Thursday, June 30-Saturday, July 2

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Woke up to a considerably foggier day in Ibarra, and had Fernanda and Celeste take me for a walk around the plazas. The blooming trees and ancient-looking buildings give Ibarra a certain charm that is hard to describe. Although it is interesting to note that the whole family mentioned the influence of Columbians there (seeing as the border is not that far away). Unfortunately, they have always been a problem in the city and are the reason for a lot of the crime there.

After our walk, I boarded the next bus to Quito and got the great privilege of sitting next to Daniel, a thirteen-year-old boy, who is one of the nicest kids I have ever met. His grandmother and aunt were overjoyed when they found that of all the five people on the bus, I would be sitting next to their son. They wished me a great trip and even thanked me, not even knowing my name. Daniel was eager to talk, and we chatted as though I were his cousin or good friend. A few hours later, we arrived at a bus station a considerable distance away from my house in La Gasca. A taxi ride would easily cost me $10 or $15, and I did not know if I even had that much money left with me. Daniel graciously asked his father to drive me closer to home and without hesitation we all drove to the part of the city with which I was much more familiar. Both he and his father were incredibly nice and I was so appreciative for the ride. Even though I had only known Daniel a few hours, and his father a few minutes, they encouraged me to give them a call and a visit if I ever returned to Quito.

I arrived in time to see most of the other volunteers off. They would be spending the weekend at a private beach house in Casa Blanca, (which I must add, unfortunately made all of them unable to go with me to the Enrique Iglesias/Edward Maya concert). We said good-bye, hoping to remain in touch. It was a weird feeling not knowing if I would ever see any of them ever again.

But I wasn’t alone for long. A new volunteer was arriving that night to live with Nancy. Mariana, Nancy, Aracely, and I drove to the airport around midnight and in the cold rain to pick her up. Despite her long flight, she seemed incredibly excited to be there, and admitted to probably having packed too few long pants, getting a first impression of the capricious weather.

The next day was just a day for packing and enjoying my final moments with the family. Nancy and I took one final trip to the Mercado Artisanal, where I got a few last minute gifts. Gustavo spent all day playing the pasillo music I had heard my first few days there and was hard at work burning me CD’s for home. Both he and Nancy took a few more spins around the room, just as they had done my first weekend.

As the time to depart neared, Gustavo called a taxi to take me to the airport and the whole family walked with me to the curb. What an incredible family. They were the best people I could have ever stayed with in Ecuador. They wished me nothing but the best and all said how I am always welcome back to their home should I ever return to Quito. As Nancy hugged me tight “Mi Anita!” I realized that would be the end of my one and only real nickname; the end of early breakfasts; of tostados; of huge midday meals, and daily soups; of uncalled for weather; of pasillos; of $3 taxis, and 25¢ buses; of life threatening traffic; of picturesque mountains, and distant volcanoes; of street vendors at every corner; of indigenous people in their brightly colored traditional dress mixing with the schoolchildren in their various uniforms and the modern day attire of college students and working individuals; of the sights and sounds and experiences that on one hand made the country feel very third worldly, and on the other, very similar to home.

My experience in Ecuador had come to a close. I couldn’t help but tear up as I waved goodbye from the back of the taxi as it sped off and within moments left the family out of sight.

I wish that could’ve simply have been the end of my experience in Ecuador, but I don’t think Ecuador wanted me to go. Or maybe the airport is just insane. While our flight was dealing with its own problems, the only other flight leaving had been cancelled for the fifth or sixth day in a row. People there started protesting and chanting. Police needed to be brought in to calm down the crowd.

Long story short, when I arrived home 15 hours later than expected, exhausted, and without my luggage (but having met Edward Maya and his band who flew the entire way with me to Chicago and were scheduled to perform with Enrique 20 minutes after we had landed), I was finally safe, (almost) home, and with my family. At that moment, that was all I needed.

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