Go Cats Go!!! From Ecuador!!!

Phones and Futbol

I have this really crappy phone. First of all, it has buttons – yuck. The screen is as colorful as Cleveland in January. There is no volume thingy on the side and you have to customize a “profile setting” to turn it to, what we of the 21st century call, vibrate.

But you know what? I am not a shallow guy. Its not sexy, but I’m not judging it on its looks. I don’t care if it’s a little too skinny or if it only thinks in black or white. I don’t care if it has to sleep and recharge every couple of hours. Who doesn’t like naps? I don’t care if it is old and hasn’t embraced the age of the Internet. I really don’t. It knows two languages, which is more than I can say for myself. And on the icon bar on top, there is a little heart. I don’t know why its there, but it’s reassuring.

What I really can’t stand about this damn phone, is that IT ONLY HOLDS EIGHT TEXT MESSAGES!!!

Not eight in my inbox and eight my outbox and eight my draftbox – eight TOTAL!

I have had “unlimited” checked on my plan since the seventh grade. I’ll send 8 texts before I hit the snooze button in the morning. Now granted there are only about five people I text in this country but still, it is a pain in my ass every single day.

Sorry. Had to get that out… anyway.

My friend Rafaela invited me to play soccer with her family. I haven’t been very active since I’ve been here (hiking is far away and requires a car and the massive blister on my toe kept me out of basketball for a bit… lame excuse but its all I’ve got.) so I jumped at the opportunity.

She said we were going to play with her family – a group of men and woman and girls and boys ranging from 8 to 35ish. I figured at 22 I’ll be more athletic than the old people (I mean less young people) and the young kids and then just try to be on the same team of anyone who looked in their twenties.

I listened to a soccer podcast last week AND, at lunch the other day, I saw Lionel Messi score a goal on TV. I know exactly what I am doing.

So the teams ended up getting divided pretty evenly (darn). Pedro is 24 and immediately stood out as a good player. He was on my team. Carlos, 35ish and father to one to the cutest kids of all time, and Ismail (probably 20 and athletic) were on the other team. Rafaela was the best girl and she was on the other team as well.

The little kids were divided up and while they were small, they had still grown up in South America and knew what they were doing with a soccer ball.

The game started and I got the first pass near the left sideline. One girl was streaking down the right side and passed it over to her. Too strong. Whoops. Two seconds into the game and I’ve got my first turnover.

These fields are smaller and surrounded by a fence. The sidelines are in play but the endlines are out so you can play it into the fence and basically pass it to yourself (Love it!), otherwise there are corner kicks.

I originally thought I was going to score every single goal against all these midgets but I found myself more comfortable passing and setting other people up. I was able to create a little space because one of the other team’s faster guys (Carlos) was playing goalie (as was Pedro). The little kids could play but their legs are half as long as mine, so a little sprint could give me some time to get a pass off.

These kids love soccer so they know right where to go (or at least right where I think they should go). It was awesome. Martin is 8 and is a natural scorer. Always in the right spot (what I think is the right spot) and puts everything in the goal. Glad he was on my team.

About two minutes and maybe eight sprints in, the heavy breathing starts – uh oh. Hands are on my head. BREATHE!

The first thing to go was the defense. Instead of being all high energy and making sure I was getting in passing lanes and going after the ball if it was near me, I started walking and lightly trotting to what I thought might be a good place but near where I wanted to be for an outlet pass. After all, the clock on my lungs was ticking and it’s way cooler to score goals (or make sweet passes!).

Pedro really did have our goal on lockdown and if they were near actually scoring I could help, ya know, a little.

Rafaela’s shins had this issue of being right where my foot was whenever we went after the ball. My foot was obviously there first (twice). I am all for whichever amendment lets men and women play on the same soccer field but they’ve gotta know that I’m going to mindlessly kick the ball which zero regard as to whoever’s shins or feelings are in the way. If you play with fire you’re going to get burned, or in this case, bruises. (Sorry, Rafa!)

The second wind had come and gone. We were probably at the 35-minute mark and I had to sit down. I drank some water and chilled out for a minute or two while the game was going on. I totally abandoned ship. Not proud, but I was about to die on the field.

So I finally get a little air back in my lungs and get back out on the pitch. Now the goalie from the other team (Carlos) had come out of the goal and was was trying to score. Pedro’s girlfriend (tiny, but really nice and can play soccer) stole the ball and passed it to me and I was able to break away for a goal and make Carlos think twice before leaving again. It may have been slightly cheap given I was sitting on the sideline when he left the goal but I really just evened out the teams again when I returned.

