SSeptember 6

Woke up around nine. The rooster started crowing at four in the morning, as usual, and woke me up for a while before I managed to get back to sleep.

I made a smoothie and headed to El Rio Lindo. I looked for Ricardo, his wife, and the kids, but they weren’t in their usual spot. Instead, I spent some time talking with Gladys. Later in the day I returned and ran into Jose, and we ended up having a nice conversation. Afterward I had a cappuccino at Rio Lindo and then headed over to Parque Sebastián.

It turned out that the event there was simply a demonstration by Kochi on how to spin and pick up tops. It was interesting to watch, but because I stayed there I missed much of the Pawkar Raymi dance festival. On my way back, I stopped at a fish restaurant and ordered tilapia. It was pretty good, although there wasn’t much fish and I ended up filling up mostly on potatoes.

From there I headed to Mercado 24 de Mayo and discovered that the dance festival was taking place there. Although I had already missed several hours, I was still able to watch about two hours of dancing. It was lovely. The final performance was by an Amazonian group from Ecuador. I was really impressed by all of the young dancers. They were full of spirit, seemed genuinely kind, and clearly took pride in what they were doing. It was inspiring to watch.

When the dancing ended around 4:30, I wandered around the market for a while. I bought some chocolate and decided to try the local soup. Unfortunately it was terrible. Later someone told me that it’s best not to eat at the market and to stick to restaurants instead. That was useful information.

Afterward I headed to a football field where they were holding a bull event. People taunted the bull with red capes and then scrambled up fences when it charged. It reminded me somewhat of what I had seen in southern France. The bull isn’t harmed; it simply gets exhausted. Luckily nobody was injured while I was there, although there were plenty of medics standing by just in case. I watched for about half an hour before heading off in search of chicha de yamor, the drink for which the festival is named. It’s made from seven grains and is considered one of the symbols of the celebration.

I walked past Parque Bolívar, which was packed with people and deafeningly loud speakers blasting music. No matter where I walked, I couldn’t escape the noise. I also saw long lines forming for the evening’s main event, Noche de Yamor. From what I understood, it featured contemporary music, which didn’t really interest me. The crowds were enormous, with lots of visitors from out of town packed together. Many locals had warned me repeatedly about pickpockets during the festival, so I did my best to avoid the densest crowds.

I continued searching for the drink and eventually found a small restaurant called Mi Otavalito that served it. It was all right, but it had a fermented taste that I didn’t particularly enjoy. Later Evelyn’s mother told me that chicha de yamor used to be much better and that the quality had declined over the years. Another woman had told me that if you buy it during the festival it is supposed to be made from the traditional seven local grains, whereas at other times of year it often isn’t. My suspicion is that what I drank was not the special version.

What I enjoyed most about the restaurant was the atmosphere. It was quiet and peaceful, and they were showing beautiful folkloric videos. One of the women recommended a YouTube channel called Movimiento Indígena, which I made a note to look up later.

After resting there for a while, I headed toward Plaza de Ponchos and stopped at a café. I still hadn’t tried Conde Ibarra. I met the owner and gave him my Facebook information so we could stay in touch. He was impressed by my Spanish and assumed that I lived in Ecuador. We spent some time talking about my travels. I ordered cheesecake, but it wasn’t very good, so I doubt I’ll order it again.

Later I stopped by to visit Evelyn and her mother. We talked about my stay in Ecuador, and I mentioned that Janet was selling her place. Evelyn seemed disappointed and said she wished her former boyfriend Curtis had bought it. I showed her mother some photographs since she had never been there herself. It was a pleasant visit, although they were quite busy.

I finally left and returned home around nine o’clock. I didn’t want to be out during all the chaos that evening. There were huge numbers of people in town for the festival, and so many locals had warned me about pickpocketing that I preferred to stay in. Back at my room I organized my belongings since I was moving rooms the following day and needed to have everything ready before leaving for the parade.

September 7

I quickly organized my things in the morning and left my bags by the door. Then I caught the bus to Cotacachi, arriving around 9:45. The parade had not yet started, so I decided to wander around for a while. I ended up near Plaza San Francisco looking for coffee. Because the parade route was already blocked off with barriers, it wasn’t easy to cross the streets, and I had to walk quite a distance before I found a way through.

