Mindo to the Coast

Lulu
Mindo, Ecuador, was full of surprises: The trees were taller then we imagined, the food was more delicious, the rain was more powerful. The biggest surprise of all, however, was the gift I found on my pillow at the beautiful Casa de la Piedra. I turned down my sheets to find a light green chicken egg resting, still warm, on the pillow. Further investigation revealed that this egg was placed there by Lulu, a rambunctious hen that loved the hotel visitors. The receptionist informed us that Lulu had taken to laying her eggs in the couches and beds of the guests rooms whenever she could get in, and had even cuddled with many a visitor. Her favorite friend was the salvadoran ambassador to Ecuador. Lulu loved to fall asleep on his big belly.

Nidia y Jonas:

On our bus from Mindo to Canoa (small Ecuadorian beach town), we met these two lovely school kids: Nidia who is 9 and Jonas, 6, were delightful conversation partners. Nidia told us all about her school and her friends and how annoying her little brother was.  When I asked about the pen-drawn heart surrounding an "N+J" on her hand, she promptly responded "that is strictly confidential information." After a little prodding I found out her fourth grade boyfriend was named Jonpaul and she burst into giggles as Jonas wrinkled his nose in disgust. They were by far our most entertaining bus companions.

 Winston

Our trip down the coast of Ecuador landed us in the beautiful, sleepy town of Puerto Lopez. We quickly discovered that you can't leave P.L. without taking a tour of the "poor man's Galapagos" or Isla de la Plata. Our fearless guide on the trip was Winston, who, much like the New Girl character, had a sense of humor worthy of a sitcom. As we walked across the barren cliffs of the island he pointed out the blue footed boobies hiding under the shrubbery. "This one had a long night in Montañita" (a local party town) or "look at her long legs, she's a top model."

Luis
Later on in P.L., I left Anna in a hammock bar for a few minutes to go grab some extra cash from the hostel. When I returned, she was talking to two guys from P.L. Luis was the more talkative of the two and we ended up chatting with them for a few hours. The next day, Anna and I explored the beaches of Los Frailes. When we came upon the last of the national park's protected beaches, we found Luis and his friend, sunbathing and enjoying their Sunday. At the end of our beach day, they offered us a ride back to Puerto Lopez. "Do you have room for us?" We asked. They giggled and said "sure." When we got to their vehicle we understood the giggles. It was a motorcycle with a wooden structure attached to the back where we were instructed to sit. It was a beautiful and bumpy ride home and we were grateful for the kindness of new friends.

Faces of Quito

As a project to keep our task-oriented selves occupied, an excuse to infuse interesting questions into daily conversations, and as a way to document our month trip in Ecuador and Peru, we decided to start this Mundo de Vagabundos blog. We plan on documenting some of the interesting interactions we have with people we meet along our journey. Let's start at around 10 pm, thousands of miles above somewhere in Colombia...


Mercedes

Mercedes was the passenger randomly assigned to sit next to us on the last leg of our trip- Panama City to Quito, Ecuador. She kindly asked me to help her read the immigration form as she squinted behind her glasses. That opened up the conversation to everything from New Jersey winters to airplane food and tourist attractions in Ecuador. When asked what her favorite place in all of Ecuador was, she responded with a bashful twinkle in her eye: "Well, my house of course. It's beautiful." She has been living in queens, New York for 15 years and was anxious to get home and help her son plan his upcoming wedding. When we left the plane, she gave us her phone number. "You never know." She said. "You never know," we responded.



Luis aka Monchito

At first he was just our waiter at at a small restaurant in old Quito, but by the end of the meal, we were taking selfies together. We realized (too late) that we had eaten our soup with dessert spoons and dessert with soup spoons while Luis just watched and laughed. He must have taken that as an invitation to come over and sit down for a while, and so we digested our lunch as he told us of his favorite tourist destinations in the world. "London! My favorite place would have to be London. You must go to the British museum there."

When we asked if we could put him on our blog, he responded without hesitation: "as long as I can put you on mine." We laughed, took an awkward selfie with families looking curiously on, and waddled back to our hostel for a mid day nap.







 José

 Our exploration of antiguo Quito felt more like a pilgrimage than anything else. Because Quito is has some of the best preserved colonial architecture in South America (earning the title of Unesco Global Heritage Site) the best thing to see are the catholic basilicas and cathedrals. The interiors of these building are some of the most ornate I have ever seen; everything is gilt and more often than not includes a smattering of baby faces. Despite, of perhaps because of, the generous application of baby imagery, these churches have a decidedly mystical ambiance. They are somehow wilder and more personal than the cathedrals I have visited in European. It is no wonder that these beautiful buildings are being meticulously cared for and restored by dedicated Ecuadorians.
One of the churches we entered was under heavy construction, and I struck up a conversation with two of the artists working on the restoration. I asked Jose, who was on his hands and knees painstakingly recreating a mural on the base of a pillar: "when you finish something like this, aren't you dying to sign it?" With a look towards his fellow restore (and superior) he said: "I did once, in a spot where only I could see it." If you are ever in Quito, look carefully at the interior the San Francisco cathedral and you may see Jose's signature.

