Hello again!

     Busy week. Week 1 in Ecuador has been filled with new things wondrous, frightening, comforting, and strange. We K kids spent our first week taking a crash course in Spanish, refamiliarizing ourselves both with our new language and with each other. In the evenings, a small group of those of us living in Cumbayá (the small Quito suburb which hosts the university) have ventured out to find dinner, ice cream, a beer, or simply to see what there is to see. Cumbayá is by a good margin safer than Quito, but by no means safe enough to let one's guard down.
     Fortunately, my host family (and I, by extension) lives in a gated (and guarded and 20-foot-walled) community a couple blocks from the main road. Though the fit is good and we are generally problem-free, I have found that the language barrier is not necessary for problems to arise. A few days ago, Jake and I were returning to my house from a nearby restaurant, thinking we'd hang out for a time. I had completely forgotten about the trick my host-mom mentioned the first night re: unlocking the door. Long story short, I couldn't do it. We walked the seven or so minutes to Jake's house, and I left my host-mom a message, advising her of the situation and that if she called upon arriving home, I wouldn't be far behind. Upon my arrival, she said (in clear English), "I need to teach you this." I laughed in self-deprecation and agreed. Since then, my success rate at domestic re-entry has been 100%.
     My first urban adventure beyond my own doorstep occurred on Friday, our fifth full day in-country. At 9 a.m., we Cumbayá folk left as a group by bus for Rio Coca, Quito's bus hub. We met up there with our Quiteño detachment and packed ourselves into taxis procured by our program directors, Tania and Natalie. We were bound for Ecuador's "Dirección General de Extranjería" ("Department of Foreignership," more or less) to finalize our visas and to apply for "empadronamientos" (national ID cards), which, among other things, will later get us to the Galápagos Islands without a $100 fee. To get an idea of la Dirección General de Extranjería, think of the DMV, except everyone speaks Spanish. I had to ask for more repeats than I'd care to remember, but eventually we all got through it. After eating a $2 lunch at a tiny restaurant next to the Dirección (which, incidentally, may have given me the runs), five of us tried to hail a legitimate-looking cab to return to Rio Coca. After a cabbie frostily informed us that we were on the wrong side of the street to go to Rio Coca, a bald and jovial fair-skinned Ecuadorian in a red sweater told us that we could also walk up the hill a block to the bus station, where we'd only pay a quarter each. We looked at each other; why not?
     The bus station was a raised platform in between the two directions of traffic, and because of this, boarding and deboarding more closely resembled a subway than a bus. This didn't help us board the first bus, however, as it was as packed as packed could be, and a couple locals in line ahead of us made it even more so. Noticing that the 1 p.m. start time of our Spanish class was starting to draw near, we agreed that we needed to get on the next bus. If some couldn't fit, then some couldn't fit, but so long as no one was left alone, we'd be fine.
     The next bus arrived. Darrin, Katie, and Jake were barely able to squeeze themselves in, as Spencer and I dashed for a different door. Too late; the doors closed, and the bus se fue. We had nothing to do but wait for the next one. It came a few minutes later and we were able to board without too much difficulty. Carrying our backpacks under our arms with one strap over the shoulder (purportedly the most thief-resistant way, which I call the "tactical carry"), we scanned the people around us. In all honesty, in my case at least, "scanned" is too generous. A sailor scans a horizon; a hunter scans the bush. I was nervously swiveling my neck this way and that, trying not to look like a gringo nervously swiveling his neck this way and that. I don't recall if we were told that there ARE two would-be thieves on every bus, or if we should just ACT as though there are, but it was our first time on a Quito bus, so act that way we certainly did.
     After what felt like an eternity, the bus stopped at Rio Coca (which I suppose translates to "Cocaine River"). We had to ask a transit worker ("¿Perdóname, peru sabe usted cómo ir a Cumbayá?"), but we found our bus. After another eternity, we arrived at the USFQ bus stop. By the time we got to class, we were an hour late. Fortunately, the Ecuadorian concept of time makes this much less of a sin. Esto es Ecuador, ¿Qué puedes hacer?