So I´m at the beach. Sands everywhere, naturally. It´s more overcast this week than the last time I was here. I´m wearing my shades constantly because the other night me and the guys and Ms. Teen Argentina (who also just so happens to simultaneously hold the title of Ms. Teen Toronto) were down at the cabanas, you know, listening to the requested and dutifully played Phil Collins and Huey Lewis, enjoying out coconut drinks with our big peices of pineapple on the side. The sea breeze at night leaves everything cool without any overiding smell of brine. The drinks kept coming and the dancing became less organized, or catalogable as dancing.
As it happens, these things lead to other things and people become heros of the night.
Embarking into the surf, the sky was pitch black behind the thin grey wave washing in and out into the Pacific. I had asked Oliver to watch my pants. Nobody had agreed to any cash amount to the bet, and the dare was never issued: there wasn´t any possibility of me not stripping and running from the beachfront club into the sea.
The crew slowly followed, giving pause to meter their own aptitudes under the influences of the festivities. Possibly also to see how I faired, a reverse-Columbus claiming the sea for no one. I saw another one come whooping out into the water followed by a few more. Eventually most everybody was in at the same time, yelling at the elements and to the night, together audibly punching a sonic bookmark into this leg of the trip. Boy, was I tired. The salt and sand together with the drinks make you feel like a mummy waking up in the tomb the next morning, embalmbed and stupified.
The shrimp is still good here. Probably won´t hit the town like that again here in Ecuador. I hope to end my trip when this week´s out. Chad is not right when he says my homesickness is manifesting itself physically. I´m just rejuvinated about the possibilities that await me back in the states. Jobs, money, movies, writing, doin´stuff, researching for projects and stories, eatin´stuff and other similar junk like that.
I´m in the middle of realizing the complexity of airtravel negotiations with airlines. The panicy frustration. The sloth-like mode of communication and the slow as cold syrup feel of getting anywhere over the phone. I may be going by stand-by. I may be finding out how to get home from Mexico City, a place much closer to home than Quito in many ways.
The pictures have stopped. We´ve been here long enough to grow tired of the calcuable time spent to stop, unpack the camera and posse and frame and retake pictures. In many ways, the traveling is becoming real exploring; growing out of the tourist mentality and finding value in living here rather than visiting here. We really have lived here. We´ve lived the hell out of Ecuador.