Wandering in Vienna

On Saturday morning I took the tram to Keleti Pályaudvar, the large train station in the center of Pest. I had a ticket for Vienna, but arrived an hour early to people-watch. I found a bench in the corner of the station, a few feet from a small bakery, bought a pastry from and settled in.

The building Itself was impressive, the rounded roof loomed above me, so high that it felt like being in the open air. Above the entrance was an enormous glass window that let in the early morning light. The bakery that I sat was in a corner to the left of the entrance. It was out of the direct line of traffic but the tables out front provided a clear view of the station. It also provides a lingering smell of baking bread and coffee, masking any of the usual train-station smells.

The early morning crowd flowed around me; old men with carefully pleated pants and well waxed mustachios, middle aged women in tight leggings and hair the color of fall leaves, sleepy tourist with towering backpacks and clothes rumpled from a night on the trains. Despite the towering ceiling and the hoards of people, the station was quiet. Conversations took place in on benches and in tight circles, but no shouts could be heard.

The Pest train station is an interesting place. Tourists and locals mix and mingle, young and old co-exist (although here seems to be very little inter-generational communication). Under the atrium of the giant station the world seems timeless, and Hungary a constant, unchanging place. I watched an old couple drink coffee at the bakery, the woman smiled and leaned in to talk. The man sat with back erect, his eyes straying across the platforms as he listened. They didn't have luggage or visible tickets and seemed to be in no hurry. Maybe they just liked the view of the busy station in the early morning.

Vienna is Beautiful. I don't think I can fully describe it in words. I've posted a few more pictures then I usually to to give you a taste of it. After the last picture there's note I jotted down on my first day in Vienna. 

  

Hooves clack on cobblestones like a rainmaker, showering me with sounds like smooth, round pebbles. Children run through the square, lisping german as they chased each others blond braids. The old buildings surrounding me reflect the afternoon light, like showcased wedding cakes, so that even the shadow I sit in is light. I close my eyes and go back a century. When I open them I see in front of me a man in a well-cut business suit striding past. His long strides carry him along quickly and his head, incased in a shining, white motorcycle helmet, gleams in the sunlight. There are armless guardian soldiers looking down on me. Next to them a metallic cell tower pierces the sky. Out of a century old building a steel and glass box pokes it’s head. Things change, yet they remain the same. Old workmen who drink their beer on the stoop at the base of the pillar in who’s shade I sit are following in their fathers’ footsteps.

Trams in Buda

 One evening I took the tram from the end of line 18, deep in northern Buda, back to our dormitory, near the other end of the line. It was 22:00, and because the tram was heading away from the city and into the suburbs most people seemed to be heading home.

The evening crowd on Budapest trams differs greatly from the rush-hour crowd. Everyone seems to be traveling in pairs. As I got on I saw two women around the age of fiftee laughing as they looked at a flier. Several young couples held hands as they talked softly. An older man and woman, directly behind me, sat in a comfortable silence.

We head into Southern Buda slowly, skirting the edge of the Danube. The view is breathtaking; the bridges are alight and the river reflects the skyline. This part of the city has been carefully restored during the post soviet boom. It stands in stark contrast with the cement apartments that characterize the rest of Buda. I stop looking out the window and notice that I am the only one taking in the view. It occurs to me how strange it must be to live in a tourist destination. My fellow travelers have seen this view a thousand times. Some of them probably ride tram eighteen ever night, so the glowing river is nothing new. No one seems to take any notice of the view and no one takes much notice of me. The disinterest with which Hungarians treat the millions of tourists that flood into their city every week is probably a form of self-preservation. It is not a cold disinterest, only calculated boredom.

I felt a little bit like a stalker, but I don't think he noticed me taking this.

Finally I am not the only one sitting by myself. A guy of around twenty, with dreads and a graphic tee has a macbook out and is programing furiously, leaning into the black and white print on his screen. I am slightly surprised by what he is doing. In other countries that I have visited the tram is used as an extension of ones’ office, but in Budapest it seems to be treated as a coffeehouse. No one works on the tram, and very few people read on it either. The public transportation system of Budapest seems to be used primarily as a way to socialize. I have often noticed that I am the only person riding who isn't talking to anyone.

From reading How we survived Communism and Even Laughed, I remember that the author spent a great deal of time explaining how difficult living conditions were in soviet and post soviet countries. I wonder if the use of the trams as places to talk is a result of may people living in tightly confined spaces, were there isn't room to have a private conversation. Maybe buses and trams were a better option and people got used to talking on them.

