OTAVALO

Otavalo.
Yeah, that’s the name of the town I’m in now. Finally got my sorry ass out of the bed in Quito, consulted my ‘Lonely Planet’ guidebook - and decided to take the two hour bus ride here.
This is an Andean indigenous town which is famous all through South America for the biggest outdoor market in Ecuador. Specializing in textiles and handicrafts - but they literally sell everything you could imagine here. Why didn’t I just do this sooner, man? I mean, three weeks in Quito feeling sorry for myself is - enough.
This place Otavalo is more like what I’ve been looking for in Ecuador. It’s a place steeped in tradition. The center of Kichwa (the Andean indigenous) culture. They’re called Otavalans - and these people are for real, man. They’re not exactly what I imagined from all those National Geographic documentaries I watched on TV about the natives down in the Amazon - but…
These are Northern indigenous. They wear this type of traditional native dress. Think, like, the Orthodox Jews in New York - but better looking. The men sport white slacks, white shirts, these distinctive navy blue ponchos and white sombreros, from which underneath they feature a long braid of shiny black hair. Remember, it’s pretty chilly up in this part of the country.
One thing I notice is that indigenous people never go bald, man, I don’t know why…
And I haven't even seen one of them wearing glasses.
They’re all pretty small too, like my size or shorter, and at 5’6” I’m a midget, basically in the States.
The indigenous women, they’re pretty interesting. They’re even smaller - and they’re like little roly-polys. Not so much fat - just stout.
Strong as hell.
All day, I’ve been watching these, like, hundred year old grandmas, who couldn’t be more than, like, 4’4”, 4’ 5” - carrying these huge sacks on their backs and heads plowing straight up these mountains - like it’s nothing!
Not even breathing hard.
The dress for the women is even more elaborate - frilly white blouses with all kinds of shiny things and laces decorating them. Navy blue skirts. Navy blue shawls. A matching hat, of some sort.
These women are no joke, man.
They all have these kind of blankets around them, usually carrying their babies, and if not babies - then sacks of beans and other produce they grow up in their mountain farms!
Rugged ladies.
The market is crazy, I mean, like all open air. Not like the lame malls in Jersey. Row after row of stalls. The women sitting on the ground - displaying their wares, sweaters, blankets, bags, hats, beads - even electronics and housewares

THE HORROR…THE HORROR

Joe is drinking Pilsener in his hospital room in Quito, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

Honestly, alot of time I’m thinking all this stuff is just trauma from the whole fucked up New York mentality that is so hard to shake. As I’ve said before about New York 

 There are very clear ‘winners’

 And very clear ‘losers’.

 Believe me, there is no doubt about what side you’re on.

 None at all.

 I throw down another big gulp of Pilsener, and fart. 

Aahh…

 I mean, in so many ways, you can never win in New York. Never has a city promised so much - and in the end delivered so little. Hyper capitalism. Especially since the 90’s, man.

 Yeah. Invasion of the trust fund kids and Wall St. Yuppies. Chads and Brads. Daddy’s credit card. Much of the time, the Chads are flaunting these exotic international women on their arms - as they stroll into the current ‘fabulous’ club dujour and order bottle service.

 Bottle service.

$300 for a fuckin’ bottle of Grey Goose to be poured for you?

 $300!? 

Get the fuck outta here!

 How am I supposed to compete with that kind of shit, huh? I can’t, that’s what. 

So, you breed all these horrible conflicts in your head. One part of you secretly longs to be one of these guys (successful?) while the other part of your brain finds them to be pretentious assholes. You go back and forth with it - and it kills you.

You burn with defiance and ambition. 

You wanna create some art piece so magnificent  that…that…you can’t possibly be denied. So, in my case, at least, you go on spending months - or even years - creating a one man show that tours the city to great acclaim! 

You’re so ready for your turn.

You’ve had tunnel vision - like a monk - this is all you care about! 

Then 9/11 happens.

Or some other such disaster.

Finished.

Mind snapped. 

You’re just incredulous. 

Taking the bottle of Peppermint Schnapps you’ve been saving to celebrate - you go back to your overpriced closet in Queens - and down it by yourself. 

The end.

 I peer out the window into the dark, rainy Quito night. Ughh… no escape. Well, only one thing to do now. I pull out my Sony Discman from the nightstand drawer. I position myself to sit and meditate. It’s the only thing that makes any sense to me anymore. I need those beta waves, man!

REFLECTIONS ON NEW YORK

So now, Joe's frantic escape from Rocia and Banos leads to a familiar despair.