Originally I had been looking for Red Rabbit after reading reviews, but as I was walking I noticed another place with “Coffee” written over the door. I think it was called Tamaris Coffee. There I met Luis, an excellent barista who had won third place in Ecuador’s national AeroPress competition. I told him I wanted coffee from El Rio Lindo. He seemed surprised and said that, in his opinion, El Dorado from Loja was even better. Nevertheless, he opened a fresh bag of Rio Lindo Intag coffee just for me. We spent some time talking about coffee, Loja, and the different growing regions. He made what was probably the best cappuccino I had during my time in Ecuador. I ordered a large one and enjoyed every sip.

The coffee was worth the delay, although by then the parade had already begun. It started around 10:45, and I spent the next three and a half hours standing in one location watching dancers, musicians, and performers pass by. Later I moved to a different viewing spot and stayed another hour and a half. It was both exhausting and exciting. The dancers were wonderful, and the costumes were beautiful, but after several hours the constant amplified music became overwhelming. By around 3:45 I was tired and ready to leave.

The final section of the parade featured trained horses. I felt sorry for one horse in particular that was being forced to run in place while its rider repeatedly pulled on the reins. It looked uncomfortable and stressed. By that point I was also very hungry. Throughout the parade, people had been throwing food, candy, alcohol, and other items into the crowd. One thing I noticed was how eager people were to grab anything that was tossed their way. It seemed almost like a national pastime. Everyone shouted, reached, and scrambled for whatever was flying through the air. At one point I watched a little girl trying to eat a melting ice cream while wearing an elaborate traditional dress. It struck me as a rather risky combination.

After leaving the parade, I headed to The Hideaway and ran into my friend, the chef. She was sitting with her new husband and gave me a big hug. I also greeted her son, who asked how Mindo had been. I laughed and told him I hadn’t actually gone there yet. I ordered a fish and chicken dish that was excellent, although unfortunately they had already run out of soup.

I spent some time talking with her, her husband, her granddaughter, and other family members. I played with her granddaughter using my capybara toy while she showed me hers. Soon we had the capybaras “playing” together, eating imaginary meals, and generally entertaining ourselves. She was an adorable child and thoroughly delighted by the game.

While we were talking, I asked about places to buy a leather purse. The chef offered to introduce me to a friend who sold them, and I went to have a look. Although her merchandise was nice, I wanted to compare prices and styles elsewhere. Over the next couple of hours I visited probably eight different stores. Eventually I found a cross-body bag that was the right size and style and decided to buy it. Later I returned to Plaza San Francisco and also purchased a small purse and a larger one.

By then I was ready for a break, so I stopped at Café Rio Intag for hot chocolate and chocolate cake. To my surprise, I discovered that I hadn’t been charged correctly on a previous visit. This time the bill came to almost eight dollars, considerably more than I had expected.

Since it was Sunday, I decided to head to the bus station early and make sure I caught the last bus. Unfortunately, the final direct bus left ahead of schedule. As a result, I had to take the slower route through Quiroga. On the ride back from Cotacachi, I noticed a young mother standing while holding a child. Not a single person offered her a seat, including several young men. I finally gave her mine. As I remarked to someone later, life can seem cheap here. I was genuinely shocked that nobody else stepped forward.

That evening I spent quite a while trying to figure out how to replace my Eagle Creek duffel bag. I explored Amazon and several other possibilities, but eventually gave up. Shipping costs were outrageous, and finding a reliable delivery address seemed almost impossible. Most people don’t have formal addresses in the way we do in the United States. Directions are often something like “the yellow house near the market” or “the third house after the church.” That’s about as specific as it gets. After a while I accepted that replacing the bag might not be possible and went to bed.

September 8, my birthday. I woke up and put my wet clothes outside to dry. After answering texts and responding to birthday wishes, I decided I would go to Zuleta after all. It was a beautiful day, and I didn’t want to spend my birthday sitting around. I finally got out of the house around 10:20 and jumped on a bus just as the attendant was spraying fabric softener on every seat. The smell was overwhelming. I immediately got back off and waited outside until they were ready to leave. The attendant assured me it was only fabric softener, but I told him I couldn’t even use that on my clothes. Eventually I got back on, and we headed out.