Despite the constant chatter, I don't think that the tram is a place to meet people. In my two weeks in Budapest I haven't had a single long conversation with anyone outside of our group. I think that the Hungarian culture is wary of new people. The residents of Budapest especially, how are flooded with uninformed, and often drunken, guests. I feel that Hungarinas view tourists almost as they would street performers. After a group of especially rowdy foreign teenagers got off the tram I was riding, I saw many amused looks, and a few chuckles. No one seemed bothered by the noise, but no one wanted to engage the kids in conversation either.

As the tram approaches the end of the line and the seats around me empty, I think about the implications of living in a city where I am pegged as a wild tourist. It will be challenging, and it will require me to engage with people outside of settings like tram stops and coffee shops. I hope that places like Corvinus sill allow me to meet people without the stigma of being just another tourist. 

What I love about Budapest

There are grape vines outside our kitchen window. Sitting at the table I can see the light filter through the translucent, green leaves. Shadow upon shadow, dancing almost indiscernibly with the light breeze.

The Ujjerő bouldering gym is possibly the most amazing place I've been to so far in Budapest. Imagine walking down a driveway with warehouses on both sides. You stop at the door with a indecipherable picture on the front (if you look very closely you'll see that it's a climber). Inside you find yourself in a lobby lit only by the light coming through the doorway. Past the desk is a low corridor that leads into the gym. Most likely you will see a dozen people on the floor and in the air. English, Spanish, German and Hungarian flow freely as climbers swing around the small room. Everything about Ujjero seems friendly and communal.

Family style meals were not something I thought I could have in college. I imagined myself existing on muesli, bread and cheese. Instead I'm part of a wonderful food group that loves veggies and cook incredible food for every meal. I get to sit at the table cutting up fresh peppers and mushrooms while I watch Josiah and John fiddle with the record player that we inherited from a previous group. Our kitchen has a homey feel and is the place to go if you need a little nuttella (or nuss, as we call it here) or someone to vent to. Once we get the record player running it will also have some sweet vinyl Paul Simon, Queen, and Simon and Garfunkel.

I spent yesterday evening on a bridge that spans the Danube. The evening was the coolest we have had so far, with a steady breeze that dispersed the afternoon heat. We found a seat on the trestles of the bridge just as the lights came on across the city. The seagulls swooped and sailed overhead, taking advantage of the last rays of light. The tour boats passed under us, their soft jazz carrying across the water. As night fell the trams that passed us seemed like silent movies. For a few seconds the men and women riding them stood before us, illuminated like a scene from a play. A second more and they were gone.

Every time I ride the tram into the center of Budapest I feel a little less out of place. It's true, I am still virtually illiterate and can't even answer the simplest questions, but I know what tram will take me home. I have a one month pass for the public transit system with my photo on it. It makes me feel permanent, like a school ID would. Having that piece of paper in my pocket holds me to Budapest. No matter where I go, at the end of the day I end up back home in Buda, at the end of tram line 41.

Artists of Berlin

The walls of Berlin talk. In this city famous for it's wall, every concrete surface seems to call out for my attention.

Most of my week in Germany I stayed in an apartment in East Berlin, a few miles south of the City center. The view from the balcony of the 6^th story apartment was beautiful. Lush green trees spill through the cracks of terracotta red roofs; the steeple of an ancient church pushes out to dominate the skyline. At street-level, however, the green trees are overgrown with weeds and the bushes hide broken glass and soggy leaflets. The buildings are old and often ill-kept and the cobblestones of the streets shine with discarded metal bottle caps. Some parts of Berlin shine new and untouched, catering to the busloads of tourists that flood in every day. The greater part of the city, however, has an unkempt feeling. It's overgrown islands, dilapidated buildings and, of course, graffitied walls.

I have to admit that I love graffiti. Even in Honduras, where the spray-painted walls are often the product of violent gangs or an angry protester, I love reading the words scrawled on the walls. And when graffiti moves past these crude marking on a wall, it is not only interesting but truly beautiful. Graffiti has the freedom of a charcoal drawing with the permanence and size that allows it to communicate to huge crowds. It is an incredible way for art to retain its presence in our everyday lives.

I've been wondering how graffiti became so prevalent in Berlin, since it seems more common in this city than in any other place I have visited. While I was in Berlin, I saw an old photo of young men and women dismantling the wall. In the background stood a man holding posters and brushed. I like to imagine people, angry at their government, angry at the injustice of their situation, angry at the wall, grabbing a brush, a can, and shouting it out. I imagined the colors spreading: from the wall, through alleys, over roofs and under bridges, carried across the city on the subway. Plastered across whole buildings, until it even started creeping into homes, galleries and restaurants, embraced as more than just a sign of protest.

Somehow the graffiti that covers the walls of Berlin don't make it look run down. To me, the kaleidoscope on the walls hint at a culture that is wide awake and ready to to talk and to change. Maybe the graffiti is merely vandalism, but I like to think that there's more to it. In a city that often looks like no one cares for it, men and woman have painstakingly painted it's walls. And there is something to be said about that.