August 22, 2025, Ecuador. Thankfully, I was up by 8:45. I needed every minute of the next hour and fifteen minutes to pack, clean, make breakfast, and organize my belongings before leaving Quito.

Just after ten, I walked to Chuta Madre one last time. I asked if they could hold some vitamins for Raúl, finished the remaining cheesecake, and enjoyed a final latte. Then I headed to the metro, rode north to Labrador, and transferred to a bus bound for Terminal Carcelén.

At the terminal, a friendly couple helped me buy my ticket and showed me where to board before continuing on their own journey.

The ride north was comfortable once I found a better seat. Traffic, however, was another story. At one point we moved barely a mile in an hour. To pass the time I watched a movie about an American family whose son suffered from a rare disease requiring an impossibly expensive treatment. The story felt less like fiction than commentary on the American healthcare system.

Eventually the traffic cleared and the driver seemed determined to make up for lost time. We arrived in Otavalo in the afternoon.

My lodging was only a block and a half from the station. After a bit of searching, I found Alberto’s place. He welcomed me warmly and showed me around. The apartment was simple, cozy, and immediately felt comfortable.

After settling in, I wandered through town. It was Friday, the day before the famous Saturday market, and the streets were already filling with vendors and visitors. I walked as far as the Pan-American Highway before deciding that crossing the busy road wasn’t worth the effort.

Otavalo felt friendly and manageable, with an energy that was very different from Quito. I returned to the apartment early and went to bed looking forward to market day.

August 23. I had hoped to wake early for the famous Otavalo market. Unfortunately, a rooster had the same idea.At five in the morning it began crowing enthusiastically, and sleep became impossible. By the time I finally got up around 8:30, I was already tired.

The market was overwhelming in the best and worst ways. As one of the few solo tourists wandering without a plan, I quickly became an easy target for vendors. I didn’t yet realize that identical items could vary dramatically in price from one stall to the next, so I paid far more than I should have for several purchases.

Fortunately, help arrived in the form of a Colombian woman and her Ecuadorian husband, who were visiting with their two children. They took me under their wing, pointed out where prices were fair, and even let me leave some purchases with them while I continued shopping.

We eventually shared a roast chicken lunch together, and I was grateful for both their friendship and their practical advice.

Throughout the day I met artisans, vendors, and travelers from many different places. One lovely couple sold handmade jewelry, including a necklace made with coral strands that I couldn’t resist. We ended up discussing politics in the United States, and they were genuinely shocked by some of what I described.

The market seemed endless. I repeatedly carried purchases back to my room and returned for more. Eventually I bought a large bag simply to contain the growing collection of alpaca clothing, scarves, and crafts.

Alberto kindly agreed to store the bag until my return.

That evening, after the market quieted down, I discovered a small café near the tourist information office that specialized in coladas, traditional hot drinks made with fruit or grains. There I met Evelyn, who worked alongside her mother at Café Tulipe, a family business that had been operating since 1985.

A group of university exchange students from Sweden and Italy happened to be there as well. They quickly joined Evelyn’s daughter, Anita, in an energetic game of soccer.

I ended up spending several hours at the café. Evelyn shared the story of Curtis, her former boyfriend from Manchester, England, who had left six months earlier. She was still heartbroken, and our conversation drifted between relationships, travel, and life in Ecuador.

By the time I returned to my room around 10:30, I felt as though I had made genuine friends.

August 24. I woke around nine and sent Evelyn a message explaining that I wasn’t up for the mountain hike she had suggested. Instead, I planned to meet her later at the café. Beforehand, I stopped at a jewelry shop that Lena had recommended and purchased a pair of earrings. Then I settled into a café with a latte while waiting for Evelyn.

When she arrived, we continued our conversation about Curtis and the challenges of recovering from heartbreak. I told her that healing often requires allowing yourself to fully experience painful emotions rather than avoiding them. She later said that perspective had helped her. After picking up Anita, we boarded a bus to Cotacachi.

We had lunch at The Hideaway and spent part of the afternoon exploring the market. I purchased a leather belt, wallet, and coin purse from a vendor who was so pleased by my interest that she recorded a brief video interview asking why I enjoyed open-air markets.

Later we stopped at Café Río Intag, a beautiful café surrounded by avocado trees. Over tiramisu, Evelyn and I continued our conversation about relationships, grief, and resilience.