The ride toward Cayambe was slow but interesting. I enjoyed looking at Lago San Pablo and the countryside between the towns. The landscape was beautiful, and several of the small communities looked like places worth exploring in the future. While I was waiting for my connection, Shawn called. He explained that he hadn’t been able to reach me earlier because he had been in the car without a signal. We talked for quite a while. He told me that Michael’s father was much further along with his dementia than when we had last seen him, which made me sad. He also described how they had managed to spill and melt an entire quart of ice cream in the car, which seemed like a different kind of family tragedy. I filled him in on some of my experiences in Ecuador.

I wasn’t particularly happy that day. Hardly anyone around me knew it was my birthday, and somehow even the bus driver’s complete indifference felt disappointing. Looking around, I decided that I would like to return to Cayambe someday and spend more time exploring. It seemed like a vibrant city. Unfortunately, the bus ride itself was less enjoyable. After creeping through town at a snail’s pace, the driver suddenly began driving like a maniac. At one point I became convinced they had changed drivers because the man behind the wheel no longer looked like the same person. Eventually I realized we had passed my stop. I recognized a place I remembered from my previous visit and asked to get off.

“You said you’d tell me when we got there,” I reminded the driver.

“You fell asleep,” he replied.

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “I just don’t know where I am.”

One thing I’ve learned in Ecuador is that you have to know exactly where you are and exactly when to get off. It’s one of the basic survival skills of bus travel here.

I waited for another bus to take me to Zuleta. Fortunately, this one was slower and felt much safer. The previous driver had passed trucks on curves and flown around corners in a way that made me question whether he valued our lives at all. When I finally arrived, I headed to Estación Antonio, the restaurant where I had eaten before. I had originally hoped to walk toward La Magdalena, but the wind was fierce. I had also wanted to try a lamb dish I had seen advertised farther down the road, but it was quite a distance away, and I didn’t feel like battling the wind.

The restaurant was packed. One woman bought an entire pot of locro de papa for only two dollars. I considered ordering the chuleta, their specialty, but I had tried it before and wasn’t impressed. After lunch I intended to walk around the area, but the wind was so strong that I changed my mind and decided to continue by bus instead.

I walked for a while waiting for transportation. The first bus that arrived turned out to be the wrong one and headed farther into the mountains. I got off and continued walking until another came along. Thankfully, this one wasn’t being driven by a speed racer. As we descended, I took photographs through the window and decided to get off in Cayambe because the town had looked appealing when I passed through earlier.

I spent the afternoon wandering around, photographing the main square, older buildings, and several attractive historic homes. Along the way I passed a park dedicated to Dolores Cacuango, the Indigenous activist who fought for women’s rights and Indigenous rights in Ecuador. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Earlier I had photographed the beautiful Hacienda Pesillo simply because it was one of the few truly attractive buildings I had seen in the area. Later I learned that it was the hacienda where Dolores Cacuango had worked.

I’ve often joked that haciendas are among the only consistently beautiful buildings left in Ecuador. Much of the newer construction is concrete block, and from an aesthetic standpoint I find it rather depressing. I’ve seen only a handful of truly elegant historic buildings outside the haciendas. The older adobe structures have character and beauty, but many have been replaced by plain concrete buildings that could be almost anywhere.

While traveling through the region, I noticed many Indigenous women carrying large milk cans. There are dairy farms throughout the area, and people bring milk down from the highlands for collection. I also saw municipal trucks dedicated to transporting milk. This region is a major center for both dairy production and rose cultivation, and I passed countless greenhouses scattered across the landscape.

One thing I’ve learned about buses in Ecuador is that most of them smell awful. Drivers and attendants spray them with fabric softener, Fabuloso, Febreze, and various other chemical fragrances. Sometimes the smell is so strong that it nearly chokes me. Every now and then I get lucky and find a clean bus that hasn’t been drenched in perfume. Some of the buses look as though they’ve survived World War II. I suppose that’s one sign of a country in transition.

Listening to people talk, I’ve noticed that many Ecuadorians feel the country has been declining since around 2017. Politics, economics, and public services come up frequently in conversations. What strikes me most, however, is the contradiction between the beauty of the landscape and the condition of the infrastructure. Even in the countryside it’s difficult to escape diesel fumes, garbage, broken concrete, polluted rivers, and inadequate sanitation. It’s genuinely sad. This year they canceled the swim across Lago San Pablo because the water had become so polluted that officials were worried participants might become ill. Clean water, sewage treatment, and basic sanitation seem like such fundamental things, yet they remain major challenges.