About three weeks have passed since I’ve returned from Banos to Quito. I’m sitting here in my bed at Hostel Loro Verde, listening to the old Perry Como song -
And I Love You So’.
For the 20th time in a row.
In case you’re not familiar with Perry Como, or the song’s lyrics, they go like this:
"Yes I know how lonely life can be
The shadows follow me
And the night won’t set me free"
Ok, you get the picture right? This is where my head is at now.
Fuckin’ lonely as hell.
Brutal.
Traveling solo is just, like, a whole other level of loneliness, man. I poached the Perry Como CD from my father’s music collection before I left. A momentary smile comes to my face when I think of my father searching all over the house for it.
“Somebody swiped my goddamn Perry Como CD, for crying out loud! Who the hell would do something like that…I know, I bet it was that goddamn idiot… dollars to donuts he brought it with him to Ecuador!”
My poor father. Hahaha…
I can’t help but laugh at the scenario, which gives me momentary relief as I gulp down another swallow of Pilsener from the bottle. This is about my fourth pint bottle. Pilsener is the Ecuadorian national beer - and surprisingly good. It actually has a bite, which, swear to God - shocks me. I mean, a South American beer?
C’mon.
I pick up the letter I’ve been reading for the third time. It’s from Rocia in Banos. Got the letter yesterday. Written in broken English phrases, then back to Spanish, forcing me to consult my Spanish-English dictionary every two minutes to try and figure out what she’s saying.
In essence, she is saying that she loved our time together, that I’m the most interesting person she has ever met - and that she can’t wait to get together again. Sigh… of course I’m the most interesting person she’s ever met - she’s 19!
God, I mean, she’s a great girl - pretty, sweet, and intelligent - but this is like a major conflict for me. I know I gotta pull the trigger on something. Something. I mean, that’s one of the main reasons I came to Ecuador in the first place - to reinvent myself.
Really, maybe I should just take on one of these Colombian prostitutes around here. They’re constantly accosting me when I venture out to one of the nearby chifas for dinner. What are chifas? Chinese-Spanish restaurants. The Chinese are everywhere. Anyway, maybe I should just get it over with, y’know? Take the fucking’ plunge already.
These hookers are all over the place - and that’s because this area is known as ‘Gringolandia’.
Meaning that there are a bunch of backpacker hostels.
That means gringos.
And gringos = money. At least in the view of everyone around here.
Especially the ‘rubios’, which means ‘blonde’ in Spanish - and the rubios are usually German. Like the Chinese, the Germans are everywhere. Whenever I’m eating at one of the chifas, there’s almost always a group of Germans sitting next to me - and they always get charged more.
The ‘gringo especiale’.
Thank God I’m dark and can easily pass for Latino. More importantly, I can roll my rrr’s, which gives me a huge advantage over the poor Germans. Again, thank God for my Sicilian heritage.
Now, in any case, these Colombian hookers are fuckin’ caliente, man! Yet, I still have this gut tearing conflict about… paying for sex. Like, what am I, some desperate 75 year old loser on his last leg?
Shit.
Plus, my other major conflict is even more insomnia provoking. Probably half of the hookers are transgender, and I mean, that’s cool and all, but that's a whole Pandora’s Box (so to speak) that I’m just not ready to deal with at this point. Combine that with this on again-off again guilt about not really checking out the ESL (teaching English) scene - and you understand the madness

THE MIND GETS YOU EVERY TIME

Joe is having a great time with Rocia and the senoritas in Ecuador - when...
Then, all of a sudden, the fun just stops as quickly as it started! It has nothing to do with Rocia or Ivan, or anyone else, for that matter.
It’s me. It’s my head.
The strangulating thoughts - they eventually always ruin my good time, man. For some reason that I’m not even sure about, I leave Banos and get back on the bus to Quito!
I know.
Riding the bus on the way, the side of my face pressed against the window, the gloomy, rainy weather outside - it all mirrors my own mood.
I gotta do things, man.
Yeah, I was having fun. Yeah, all the drinking, dancing and carousing helped invigorate me again.
But I’m 43.
I came down here to accomplish something, y’know? Maybe to help the indigenous down in the Amazon… but I didn’t even go down there - and I was in Banos! Like, what is holding me back!? Of course, I haven’t slept in a couple of nights now, my mind is in utter turmoil. I mean, at least, I should be exploring teaching English, I promised my parents that.
Then there’s the Rocia situation, I could tell she was falling for me, and to be honest, I was having feelings for her, too. But she’s 19. I’m 43. Y’know what I mean? Plus there were all these other young, cute seńoritas flirting with me, giving me their numbers… I don’t know. I mean, I do have my reservations. I don’t mean to sound like a jerkoff or anything - but getting involved with girls that young can be extremely dangerous.
First of all - they think all Americans are rich - no matter what. Like we all live on yachts and wear apricot scarves, and have diamonds on the soles of our shoes. Like we’re all Richard Gere in ‘Pretty Woman,’ or something, I mean, It’s just not reality, man. But you cannot convince them of that - no matter what you say.
Second, Ecuador is a majorly Catholic country, as is most of South America. They don’t really believe in condoms, definitely want marriage - and babies - lot’s of babies. They’re like baby machines! A traditional huge Catholic family. Then you gotta support all their relatives, too, including the aunt with ‘cancer’, the uncle with no legs…
Everybody.
So, for maybe, like, one year of sexual bliss with a beautiful caliente seńorita - you pay for it - with years and years of hard labor to support the ever growing cast of the lame, the halt, and the needy. Again, I don’t want to sound like a jerkoff - but what if they’re just playing you for a green card? Then they take off as soon as they get it? Unfortunately, it’s something to think about.
I must admit that all the attention is quite flattering, though, and it does get me pretty worked up, but…
In the States - this kind of stuff would be a major scandal, man! Except if the guy had a fortune - then, of course, it would be perfectly acceptable.
Still… this could be like my last chance, y’know?
Believe me, I’m pondering this incessantly over many sleepless nights - in rainy, foggy Quito. Maybe I’ll never get this kind of opportunity again!
It’s not like I was exactly American Gigolo in New York, either. Hey, I know I’m no catch of the year, or anything like that, but… c’mon.
The only chance I had to meet women in New York was either Omega Institute (this holistic center in upstate New York that I freeloaded at for many years) where the young girls all dressed like Fleetwood Mac legend Stevie Nicks.
Minus the talent.
And charisma.
However, they did attempt to practice witchcraft, at least.
Or… even more unpalatable, the catering /acting scene. Which is basically one and the same - because everybody in catering - is also an extremely frustrated/suicidal performer. These are the types of women who would pack up and leave you the day after you were diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, or something. Citing that they had to concentrate on their ‘careers’ - even though most would eventually become bitter alcoholic spinsters living in government assisted women’s housing.