Eventually I decided to explore on my own and took a bus toward Peguche.

As I walked through town, I passed families eating ice cream, Indigenous women tending gardens, and people leading cows home for the evening. The pace of life felt very different from Quito.

I eventually reached the trail leading to Peguche Waterfall. Near the entrance I met an older man who asked me questions about American coins, curious about the differences in their appearance and composition.

I followed the trail as far as I could before encountering a large dog and a bull. Since it was already growing dark, I decided not to push my luck and turned around.

The man invited me to stay and camp for the night. I thanked him sincerely but explained that I had neither a tent nor any camping equipment.

As darkness settled over the valley, I walked back toward town, passing Indigenous families playing volleyball against a backdrop of mountains and fading light.

By the time I reached Otavalo around 6:30, I was tired but happy.

August 25. The rooster returned. At this point I was beginning to suspect he considered it his personal mission to ensure I never slept late. My plan for the day was simple: look at another apartment Alberto managed and decide whether to move.

Before meeting him, I spent time wandering town and stopped for lunch at a traditional restaurant overlooking Plaza Bolívar. Only later did I learn that it was one of the oldest restaurants in town, operating for more than four decades.

The young man serving me was gracious and welcoming. I ordered a traditional plate featuring pork, a potato pancake, crunchy corn, and several local accompaniments. He also offered me a taste of chicha de siete granos, a fermented drink made from seven grains.

Afterward I bought fresh bread from a baker selling loaves outside the church on the plaza.

When Alberto showed me the apartment, I immediately liked it and decided to move. We spent some time talking before I headed off to meet Evelyn and Anita at the skate park, where Anita was taking lessons.

Later we returned to Café Tulipe. Evelyn insisted she wasn’t planning to work that evening, but within minutes she was behind the counter helping customers. Work seemed to be second nature to her.

There I met Lucio and Pedro, artisans who divide their time between Ecuador and Peru, traveling widely while selling crafts. Lucio had seen much of the world and was full of stories.

As evening approached, I invited Evelyn and Anita back to my apartment for tea and cake. We spent several pleasant hours talking before they left around nine.

That night I attempted to sleep on a mattress placed on the floor. After several uncomfortable hours, I admitted defeat, moved back to the regular bed, and finally got some rest.

The rooster still won the next morning.

August 26. My first night in the new apartment was noticeably quieter. The rooster was farther away, though a few neighborhood dogs made up for his absence during the night. Still, I slept better.

As usual, it took me nearly an hour to get organized and out the door. I stopped first at a bakery called Fig Pan for an empanada de mora and then headed to Café Río Intag.

Outside the café, a group of young people were dressed in traditional Indigenous costumes. Curious, I stopped to chat. Their mother patiently explained the significance of the various garments and the role of the group’s spiritual leader. One of the men wore a curtain of beads over his face. In earlier times, she explained, those beads would have been made of gold. It was fascinating to hear how these traditions had survived despite centuries of outside influence.

Inside the café, I overheard English being spoken and introduced myself to a group attending a Kiwanis conference. Before long I was chatting with Ramiro Aguilar, who worked in business development in Ibarra, as well as Lily, an educator from Portland who had been recruited to serve as a principal in Quito. It was one of those chance travel encounters that reminded me how small the world can feel.

After a second latte, I boarded a bus to Ibarra.

The ride took about forty-five minutes and offered wonderful views of the countryside. When I arrived, I wandered through the historic center, stopping first at a modest restaurant that looked inviting. The owner was warm and welcoming, and the meal—simple soup, chicken, and rice—was exactly what I needed.

Ibarra immediately struck me as elegant. Wide streets, colonial architecture, and beautiful churches gave the city a very different feel from Otavalo.

I visited several churches, including the cathedral, where altars rescued from the devastating 1868 earthquake had been preserved. From there I made my way to the Casa de la Cultura, where exhibits explored the region’s music, food, Afro-Ecuadorian traditions, and history.

One exhibit focused on the descendants of Africans who escaped slavery and established communities in what is now Esmeraldas. Their story was both tragic and inspiring, and I found myself lingering over the displays.

Nearby, I stumbled into a military museum and learned more about the 1941 war between Ecuador and Peru. I had known only the broad outlines of the conflict. Reading the details helped me understand how deeply the territorial losses still resonate with many Ecuadorians.