I often joke that Ecuador is full of “¡Qué mierda!” moments. One day there will be complete chaos at a bus station, with everyone shoving and running to board an already overcrowded bus. Somehow, once everyone squeezes inside, life continues as though nothing unusual has happened. Ecuador can be breathtakingly beautiful from a distance. Up close, however, you often encounter the realities of poverty, neglect, and environmental degradation.

September 9. I woke up and read Evelyn’s comments about my strange birthday party. She said, “Yeah, that’s not how we celebrate birthdays here.” I replied that it wasn’t how we celebrate them in the U.S. either. That’s why I had asked the week before if we could celebrate my birthday together. Somehow there had been a misunderstanding. I had hoped we would spend time together and celebrate as friends.

Unfortunately, the conversation quickly went downhill. Evelyn became very upset and said she would never organize something like that for anyone, especially someone she wasn’t completely close to. She said she wouldn’t even do that for her boyfriend. Then she told me she felt I had been rude and disrespectful. She wrote a number of things that were painful to read and then called me. For seven minutes she spoke almost nonstop without really giving me a chance to respond. By the end of the conversation she said she had once thought I was a nice person but had changed her mind. She told me her six-year-old daughter thought I had been rude and that I had been disrespectful to her family. The call ended with a sort of “don’t feel bad, have a nice life” message. It felt like a gut punch.

I was on my way to Cotacachi when all of this happened. Once there, I went to Tamaris Coffee and ordered an American breakfast with waffles and a cappuccino. I said hello to Luis and told him I would write a review of the café. I was still upset from the call, so after breakfast I phoned Shawn and told him what had happened. He listened patiently and said the situation reminded him of a mutual acquaintance who exploded at us for no reason. I felt guilty even though I knew I had done my best and had always treated Evelyn with respect. I had no idea what her daughter had said to her.

Afterward I wandered through a few leather shops and bought a couple of purses and a hat before taking a bus to Atuntaqui. The scenery was beautiful along the way. When I arrived, an older woman kindly gave me directions to the textile factory. I joined a tour led by a woman named Jenny, who rushed through the exhibits so quickly that I barely had time to read many of the displays. Fortunately she allowed me to photograph the signs so I could study them later. The factory itself was fascinating. It was enormous, but much of what I learned left me unsettled. The exhibits described periods when children worked in the mills and laborers endured twelve-hour shifts with few breaks. The conditions sounded harsh and inhumane and reminded me of the textile mills of New England and the labor struggles that took place there. At the end of the tour Jenny had the guard sound the factory siren. The blast echoed across the grounds and sounded like an air-raid siren from an old war movie. Both of us winced.

From there I walked back toward the bus stop, taking photos of old houses and traditional buildings. It was nice to see tile roofs and older architecture preserved in some places. I then continued on to San Antonio to visit some of the woodworking shops. In the first gallery I spoke with a woodworker about whether the craft was still thriving. He told me that fewer and fewer young people were learning the trade and that most were more interested in their phones. Several others told me the same thing. Traditionally it takes about two years of apprenticeship under a maestro to become skilled.

I spent the afternoon wandering through workshops, photographing buildings, parks, and streets. Most of the shops specialized in religious art, which doesn’t particularly interest me, although I did see a few carvings of Indigenous musicians playing flutes and other instruments that I found beautiful. I considered buying something but decided not to.

Later I met up with Laina at her apartment. She told me that the best prices are available on weekends when many artisans set up temporary stalls. We sat together drinking tea and eating bread while we talked. I met her children and enjoyed spending time with them. During our conversation we talked about family, education, and the choices women face. Some of her views surprised me, particularly her thoughts about marriage and having children. We agreed to meet the following day and explore some of the communities higher up the mountain toward the volcano.

I stayed until about six o’clock. Before leaving, we climbed to the terrace and admired the view. I was amazed to learn that she paid only $180 a month for a spacious two-bedroom apartment. She and her family were saving money to buy land and eventually build a house. Their goal was around $13,000 for the property. I was excited for them. She even invited me to stay with her family on a future visit, something I may very well do.

