to be pulling out within 5 minutes of your arrival at the terminal. The bus service in Ecuador is amazing. You show up to a bus station, someone asks where you are going, and are shuffled to the window of whatever bus company happens to have the next bus out to your destination. I assume the locals know about the differences between the different routes and quality of bus lines. For us, we have always hopped on the first bus out, which means a quick dash with heavy bags and no time for a prophylactic pee break.

Although the busses--various forms of coaches ranging from scary delipatation to spotless--all feature toilets in back, I have never seen anyone use one. They are generally locked or broken. When we travelled with Miguel last year, he was still wearing diapers. Today, we will need him to have a bladder of steel. We will be rationing the water and risk missing the first bus out to make sure we hit the bathroom.

2nd worry: Our obscene number of bags + the horrible turnstiles: Between the bike seat/helmets/tools, gifts for our friends (the family we are renting from asked us to bring a ton of clothes for their children), our gizmos and our clothes (despite my best efforts, I am sure I overpacked), we have 3 huge bags and 3 daypacks. Depending on his mood and level of cooperation, Miguel can also be considered another flailing carry on.

Navigating the bus terminal with this load will be hard enough. The moment I dread is when we have to leave the terminal to reach the bus area. You have to exit via a turnstile and pay a small fee. Everyone is always moving quickly and I hate being the yokel holding up the line as I fumble for the correct change, hoping that I translated the amount correctly (35 centavos? 55?). We will not be the only ones with lots of cargo, but still, the whole process makes me anxious, especially with Miguel who hasn't quite mastered the art of cooperating at key moments.

Of course, I just need to chill. People will wait, people will help, people will understand, and the ones who don't, oh well. That's what I keep reminding myself. Alas, such a mantra runs counter to my nature. I don't even bring my bike on the bus back home b/c I get nervous about slowing everyone else down.

Quito

2009-12-29T18:20:00.015-06:00

After enduring 12 hours of air travel confinement, we arrived in Quito late last night. We made all of our connections with little fuss, amounting to a smooth travel day overall.

Miguel was about as agreeable as a 3-year old could be, with a Wizard of Oz DVD keeping him occupied near the end of the last flight. Luckily, Dorothy's final observation "If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard . . ." didn't seem to dampen Miguel's enthusiasm for our travels.

We hoped to be on the bus to Banos today, the small town we'll be calling home for the next 6 months, which is about 3 hours south of Quito. But the good people at the Ministerio de Extranjeros decided to hold our passports and visas overnight for processing, so we're spending one more night in Quito.

The elevation of Quito is 9,350 feet. Today, I felt as though my daypack was full of bricks as we ran errands and went on a couple of walks. I've always had a rough time adjusting to altitude above 6,000 feet, but after a few days, I typically return to my usual indefatigable self.

Despite battling altitude sickness, I was able to rally the family for an early evening visit to Ecuador's only brewpub--the Turtle's Head. We enjoyed a dinner of fish and chips and Miguel was thrilled to play his first game of foosball. I savored a fine draught pint of stout, readying myself for six months in a town that only serves limp, mass-bottled lagers--a far cry from the fine ales of the Revolution Brewing Company that will soon open its doors in our neighborhood back home.

Hopefully, the Ministerio will give us back our documents tomorrow morning and we'll be lounging in the hot baths of Banos tomorrow afternoon, breathing the thick and easy air at 5,000 feet.

I Can Drive Forty-Five

2009-12-24T10:44:00.006-06:00

Today is my 45th birthday, which doesn't sound so old when you consider that forty-five is the minimum speed on many highways. That serves as an apt enough metaphor for slowing down while moving forward as we prepare to embark on our big trip next week.

In the meantime, we're enjoying a relaxing week of hospitality at Gin's parent's house outside of Baltimore. Gin and I will go for a birthday run this afternoon and then we'll have a sushi dinner tonight probably followed by parlor games.

Life is good in the slow lane!

Gizmos on Sabbatical

2009-12-23T15:17:00.002-06:00

In 1991, when I last embarked on a six month trip hopping trains through Russia and Asia, the electronic gadgets in my backpack consisted of a 35 mm camera, a Walkman, a watch and a flashlight.

Now, as we're about to leave for six months in Ecuador, I'm astounded by all the electronic equipment in our bags. So here's our sabbatical gadget packing list, complete with rationale for the inclusion of each item.

Laptop. Staying in touch with our friends and family back home through e-mail and blogging is a far cry from receiving post restante letters at post offices in remote locales. The laptop also has a disc drive so that we can play DVDs for Miguel during long plane and bus rides.

Netbook. A second computer so that Gin and I can write at the same time. Gin's continuing her consulting work as we travel and I'm working on some writing projects as well, so we bought a new Acer Aspire to serve as back up for the laptop.

Kiddie Computer. Keep this quiet, but I think Santa may bring a PC for Miguel.

IPOD and Logitech speakers. During my 1991 Asian odyssey, I felt like a cultural ambassador, sharing my James Brown and CCR cassettes with anyone who would listen. Now, it's amazing to have most of our record collection stored on a device a little thicker than a credit card. And the compact Logitech speakers have surprisingly good sound.

Kindle. Daily access to the NYT and a convenient and space saving way to bring along books.

Cameras. With our digital cameras I don't miss wrestling with all those rolls of film one bit.

Cell Phones. Gin and I have been resistors at home on the cell phone front, but we may get simple call phones when we're in Ecuador. This will enable us to stay in touch, for example, while I'm leading bike tours. And should the local volcano decide to blow its top while we're apart, being in contact could be crucial.

Wrist Watches: It seems the only time I wear a watch any more is on vacation. For some reason, the bus out of town usually leaves at about 6am-- easy to miss without one of those little beepy alarms.

Flash Lights. Don't leave home without them.

While I'm troubled by loading our bags with all this stuff and believe that 'we're richer for what we can do without', I'm also in awe of what these technological devices will enable us to do.

Thanks to these gizmos, we look forward to keeping in closer contact with our friends and family, better documenting our trip, and working on creative projects.