The most memorable part of the day came unexpectedly.

A museum employee invited several visitors, including me, into a small archaeological exhibit. She launched into a rapid explanation of the Caranqui and Inca civilizations that once occupied the region.

She described social hierarchies, ceremonial practices, warfare, and the arrival of the Incas from the south. Some of the stories were startling, involving ritual sacrifice, skull deformation among elites, and brutal conflicts between rival groups. The guide spoke passionately and quickly, and although I couldn’t absorb everything, I was captivated.

What struck me most was the reminder that history is rarely simple. The Indigenous peoples of the Andes were not passive victims waiting for Europeans to arrive. They had their own complex societies, conflicts, alliances, and traditions long before the Spanish conquest.

Afterward I visited one of the oldest plazas in the city and learned how a church had been built directly atop an earlier ceremonial site. It was another example of how layers of history sit literally on top of one another throughout Ecuador.

Later, while wandering through a quieter neighborhood near San Agustín Church, I discovered a wonderful coffee shop whose pastries looked far better than anything I had seen elsewhere. I made a mental note to return.

As evening approached, I found an Afro-Ecuadorian restaurant that had only recently opened. I ordered grilled fish and watched the changing colors of the sky while waiting for dinner.

The owner, Guido, eventually joined me for a conversation. Like many people I had met, he had relatives in California and dreamed of spending time in the United States. We spoke honestly about both the opportunities and the challenges of life there.

After dinner I walked through a lively boulevard lined with trees, restaurants, and families enjoying the evening. The atmosphere felt vibrant and welcoming. I stopped for gelato before catching the bus back to Otavalo.

Back in town, I couldn’t resist stopping at Café Tulipe for a warm colada de uvilla and an empanada. Fried food was becoming a habit.

At home, I washed clothes while a gentle rain fell outside. Two weeks of travel had finally caught up with my wardrobe. Watching my laundry sway in the damp evening air felt strangely satisfying.

August 27. I slept late and lingered in bed, debating whether to return to Ibarra. Eventually curiosity won. Back in the city, I headed straight to the coffee shop I had discovered the previous evening. The apple cake was excellent, and the latte was one of the best I’d had in Ecuador.

Afterward I revisited the Casa de la Cultura and bought several traditional sweets made with sugar, walnuts, and egg. Then I took a taxi to Caranqui. The driver pointed out different neighborhoods as we drove, giving me a better sense of the city’s layout and history. My goal was to find the archaeological sites I had learned about the previous day.

Unfortunately, several locations were closed, including the Temple of the Sun. Still, I enjoyed wandering through the neighborhood. The views of the surrounding mountains were beautiful, and the slower pace allowed me to appreciate everyday life outside the city center.

From Caranqui, I boarded a bus to Zuleta. The journey took about an hour, winding through rolling countryside dotted with farms and grazing animals. Several times I considered getting off early simply because the scenery was so appealing. When I finally arrived in Zuleta, the artisan market was deserted. For a moment I wondered whether I had made a mistake.

Then I found a restaurant.

Inside was a group of Ecuadorians from Quito, several of whom had lived in the United States. They immediately welcomed me into the conversation.

We shared a meal of quinoa soup and cilantro-seasoned dishes while discussing life in Ecuador and abroad. One woman wore a traditional hat adorned with a peacock feather, a style specific to the region. She explained some of the local customs and traditions, and before leaving they invited me to visit them in Quito.

The driver who had brought them was a committed Trump supporter, which led to an animated but respectful political discussion. We disagreed on many things but managed to keep the conversation friendly.

After lunch they gave me a ride farther down the road, where I stopped at a woodworking shop and purchased two beautifully carved spoons. The woman there was drying corn in preparation for planting and laughed when I used the Mexican word milpa for cornfield.

As dusk approached, I found a small artisan shop run by a woman named Hilda. I ended up buying a hand-embroidered shirt, alpaca gloves she had knitted herself, and a crocheted hat. More importantly, we had one of those easy, enjoyable conversations that seem to happen so often while traveling.

By the time I reached the bus stop, darkness was approaching. I paced back and forth wondering whether another bus would come.

When one finally arrived, many people declined to board because it wasn’t going all the way to Otavalo. I got on anyway.

The ride was fast and efficient, and I eventually found myself back in familiar territory.

A stop for gelato seemed entirely justified.