After saying goodbye, I caught a bus back to Otavalo. I had been thinking about the conflict with Evelyn all day. Although I didn’t believe I had intentionally done anything wrong, I wanted closure. I had also promised Evelyn’s mother that I would stop by. When I arrived, Evelyn’s daughter happened to be there. The first thing I asked was whether I owed any money. To my surprise, she said I owed $1.40. I apologized for not realizing it and paid immediately. When I offered five dollars, she insisted on taking only the amount owed.

I then asked her to pass along a message. I told her that I appreciated both her mother and grandmother, valued their friendship, wished them well, and hoped that perhaps our paths would cross again someday. For me, it was important to leave things respectfully.

Afterward I bought some soup and headed to Parque Bolívar to meet Alexa. Along the way I fed a friendly dog some chicken and gave away extra bread to a homeless man and another person who seemed hungry. Alexa and I went to a pizza restaurant where she had worked for two years. We ended up having a wonderful conversation. She told me about her life, her mother, how she had built friendships and community connections, and how she became involved in poetry, writing, and cultural projects. I found her story fascinating. By the end of the evening I felt lucky to have met her and hoped we would remain in touch. I returned home, organized my things for the next day, and went to bed.

September 10. I slept very little. Most of the night I found myself replaying the conflict with Evelyn in my head. I also thought about people like Scott Ross and Brian Stoll, friends who had stood by me over the years when others had misunderstood my intentions or accused me of things I hadn’t done.

Laina and I had planned to meet later in the day, but first I wanted to continue my search for a duffel bag. Before leaving town, I stopped by El Rio Lindo and said hello to Ricardo. I told him about my birthday and the painful situation with Evelyn. His response was immediate. “That person isn’t your friend,” he said. “Don’t waste your time. If she doesn’t want to talk to you, so much the better. Let it go.” Then he smiled and said he wanted to treat me to birthday cake later. I explained that I was meeting Laina but suggested we could all get together afterward. Talking with him made me feel much better.

After that I spent nearly two and a half hours wandering around Otavalo looking for a duffel bag. I searched the main market, Copacabana, and at least five different stores. I found a few possibilities, but none were quite right. Eventually I gave up and headed to Ibarra.

On the bus I had a fascinating conversation with a professional from Quito who was traveling for work. He lived in northern Quito with a colleague and was thoughtful, intelligent, and reflective. At one point we were both laughing at a fruit vendor who boarded the bus. I remarked that he looked exactly like the watermelon seller I had seen the day before. The man laughed and said it probably was the same guy.

Since I had some time to spare, I got off before reaching the terminal because I thought I was near the mall. Ricardo had suggested I check Marathon Sports, but they didn’t have anything suitable. I walked about a mile to another shopping center to visit Marathon Explorer, but all they carried were expensive backpacks. From there I headed to my favorite café, Tito’s, only to discover it was closed. What a disappointment. Instead I had lunch next door and then made the long walk to a camping store someone had recommended.

Along the way I spotted a coffee shop and, despite it already being two in the afternoon, ordered another cappuccino. There I met a man named Warren who had lived in New York for many years. We ended up talking for nearly an hour about life in the United States, politics, economics, privatization, and the challenges facing both Ecuador and America. It was refreshing to have such an in-depth conversation with someone thoughtful and well-read. Before leaving, I sent him a few Substack articles that I thought he would enjoy.

The camping store turned out to be another dead end. They carried backpacks but no duffel bags and no compression socks. One of the employees suggested I return to the city center and check the luggage stores there. I followed his advice and, in the very first store I entered, showed them my old Eagle Creek duffel bag. The salesperson disappeared into the back and returned with something almost exactly the same size. I checked the zippers carefully and immediately knew it would work. Twenty-five dollars later I walked out feeling triumphant. The backpacks I had been considering cost closer to $180, so this felt like a major victory.

From there I headed to the terminal and took a bus to San Antonio, where I met Laina near the high school. She was standing there holding a birthday cake. I was deeply touched. We waited quite a while for the correct bus before I finally suggested we simply take the next one that came along. The bus wound through San Antonio and eventually climbed into the hills past the land her family had purchased. I was glad we had left when we did because the sun was beginning to set.

