Recorrido Barrial - May 1, 2007

Tuesdays are "Neighborhood Walk" days, known here in Spanish as "Recorrido Barrial". Before we leave the house, to visit our neighbors, we begin with oracion, praying for the vecinos that we know and will chat with, and for any new neighbors we will meet this day on our walk through Barrio San Roque/San Diego. In an attempt to literally love our actual neighbors, we dedicate each Tuesday to getting to know the barrio a bit better.
Gerardo doesn't come with us today. Too much coffee yesterday left him with an unagreeable stomach. That leaves 6 of us in our group: Lenin, Matt, Andres, Bill, Esteban and I. We head out, unsure of who we will talk with today, but confident that whoever it may be, that we will do our best to love them well.
Our first encounter, laughably, is discovering Matt's flip-flop, lying face down on the other side of the street. "Wait a minute...how did THAT get THERE?" We momentarily marvel at how his shoe ended up outside, across the street, without its partner, and then Matt goes to return it to his room. ONWARD! We go up Calle Imbabura, intending to visit Engma and her husband Pablo, on Calle Perez Quinozen. We take a left on Quinozen and ring the bell. After a few moments of wildly barking dogs, Engma pokes her head over the high balcony. "Hola, como estas?...Do you have time to chat?," we ask. "Lo siento, no, I don't, but could you come back later?", Engma wants to know. No problem, we answer and continue on our way.
We stop on the corner and watch a truck filled with angry squealing swine, careen around the bend, the truck bed filled with people who are tyring to corale the pigs and keep them somewhat under control.
We continue on up the road that heads to the Panecillo. We take a right on Calle Maranon. Down the street, past the tunnels, past the Monestary of San Diego, its front arches filled with flower vendors. Roses, mostly, are being sold.
We make our way down Calle Chimborazo, and come upon our friend, Marisol Congo, in her newly opened tienda located on the corner of Chimborazo and Almeida streets. The sign above her store tells us "Aborrotes y Tercena. Odal y Munoz." There she is, selling everything from raw meat to toilet paper. She has just recently moved to this location, previously having owned a cevicheria, a few streets down. She offers us all a glass of coke, from the same cup, so we all must wait for our turn. Once one person is done, she pours another glass, and we pass it to the next person, and on down the line. I decline the soda, so she offers me an orange instead. We thank her for her hospitality, for the coke, and move on.
Onward we head, in search of the next neighbor to catch up with, or meet for the first time. We pass a man selling sliced watermelon. He is holding a huge silver platter above his head, which is loaded with thick slices of the juicy red fruit. "Sandia, sandia, sandia..." he cries. We also pass a woman cooking cui on a grill. Cui, pronounced "kwee", is guinnea pig, and is a local delicacy. The teeth and claws are still intact, only now they are a crispy brown.
Solomon is our next stop. He owns a carpenter workshop around the corner from where we live. His wife, his senora, owns and runs a cone shop across from our front door. Not ice cream, just the cones. Solomon, like always, has much to say. His raspy voice rambles on about politics, his family, and what do we think of Ecuador, while small bits of food fly out of his mouth. Dear Solomon. Next stop: Rosita.
Rosita prides herself on the few English phrases she knows, and uses them confidently and boldly, belting them out as we approach. "Hello!", she bellows. "Good-day!" We hear, (again) how she had lived in London for five years, but how they didn't teach her any English there! She sits on a red plastic stool, next to an old man that is with her today. I don't recognize him. He is fiddling with an aged cast that is on his right hand. "How long have you lived here, Rosita?", I ask. "Veinte anos", comes the reply. 20 years. Everyday she sits in her driveway, hoping to sell something from her bizarre collection of items that are displayed in her entry way. There are about 6 pairs of pants, hanging by hangers from the top of the door; an assortment of tools; a box of dirty plastic dolls; some skirts and scarves; some plates and cups; nails and screws; hard hats; old radios.. the list goes on and on. We say "Adios" to Rosita as she booms "BYE-BYE!" to our little group.
We turn right on Calle Loja, then right again on Imbabura, approaching Casa Victoria. Maestro Angel is working on restoring the large front entrance doors, and lets us pass. We are back at Casa Victoria, back at home.
We are done for today. Done visiting our neighbors. We met no one new today, just visited old pals. But that's just how it goes sometimes on the Recorrido Barrial. Viva San Roque!