My Kinda Town, Cuenca Is

Tuesday morning I cabbed to the bus station in Guayaquil, got my ticket, and waited. I arrived too early. This allowed time for two young local women to approach me asking if I knew what happened to us after death. My eyes quickly darted down to the small booklet being thrust in my direction. Did I know Jesus? I assured them I did, took the booklet, thanked them, and said I needed to catch my bus. Bye Guayaquil.

The bus was luxury. At least compared to my previous bus experiences. There was a bathroom, the seats reclined, and it was near empty. I stretched out, turned on my iPod, and enjoyed the ride. We drove from the tropics to foggy hills (and a man passed out in the middle of the road) to mountain peaks (and unpaved roads) to rolling green hills that reminded me of Switzerland. We passed through indeginous villages where women dug ditches while the men watched. And we passed another man passed out in the middle of the road.

Four and a half hours later I arrived in Cuenca, Ecuador`s third largest city. A cab took me through the brick streets of this colonial UNESCO World Heritage Site. And those streets were immaculate. I was dropped at a hostal run by an older woman and her three beautiful, young daughters. All of which either had kids or were having kids shortly. The hostal was interesting; colorful, but empty. I saw one other guy as I was led to my room. And then I never saw him again. After dumping my pack it was finally time to get my laundry done. The old woman saw me with arms full of dirty clothes and said she could take care of them. I happily turned them over to her. No washing underwear in the sink tonight...

Next chore was to find a shop where I could replace the glasses I lost in Quito. Ah, but at 2pm the city was in the middle of its siesta time. Nothing was open. Except a pizza joint. And here I waited until three while eating two slices of "NY" pizza. And a Fanta. Fanta ALWAYS tastes better over seas.

Finally I saw the shop across the street open and in I went. And no one spoke English. Not the kind of scenerio in which I wanted to practise my Spanish. But I managed to indicate that I had lost my glasses, needed a new pair, and would probably lose them again so keep them cheap. The lady helping me was intent on showing me thin rimmed glasses even though I kept pointing to thick rimmed ones. Finally it hit me that she was showing me the cheapest frames in the shop. When I asked how much they were, and she told me $35, I suggested we could look at slightly more expensive glasses. And suddenly I was into the thick rimmed section. Once I picked out a pair I asked how many days it would take. I could pick them up at 5pm. Tomorrow? No, today. Cuenca is awesome. And for the next hour and half I explored the city in all its colonial grandeur.

Cuenca was great! Beautiful, charming, historic, clean, friendly, and even quiet(ish). Aside from the obligatory car alarms. How is it no matter where I am in S America, I can always hear a car alarm going off. I have memorized the five different tunes.

I picked up my glasses at 5pm and they were perfect. I could now write blogs again! Or at least see them. I started walking back to the hostal to pay when my phone rang. My travel buddy, and roommate, from Quito had just arrived in Cuenca. I had told her I was coming here for a few days. She had met up with a friend from home in Quito and the two of them bused down to meet me. I told them where I was staying and 30 minutes later they met me at the hostal. Well, technically at the internet cafe beside the hostal. I was excited to use my new glasses.

We walked to a bar that Lonely Planet recommended. The description said it had fire places, couches, and microbrews. There were no microbrews, but the fire was enough to keep me there. We caught up on the events of the past 12 days and I met her friend Mark, who was also traveling for 8 months. Mark has been working for part of the national park service in Vancouver since high school and had managed to build enough of a rep there to secure a hefty sabbatication. We continued to chat even as a man got up on stage and sang tunes to his guitar. It was nice background music. And then there was the old French man. He was sitting at a table with his wife, having a drink, when he asked if he could play a couple of songs. He was unfortunately obliged. He was awful. And when he started singing Bob Dylan`s "Blowing in the Wind" the room looked like it had had enough. He was politely applauded, but the original player decided it was time to reclaim his guitar. We agreed.

For pics of my time in Cuenca, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603376142164/

(I have no idea how to flip a video over in youtube, so if anyone knows, tell me!)