We eventually reached a small town near where they hoped to build their future home. Another bus, decorated with flashing pink lights, carried us farther into the mountains to a tiny community above Otavalo. There we met Ricardo. We shared food together. I had a cola morada and an empanada, and later Laina treated me to a chicken dish. We fed scraps to a few local dogs and spent time talking.

Eventually Laina suggested taking a taxi back to Otavalo, eating cake at my place, and then returning home afterward. Before we left, Ricardo surprised me with a beautiful leather handbag. Then Laina gave me a pair of earrings—not just any earrings, but the very pair I had admired when we first met. We had once spent time looking for similar ones together. I was overwhelmed and literally had tears in my eyes as I thanked her. She was an extraordinarily kind person.

We took a taxi back to my room. Both Ricardo and Laina liked the place and joked that they might stay there themselves someday when working at the Saturday market. We sat together eating cake, talking, and laughing. It was exactly the kind of birthday celebration I had hoped for a few days earlier.

As Shawn later observed, sometimes you eat a bad apple. I don’t think Evelyn is a bad person. I think she is deeply sensitive to perceived disrespect and carries resentments that I unknowingly triggered. In the end, much of the conflict seemed to stem not from what I had actually done but from how certain actions had been interpreted.

Spending time with Ricardo and Laina healed a lot of the hurt. Before leaving, they asked when I would return to Ecuador and invited me to stay with them in the future. “I’ll come back when you build your house,” I joked. They laughed. Then I corrected myself. “No, I’ll try to come back sooner than that.”

They left around 9:30. I got ready for bed feeling lighter, calmer, and much more at peace than I had felt in days.

September 9. I woke up and read Evelyn’s comments about what she later referred to as my strange birthday party. She said, “That’s not how we celebrate birthdays here.” I replied that it wasn’t how we celebrate them in the United States either. I reminded her that a week earlier I had asked if we could celebrate my birthday together. Somewhere along the line there had been a misunderstanding. What I had hoped for was simply to spend time together and celebrate with friends.

Unfortunately, the conversation quickly went downhill. Evelyn became very upset and told me that she would never organize something like that for anyone, especially someone she wasn’t completely close to. She said she wouldn’t even do that for her boyfriend. Then the discussion shifted into something much more painful. She told me she felt I had been rude and disrespectful. She wrote a number of things that were difficult to read and then called me. For seven minutes she spoke almost nonstop without really giving me a chance to respond. By the end of the conversation she said that she had once thought I was a nice person but had changed her mind. She told me her six-year-old daughter thought I had been rude and that I had been disrespectful toward the family. The call ended with a sort of “don’t feel bad, have a nice life” message. It felt like a gut punch. I was stunned because I had always tried to treat her and her family with respect.

I was on my way to Cotacachi when all of this happened. Once I arrived, I went to Tamaris Coffee and ordered an American breakfast with waffles and a cappuccino. I said hello to Luis and told him I would write a review of the café. Even while sitting there, I couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation. After breakfast I called Shawn and told him what had happened. He listened patiently and said the situation reminded him of Valerie, which was an interesting comparison. Talking with him helped. I still felt guilty, even though I knew I had done my best and had always approached the friendship with good intentions.

Afterward I wandered through a few leather shops and ended up buying a couple of purses and a hat. Then I caught a bus to Atuntaqui. The scenery along the way was beautiful, and when I arrived an older woman kindly gave me directions to the textile factory. I joined a tour led by a woman named Jenny. She moved through the exhibits so quickly that I barely had time to read many of the displays, but fortunately she allowed me to photograph the signs so I could study them later.

The factory itself was fascinating. It was enormous, and the exhibits covered both the industrial history of the region and the lives of the workers. Much of what I learned left me unsettled. There were descriptions of periods when children worked in the mills and laborers endured twelve-hour shifts with very few breaks. The conditions sounded harsh and inhumane. It reminded me of the textile mills of New England and the labor struggles that took place there. At the end of the tour Jenny asked the guard to sound the factory siren. The blast echoed across the grounds and sounded like an air-raid siren from an old war movie. Both of us winced.