So after my glorious open net goal, I was breathing hard again. After a steal, some inconsiderate girl kicked the ball to me and I ran with it down the sideline and overshot the millionth pass of the night (RUN FASTER!).

Now I’m on the ground. I am so tired and sucking so much air I can hardly speak. I make my way back to my water bottle and had probably never had to work so hard to get air into my lungs. I used to have asthma when I was young and, when I was born, my lungs didn’t work and I needed a respirator – but I think last night trumped all of that. I started using the pregnant lady, “HE HE WHOO,” technique. Actually worked!

So after being in labor for a few minutes, I could breathe normally again. Couldn’t think or speak Spanish, but I could breathe.

I hopped back on the field and Pedro had just stopped a goal and took the ball out himself. He ran down the field dancing and moving around everyone in his way. Dude, could handle a ball. It was impressive. I finally caught up to him and he sent me a perfect pass which I promptly kicked straight up into the cross bar. Good work.

By the time I got my hands off my knees, Pedro was already back in our goal and little Martin (switched teams) was streaking down the right side with the ball. I had just missed an easy goal and wanted the ball back. I ran after the little kid and I swear I was going for the ball but all of his 60 lbs. got in the way and I took him down a fell on top of him. Whoops.

Not only am I missing open shots and searching for my 6th wind on the bench, now I am taking out their kids. Good pick. Martin is a tough kid and got right up and was back in the game.

The game was over not long after. We weren’t really keeping score or I was too tired to understand what it was. We all sat around a table and shared a few beers.

It wasn’t until then I noticed that Pedro was wearing a sweatshirt I recognized. He turned away and I figured it couldn’t be possible but then, when he stood up, I saw the sweatshirt he was wearing said Montana State University! (I have been a Bobcat for the last three years) I was so happy and we took a picture (coming when my phone starts working). His (and Rafaela’s) cousin goes there. I was also wearing MSU shorts at the time so the Cats were well represented. Didn’t see any Grizzly gear, though I didn’t check the trash.

An hour later when I got home I was still breathing hard. I went right to bed. I was invited back for the same game next week and to play with Carlos in a weekly game he has with just guys. Next week, I think I’ll bring an oxygen tank for me and some shin guards for Rafaela.

If I Should Be So Lucky

If I should have a daughter, I want her to have Piper’s confidence and big heart. If I should have a son, I want him to be as curious and caring as Duncan. I want my kids to care for me as Piper and Duncan care for Matt and Diana. With brimming smiles, their eyes sparkle every time they see their parents. The tone of their voices lets you know they respect and listen to them.

If I should have a daughter, let her smile be as infectious as Piper’s. Let her want to sing and dance and beg for people to watch. Let my son be as interested in cooking as Duncan is, so that his future wife won’t be in as much trouble as mine is. Let my kids laugh, sing, dance, and even pray together. Piper reads a chapter of the Bible to Duncan every morning.

Let my daughter be so infatuated with fairies that she’ll wake me up to let me know they came to the castle she built for them, the night before. Let my kids use teamwork to build legos and help each other to find the ball after I hide it for the millionth time. Let them love ice cream, candy and chocolate crepes! And let them tolerate broccoli, mushrooms, and everything I couldn’t when I was young.

Let them run from Teddy Monster time and time and time again. Let them sprint and slide and tumble. Let them cry when they fall cause they know I’ll be there. And let them cry when they lose their rock and see if anyone comes (Duncan!). When they buy their first carton of milk by themselves, I want them to be proud and tell Mommy about it.

Let them enjoy walking, hiking, and running. Let them be their own transportation to explore the world. Let them get lost and find their way home, but make some friends along the way.

I am very lucky to have a wonderful mother. These kids are too. I love the sense of curiosity and exploration Matt and Di have instilled in them at such a young age. At 5 and 7, Duncan and Piper are living in Ecuador, learning Spanish, and making friends and memories that wouldn’t be possible in little Minturn, Colorado. When this trip is done these kids will have gone surfing, swung on vines, learned a second language and volunteered in the Amazon, all before the third grade.

When I have kids, I hope they have the chance to experience life like Piper and Duncan: differently. Through someone else’s eyes. Through a different culture’s eyes. I hope their home state is happiness. And their first language is love. I hope when I have kids, Piper and Duncan will be there to beat up on them. I hope my kids will affect Piper and Duncan in the way Piper and Duncan have affected me.