That evening I finally met Evelyn’s mother properly. Evelyn had often spoken about how hard she worked and how little opportunity she had been given as a child simply to play and enjoy life.

Listening to her mother repeatedly tell people to “enjoy” their lives gave those stories a deeper meaning. It felt as though she was encouraging others to experience the freedom she herself had missed.

August 28. Thursday was market day in Cotacachi. I arrived around ten in the morning and spent several hours talking with vendors. One young coffee grower proudly described the plantation his grandparents had founded and that he now managed. Another vendor sold excellent sourdough bread. There were cheeses, pastries, crafts, and countless opportunities for conversation.

The most memorable encounter was with Oli, a German expatriate originally from the Lake Constance region.

Oli had begun traveling at fifteen and eventually spent fifteen years in Africa. His stories were extraordinary. He described managing safari lodges, rescuing a baby elephant that had fallen into a swimming pool, hitchhiking across countries when trucks broke down, and living in places where wildlife wandered freely through campgrounds.

Although he now lived in Ecuador with his wife and daughter, part of his heart clearly remained in Africa.

Our conversation lasted nearly an hour and left me wanting to hear much more.

Afterward I stopped at Café Río Intag for a latte but quickly retreated when a pair of loud American tourists dominated the room.

Lunch at The Hideaway was excellent: eggplant Parmesan, chicken, and a hearty Galician soup.

In the afternoon I visited the local museum, where a guide named Luis walked me through exhibits on Indigenous history, music, and the impact of Spanish colonization. The displays detailed centuries of exploitation and cultural suppression but also highlighted the resilience of Indigenous communities.

The museum was one of the most informative places I visited in Ecuador.

Afterward I wandered through town, explored the cemetery, watched musicians, and photographed murals.

At one point I ventured down a dirt road only to be chased by two barking dogs. I immediately turned around. My relationship with street dogs remained unchanged.

As evening approached, I bought a local corn-based pastry from a vendor pushing a wheelbarrow through town and then settled into a café with hot chocolate and chocolate cake.

I became so comfortable there that I nearly missed the last bus back to Otavalo.

Realizing the time, I sprinted to the station and boarded with only minutes to spare. The driver left early, and had I arrived even five minutes later, I would have been stranded.

It was a perfect ending to a wonderful day.

August 29. My next adventure would take me into the Intag region, so the morning was devoted to practical matters. I packed the belongings I didn’t want to carry and left them with Alberto before stopping to speak with Ricardo.

We had discussed the possibility of traveling together, but family obligations made that impossible. Instead, we spent time talking about Ecuador. He enthusiastically listed places he thought I should visit—coastal communities, mountain villages, and cultural centers throughout the country. His enthusiasm reminded me how much there was still to see.

Later, at a café, I met two students from the University of Washington who were working with an Ecuadorian professor on environmental and agricultural research. They explained how they were using drone technology and GIS mapping to study soil conditions and land use.

Their project focused partly on rose cultivation, one of the region’s major industries. The conversation highlighted the environmental challenges associated with intensive agriculture and gave me a fascinating glimpse into current research.

Near noon I boarded a bus toward Cuicocha Lagoon.

What followed became one of the most challenging hikes of the trip.

The driver casually informed me that the trail was twelve kilometers long. What he failed to mention was the relentless climbing and descending. The route gained and lost elevation repeatedly, and by the end I felt as though I had climbed a mountain several times over.

The scenery, however, was spectacular.

The volcanic lagoon shimmered beneath dramatic skies, and the surrounding landscape was breathtaking. I pushed hard because darkness arrives quickly near the equator and I was worried about being stranded.

By some miracle, I completed the circuit in about four hours.

At the trailhead I discovered there was no convenient transportation back. Just as I was considering my options, a car approached. I stuck out my thumb, and to my surprise the driver stopped.

The Ecuadorian driver and his Venezuelan passenger kindly gave me a ride.

Their generosity saved me a long and uncertain wait.

That evening I rewarded myself with dinner at The Hideaway before returning to Otavalo. The town was alive with music, races, celebrations, and the beginning of a local festival that apparently had started despite information from the tourist office suggesting otherwise.

After a shower and some writing, I reflected on how quickly Otavalo had begun to feel familiar.

What I had expected to be a brief stop was slowly becoming one of the highlights of the trip.