From there I walked back toward the bus stop, taking photographs of old houses and traditional buildings along the way. It was nice to see tile roofs and older architecture preserved in some places. Afterward I continued on to San Antonio to visit some of the woodworking shops. In the first gallery I spoke with a woodworker about whether the craft was still thriving. He told me that fewer and fewer young people were learning the trade and that many seemed more interested in their phones than in mastering a skill. Several other artisans told me the same thing. Traditionally it takes about two years of apprenticeship under a maestro to become proficient, and fewer young people are willing to make that commitment.

I spent the afternoon wandering through workshops, photographing buildings, parks, and streets. Most of the shops specialized in religious art, which doesn’t particularly interest me, although I did see a few carvings of Indigenous musicians playing flutes and other instruments that I found beautiful. I considered buying something but ultimately decided not to. The walk itself was enjoyable, and it gave me a chance to clear my head after the morning’s emotional upheaval.

Later I met up with Laina at her apartment. She told me that the best prices for handicrafts are usually available on weekends when many artisans set up temporary stalls. We sat together drinking tea and eating bread while we talked. I met her children and enjoyed spending time with them. Our conversation covered family, education, relationships, and the choices women face. Some of her views surprised me, particularly her thoughts about marriage and having children. Before I left, we made plans to meet the following day and explore some of the communities farther up the mountain toward the volcano.

I stayed until about six o’clock. Before leaving, we climbed up to the terrace, where there was a beautiful view of the surrounding countryside. I was amazed to learn that she paid only $180 a month for a spacious two-bedroom apartment. She and her family were saving money to buy land and eventually build a house. Their goal was around $13,000 for the property. I was excited for them. She even invited me to stay with her family during a future visit, something I would seriously consider doing.

After saying goodbye, I caught a bus back to Otavalo. The conflict with Evelyn had been on my mind all day. Although I didn’t believe I had intentionally done anything wrong, I wanted closure. I had also promised Evelyn’s mother that I would stop by. When I arrived, Evelyn’s daughter happened to be there. The first thing I asked was whether I owed any money. To my surprise, she said I owed $1.40. I apologized for not realizing it and paid immediately. When I offered five dollars, she insisted on taking only the amount owed.

I then asked her to pass along a message. I told her that I appreciated both her mother and grandmother, valued their friendship, wished them well, and hoped that perhaps our paths would cross again someday. For me, it was important to leave things respectfully. Whether they accepted the message or not was beyond my control, but I wanted them to know that I harbored no ill will.

Afterward I bought some soup and headed to Parque Bolívar to meet Alexa. Along the way I fed a friendly dog some chicken and gave away extra bread to a homeless man and another person who seemed hungry. Alexa and I went to a pizza restaurant where she had worked for two years. We ended up having a wonderful conversation. She told me about her life, her mother, how she had built friendships and community connections, and how she became involved in poetry, writing, and cultural projects. I found her story fascinating. By the end of the evening I felt lucky to have met her and hoped we would remain in touch.

I returned home feeling emotionally exhausted but also somewhat lighter than I had that morning. I organized my things for the next day and went to bed, still hurt by what had happened with Evelyn but grateful for the kindness and friendship I had found elsewhere.

September 10. I slept very little that night. Most of the time I found myself replaying the conflict with Evelyn over and over in my head. I also thought about people like Scott Ross and Brian Stoll, friends who had stood by me over the years when others had misunderstood my intentions or accused me of things I hadn’t done. Their support had meant a great deal to me, and remembering that helped put things into perspective.

Laina and I had planned to meet later in the day, but first I wanted to continue my search for a duffel bag. Before leaving town, I stopped by El Rio Lindo and said hello to Ricardo. I told him about my birthday and the painful situation with Evelyn. His response was immediate and direct. “That person isn’t your friend,” he said. “Don’t waste your time. If she doesn’t want to talk to you, so much the better. Let it go.” Then he smiled and said he wanted to treat me to birthday cake later. I explained that I was meeting Laina but suggested that perhaps we could all get together afterward. Talking with him lifted my spirits considerably. Sometimes an outside perspective is exactly what you need.

After that I spent nearly two and a half hours wandering around Otavalo looking for a duffel bag. I searched the main market, Copacabana, and at least five different stores. I found a few possibilities, but nothing that was quite right. Eventually I gave up and headed to Ibarra.