I hope my kids have as good of parents as Piper and Duncan do. As I do.

Let my kids punch me in the face and pull on my hair as Piper and Duncan do. But let them wear more clothes than Piper does and not take as long in the bathroom as Duncan does. Let them enjoy Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Gumballs. Let them put on shows and make me laugh like Piper and Duncan do. But please, God, let them sleep longer than Piper and Duncan do.

I Think, Therefore I'm Late

I’ve been in Ecuador for almost a month. I arrived in Miami a month ago so you could say I’ve been in Spanish speaking country for over a month. My Spanish has gotten better. I can stumble around more stuff and get more information out of people. I have definitely improved but I have yet to find any group of friends to speak Spanish with all the time.

The friends I make at school are all traveling throughout the country or the continent and are lots of fun on Friday but are usually gone by Sunday. I’ve made a few observations in my first month here (more to come soon) and here is a Salsa update (separate post):

¡Hora Ecuadora!

So if Spanish has a word for “coordination,” the Ecuadorians don’t know it. Not only that but they have actually taken a stance against the idea. Don’t worry about when your neighborhood coffee shops are open because they aren’t worried either. I wouldn’t call any of them morning people. Few shops open before nine. My eyes don’t open before nine (OK, my door doesn’t open til around nine. I rise at 8 and read some articles in my room but don’t tell the kids) so I am not really one to talk BUT it’s weird. (By the way “coordination” in Spainsh is “coordinación”)

We want to go see a soccer game and hear we can go in two weeks. Two weeks later – no news or notifications. The game starts at 7:00 or 8:00 the clerk says. The game starts at 6:00 or 7:00 the bartender says. The game starts at 5:00 of 6:00 waitress says… Hmm. So we are pretty sure there is a game. It will most likely start. When getting ready we figure we’ll bring lunch, dinner, a tent, a flint, a fishing pole and a spear. Just in case. Turns out we didn’t need any of that! It was an Away game.

Bus routes change without people knowing. On 3 separate occasions the Spanish teacher, salsa teacher, and cooking teacher did not show.

Hours of operation? You’re as likely to find hours of operation at Chernobyl as you are here.

South American Wine and Coffee!!!

Never during my first 18 years of existence did I acquire a taste for coffee. Never since my first college exam have I stopped drinking it. Yes, it’s cliché; whatever. But seriously, I wonder how the market for coffee has changed since the market for a college education has changed. That’s for another blog post I guess (more likely another blog) but interesting.

The Montana State University Library has one of the more cleaver names for a coffee shop/stand I have seen: The Brewed Awakening. Makes me chuckle. Anyways, their coffee is pretty average. It’s not terrible for a university, I guess. But I am going to South America. No more Folgers in my cup. Bring on Colombian coffee. I want Pablo Escobar to get off his high donkey and serve this gringo a good cup of Joe.

Unfortunately the new President is a Socialist and very little of anything comes in and what does is very expensive. Unfortunately this applies to wine as well as the Ecuadorians haven’t yet figured that one out as well. I guess its latitudes are not conducive making wine. This makes me a sad panda.

My proximity to Chile and Argentina rendered useless (well, expensive), I have resorted to the supermarket box wine. It’s not bad and it’s fairly priced. Anything good here starts around $15 a bottle and given that things are generally 1/3 the price of those in the U.S., (remember three-course lunches are $1.50) it ends up being pretty expensive. And lets face it. I’m 22. I am not above a box of wine. In fact, I’m actually right next to one.

8,300 ft. From Out of Shape…

I have always been a decent athlete. Never excelled in any one sport but I wasn’t bad at any of them. (SALSA DANCING IS NOT A SPORT!) I was once a little more active than I am now. I’d like to contribute that to getting older and busier but the truth is I’m only 22 and I really just placed an extra emphasis on a social life and then unusual hours working at a bar didn’t help.

Even then I could still run around and I deemed myself to still be athletic. In Bozeman, which sits at just below 5,000 ft. (and the nearby Bridger Mountain Range rises to about 10,000) the altitude was never an issue. I came and went from Phoenix (just above 1,100 ft.) and never knew the difference.

It actually was a little bit of a shock living at 8,300. I went on the run the second day. My back was hurting within a block and come the first hill, my lungs called for a timeout. Everyday I walk to school (or take a bus halfway when I’m running late) and there is a pretty large staircase going into El Centro. I’m 30 for 30 for sweating and taking a second to let the car or squirrel pass by when I get to the top.

