Sunset
Quito, in all its glory, is a dirty city. On Sundays, when the city seems to die of inactivity, the stale, strong scent of canelazo rises from the streets. A drink that fuels Quito’s traditional celebrations, vats filled with steaming cinnamon, cane alcohol, and water line the streets; as the heavy alcoholic steam of canelazo fills the air, their clouds are cut briefly by colorfully decorated dancers. In the mornings, I walk down to La Parque Carolina and pass through the green futbol fields, listening to the city-sounds. It is in a nicer part of town, and so the high-rise buildings surround the park, making it a sort of haven for me.
I first met Chase as he was begging for some change to buy a breakfast; trying to sell me some brochures for a tourist company I knew he didn’t work for. This was about a year earlier, during my first trip to Ecuador. I was walking down Calama Street to meet some friends for lunch. The thin trees hung over the pavement. Their small, dark brown leaves littered the grey concrete. The smell and sound of them being crunched and slowly decaying lingered in the air. It was an unpleasant smell: completely different from the vibrantly live, real feeling of Quito. As I turned the corner, I nearly ran into him. His raggedy old neon-orange sweat-pants caught my eye, and I stopped before bumping into him.
“Perdón,” I said, not recognizing that I was speaking to a gringo.
“No worries man. It’s too early in the morning, I’m still not seeing straight.” He mumbled. “Glad I ran into a fellow American, I’m from New York.”
“It is a little early. Have a good day,” I said, continuing, trying not to dawdle.
Later that night I saw him walking in LaMariscal, a hip, young American tourist neighborhood, where one could pass the time in the warm cafés heated by petroleum street lamps, or just as easily slink into a dark corner, and slowly disappear into the city. He murmured to my friends and me the same lines he had used earlier, but added “cocaine”, “weed”, and “easy to get” this time. He said all of this with an unforgettable confidence: a guise that asserted he and you were secretly bonded.
When I met Chase in Carolina, a year later, the situation was completely different. I was sitting right outside a café, reading. I noticed him approaching; I recognized his sweats a mile away.
It was a clear, bright day, and the fierce sunlight radiated off the ground. Yet the burning heat gave you life. Chase walked up to me, and began his spiel. It was rehearsed; his eyes seemed to be glossed over: he wasn’t even acknowledging the words that were coming out of his mouth. I took the flyer, never looking up at him. My Ray-Ban sunglasses guarded my eyes. He didn’t remember me. Once he was done, I reached into my pocket:
“I don’t believe you work at this tourist agency. But I’ll help.” I gave him what I had in change.
“Man, thank you. This helps a lot.” He left and began his slow gait over to a corner café. I saw him enter and I returned to my book.
That day was beautiful, and I had gotten up early to enjoy a good cup of coffee and bread and cheese. The afternoon looked promising. My bread and cheese would last me until lunch, where I would buy a beer, hike up to the old city lookout, Guapalo, and eat. The plain, dry taste of the bread, coupled with the soft cheese, mixed well. The beer in Quito was cheep, and just large enough to get you drunk if you drank it fast. It tasted better with bread and cheese, which also made you drink slower. I don’t like to get drunk in the daytime.
Chase’s neon pants glimmered in the heat. I got up and followed him into the café, stopping him right as he got to the counter: “Wait. I’ll buy you a breakfast. But only if you sit and talk.”
He looked hesitant, “Alright, man.”
I ordered him a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs, bread, mora juice, and fruit. We sat down.
“Alright.” I began, “I’m more curious than anything else, because, I’ve met you before. I was here a year ago, and you offered me drugs. So I know you don’t work for a tourist agency; what brought you to Quito? Especially from New York.”
“Okay. I don’t got to pretend I’m someone I’m not.” He began after finishing his eggs.
“I was just like you: Grew up in a good home, went to a smart school in California. Just like any college kid in the sixties, I was going to school to keep my pops off my back. Once I left home, it was hard to concentrate, you know, it was the sixties. I went to class, sure, but I never said I studied. So after school, I moved to New York City. I got a job there as a tour guide on the Hudson. It was good money, but boring as hell. And cold; you wouldn’t believe how late into October they would kept that boat running.”
He took a quick bite of bread and drank his juice.
“When I was about 23 I came down here. Met a guy on the boat. He said he had some job connections, thought I would do fine as a guide. I figured, ‘What the hell?’ Dope was easy to get here too, then. Still is easy now. I led trips to the Galapagos, in the Amazon; I wasn’t always like this.”
His face changed suddenly. And he began to eat faster.
“I got nothing to be ashamed of. When the economy went to shit, the rich New Yorkers and Chicagoans didn’t want to drink their vacations away on a boat in South America. But I’m not gonna lie to you either. I slept in a broken down old house last night. There was this tall, skinny Columbiana sleeping there too. Her friends were shooting up right next to me. The needles are probably still dripping with blood. But each morning I wake up and the first thing I do is to buy a bottle. It’s the brightness that keeps me going.”
I leaned back.
“You wanna know the best part of every day?” He said, finishing his last bite. “Knowing that tomorrow I might not wake up.”
The sun was setting when I finally got up Colón Street to Guapalo. I sat down at a table that overlooked Quito. The city spread before me, sloping down with the valley and then rising again up the side of VolcánPichincha. Unwrapping my bread and cheese, I opened a beer and drank. Quickly.
The sun set and I caught just a glimpse of its final rays as they shot through the clouds over Quito. The waiter walked up to me, and I ordered another beer. I put down my book and looked back to the clouds that hugged Pichincha. The pollution seemed to add color and beauty to the sunlight. And as it set, I somehow felt protected by its rays.