On the bus I struck up a conversation with a professional from Quito who was traveling for work. He lived in northern Quito with a colleague and was thoughtful, intelligent, and reflective. At one point we were both laughing at a fruit vendor who boarded the bus. I remarked that he looked exactly like the watermelon seller I had seen the day before. The man laughed and said it probably was the same person. It was one of those small travel moments that makes a long bus ride more enjoyable.

Since I had time to spare, I got off before reaching the terminal because I thought I was near the mall. Ricardo had suggested I check Marathon Sports, but they didn’t have anything suitable. I walked about a mile to another shopping center to visit Marathon Explorer, but all they carried were expensive backpacks. From there I headed to my favorite café, Tito’s, only to discover it was closed. What a disappointment. Instead I had lunch next door and then made the long walk to a camping store someone had recommended.

Along the way I spotted a coffee shop and, despite it already being two in the afternoon, ordered another cappuccino. There I met a man named Warren who had lived in New York for many years. We ended up talking for nearly an hour about life in the United States, politics, economics, privatization, and the challenges facing both Ecuador and America. It was refreshing to have such an in-depth conversation with someone thoughtful and well-read. I haven’t had many opportunities for that sort of discussion while traveling. Before leaving, I sent him a few Substack articles that I thought he might enjoy.

The camping store turned out to be another dead end. They carried backpacks but no duffel bags and no compression socks. One of the employees suggested I return to the city center and check some of the luggage stores there. I followed his advice, and in the very first store I entered I showed them my old Eagle Creek duffel bag. The salesperson disappeared into the back and returned with something almost exactly the same size. I checked the zippers carefully and immediately knew it would work. Twenty-five dollars later I walked out feeling triumphant. The backpacks I had been considering cost closer to $180, so this felt like a major victory.

From there I headed to the terminal and caught a bus to San Antonio, where I met Laina near the high school. She was standing there holding a birthday cake. I was deeply touched. We waited quite a while for the correct bus before I finally suggested that we simply take the next one that came along. The bus wound through San Antonio and eventually climbed into the hills past the land her family had purchased. I was glad we had left when we did because the sun was beginning to set, and the countryside looked beautiful in the late afternoon light.

We eventually reached a small town near where they hoped to build their future home. Another bus, decorated with flashing pink lights, carried us farther into the mountains to a tiny community above Otavalo. There we met Ricardo. We shared food together, and I had a cola morada and an empanada. Later Laina treated me to a chicken dish. We fed scraps to a few local dogs and spent time talking. It was one of those simple evenings that feels special precisely because nothing extraordinary is happening.

Eventually Laina suggested taking a taxi back to Otavalo, eating cake at my place, and then returning home afterward. Before we left, Ricardo surprised me with a beautiful leather handbag. Then Laina gave me a pair of earrings—not just any earrings, but the very pair I had admired when we first met. We had once spent time looking for similar ones together, and apparently she had remembered. I was overwhelmed. I literally had tears in my eyes as I thanked her. She was an extraordinarily generous and thoughtful person.

We took a taxi back to my room. Both Ricardo and Laina liked the place and joked that they might stay there themselves someday when they were working at the Saturday market. We sat together eating cake, talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. It was exactly the kind of birthday celebration I had hoped for a few days earlier—not because of presents or cake, but because of the friendship behind it.

As Shawn later observed, sometimes you eat a bad apple. I don’t think Evelyn is a bad person. Looking back, I think she is extremely sensitive to perceived disrespect and carries hurts and resentments that I unknowingly triggered. Much of the conflict seemed to stem not from what I had actually done but from how certain actions had been interpreted. Whether that’s true or not, I know that I treated her with respect and did my best to be a good friend.

Spending time with Ricardo and Laina healed a lot of the hurt I had been carrying around for the previous two days. Before leaving, they asked when I would return to Ecuador and invited me to stay with them in the future. “I’ll come back when you build your house,” I joked. They laughed. Then I corrected myself. “No, I’ll try to come back sooner than that.”

They left around 9:30. As I got ready for bed, I realized how much better I felt than I had the night before. The sadness and confusion hadn’t completely disappeared, but they no longer felt overwhelming. Instead I found myself thinking about the kindness of friends, the generosity of strangers, and the unexpected connections that make travel meaningful. I went to sleep feeling lighter, calmer, and much more at peace.