Last weekend I played basketball with some locals. I scored six of the first eight points then scored two for the rest of the game (playing til 30). I was maybe the best player on the court (granted there were only six guys on the court) for the first 90 seconds and then by the end of the game they were screaming at me, “Mas marco!” which basically means stop being lazy and play defense.

Even though I haven’t been nearly as active as I would like for the last few months, I was never in terrible shape. But at 8,300 ft… I’m in terrible shape.

Salsa Update!

After my terrible showing on the basketball court (still breathing hard and my new shoes gave me a new blister that has my new socks [1 one of them] soaked in red) Brenden, an American turned Ecuadorian chiropractor, and I stopped in for a few victory beers. We didn’t win but after my showing, not getting killed by my teammates deserved a beer.

Di and I had a Salsa date that night. After my last attempt, it was evident that pre-salsa mojitos don’t help. So I decided to try beer this time. Brenden and I had celebrated for longer than we probably needed to but it actually loosened my hips up a little bit. My previous “feet-go-N-and-S-while-hips-go-E-and-W” thing didn’t really work. There are a lot more little steps and direction is important and, though it may be trite, you gotta feel the beat.

Di and I arrived at the Salsa club Zoey and met some Ecuadorian friends and we grabbed some drinks and watched the band come on. They were fantastic, energetic and had the dance floor filled quickly. Most of the people there were pretty good. There was a $5 cover so it wasn’t for those who didn’t want to salsa. Given my post-game-pre-gaming I got to the dance floor quickly tonight.

After watching the LeBron James of Salsa dancing, Maricio, I figured if I could do 10% of that, I’d be ok. Watching his feet was confusing and asking for trouble but watching the pace of his movements and his hips was a little more helpful (yes, I was watching his hips). The band only lasted an hour but DJ iPod was pretty good.

Di and I danced all throughout the night, though I did get to dance with some of Maricio’s señoritas here and there which was fun and someone less “enthusiastic” may have been a little more embarrassed but I actually got helped out by some group dance stuff. There was some version of the train that went on and some other gringo-bail-out-dances.

At the end of the night Di and I cabbed home and feeling accomplished and salsariffic. Di danced with Maricio once and looked like every other beautiful girl that danced with Maricio. Girl can dance. I genuinely tried tonight and occasionally succeeded. My highlight reel resembled salsa dancing and while editing has a way of making bad look good, this beer league salsador made progress.

It didn’t take 48 hours before all that progress was seemingly erased with what was a pretty humbling real salsa lesson. We arrived a little late (typical) and hopped in. Matt, Di and I partook as the kids sat and watched.

This was the first time I was dancing with a mirror and I was less than impressed. It made me love Di that much more than she has now put up with me as a dance partner on three separate occasions. I did realize that when it comes to learning to dance its good to loosen up. You can stretch all you want but if you want your hips going anywhere, I advise a drink. Especially if you only sort of speak the language of all the girls you’re trying to dance with. This night I was unarmed.

The lesson wasn’t a complete failure. In the solo practice stuff, I was doing just fine (there was a sequence with four spins in a row that took a second to get but it came before starting with a partner). The problem started when I got a partner who was more lost than I was. I was in zero position to be teaching her how to spell salsa let alone dance it. She was either so embarrassed she had to make up a story about her ride being here (wouldn’t be the first time) or she actually had to catch a ride, but midway through partner dancing I was without a partner.

The next song I got paired up with a very cute Cuencana girl and I had the pleasure of following the best dancer in the class. It’s like being the Bulls’ shooting guard following MJ’s retirement (Anyone? Buehler? Anyone?... Brent Berry. He’s actually a fine player but also enjoyed his worst shooting season of his career that year and the Bulls ended up with the number one pick… Berry played for the Sonics the next year).

After the last girl who ditched me, and my need for a little more practice with partners before being left to my own destruction, I did not do well. Not five minutes earlier was the instructor saying I was doing well and now I am in the special needs class. I contend she wasn’t my type but she didn’t seem too interested in where I was from and what my sign was after the dance. The last song I got to dance with Di and while I looked like a fool, her English instructions helped.

The lesson was only an hour but the glutton for punishment that I am, I signed up for more classes next week. I do think I’ll get it. The rhythm isn’t far and the steps aren’t that hard. Sometimes I can do it better than others. There’s another salsa class at my Spanish school this week as well. Hopefully this week a girl will come.