At long last, the day that I can sort out the passport fiasco has arrived. I have been so anxious waiting to figure out this passport situation that I woke up at 7:30 am...anyone who is reading this probably knows how much of a feat that is for me! Dave and I went for an early breakfast at a locally-owned café: scrambled eggs, croissants, jam, juice, and great coffee (the real deal!) for $1.50 each. We were the only ones in there so Dave set the camera on the counter and set the self-timer. The streets had a very different feel to them today…a better feel. We arrived on a Sunday and Monday was New Year’s day, so today was the first day that people were going about their business as usual. Businesspeople were out and about, shops and restaurants were open, and the city was bustling. Dave and I both agreed that the city seemed nicer and friendlier today. 
Dave headed back to the room to work on his papers (apparently stopping along to way to take several more photos, all of which appear below), while I embarked on my passport problem-solving mission. The first thing I needed to do was go to a “comisaria” to file a report about the missing passport. I really don’t know what a comisaria is, even though I’ve now been to one. My Spanish-English dictionary says it’s a police station, but that’s not exactly what it is. It’s more like some kind of police-related office. Anyway, I had gotten the address of the nearest one from some cops (the same ones that I am posing in a photo with - we liked their swords), but I couldn’t find it. I knew I was in the vicinity because everyone I kept asking was saying “right over there” and gesturing to the corner, but I just couldn’t find it. Finally I asked a guy who worked in a clothing store and was standing outside the store where it was, and he gestured to the back of the clothing store and said “upstairs”. I was puzzled, but I went to the back of the store, and sure enough 
there was a little staircase in the corner. I went up the stairs, and there was the comisaria! How very odd.The comisaria was a really funny place – I felt like I was caught in a time warp when I went in there! It was filled with about half a dozen desks, each with an electric typewriter and a telephone. Behind each desk was a 50-something man who looked like he had just stepped out of an episode of Starsky and Hutch: outdated polyester suit, shirt with oversized collar, 70s-style haircuts and glasses. It was really funny. I should clarify that the typical Ecuadorian business person is very modern and well-dressed and looks no different from a business person in any Canadian or US city. I’m not sure why these guys were so out of date. Anyway, I sat down at one of the desks and told the man my rehearsed Spanish speech about losing my passport. He listened intently, nodding vigorously the whole time, grabbed two pieces of paper, inserted a piece of carbon paper between them, threw them in the type writer, and began typing the report without saying a word. The only 
thing he asked me to do was write my name, passport number, and nationality on a piece of paper and to tell him whether I was a senora or a senorita. A few minutes later, he had a full page report typed up. After putting about half a dozen different ink stamps on it and having me and a guy at another desk sign it, he gave me a copy and I was done! Thank god it was so easy. After my experiences at the other 3 police stations I visited, I was fearing the worst!
thing he asked me to do was write my name, passport number, and nationality on a piece of paper and to tell him whether I was a senora or a senorita. A few minutes later, he had a full page report typed up. After putting about half a dozen different ink stamps on it and having me and a guy at another desk sign it, he gave me a copy and I was done! Thank god it was so easy. After my experiences at the other 3 police stations I visited, I was fearing the worst!Next stop was the Canadian Embassy. I flagged a cab and headed across town, passing by a section of the city that could have been almost anywhere: We drove by modern office buildings, unremarkable government complexes, schools, a university, KFC, McDonalds, Dominos, Papa John’s, Payless Shoes... Business people with briefcases rushed around talking on their cell phones and the traffic was nuts. Quite a contrast to the beautiful Centro Historico and the backpacker infested tourist trap of Mariscal Sucre. I guess this is where many of the 1.4 million Quitenos go about
their daily business. I was glad to have seen this part of the city. The Canadian Embassy was on the 4th floor of a big office building. I showed ID and walked through a metal detector to enter the main office. Immediately I felt a bit homesick. There was the biggest map of Canada I’ve ever seen on one wall, giant photos of Steven Harper (looking like a make-up wearing pervert, as usual) and the Governor General (the French woman whose name is escaping me…is it Michelle Jean?) on another wall, and various Canadian stuff scattered around (copies of McLean’s magazine, an Air Canada advertisement for flights to Vancouver, a Canadian flag, a plaque about Terry Fox… I’ve never been in an embassy or a consulate before, so I didn’t really know what to expect. I guess I wasn’t expecting to walk into a
room full of Canadian patriotism! It was a weird feeling to be so far from home and to be surrounded by so many familiar things.Anyway, the young woman who helped me was very nice, very helpful, and she spoke perfect English, which was great. She explained that I could get an emergency passport that would be valid for 5 days to get back into the US, then I could re-apply for a regular passport once I returned to the US. I asked her about my US work visa that was inside the passport, and she said I might want to talk to the US embassy about it, but that it shouldn’t be a problem to have it reissued at the border. So, I sat and filled out a passport application, along with a bunch of extra forms.
Then, I had to jump in a cab again to go get passport photos taken, which was kind of a funny experience. The place they recommended was a very tiny one-man photography studio. The photographer took his job very seriously and kept taking me by the chin and moving my head a few millimetres this way or that way. He didn’t speak any English, and he kept asking me to smile, which I know from experience is not allowed in passport photos. I kept trying to tell him that you’re not allowed to smile, and I finally realized that he agreed that I wasn’t allowed to give a full-on smile with teeth showing, but tha
t he wanted to capture my dimples in the picture by having me give some kind of slight half smile. It was quite an ordeal. Anyway, after all was said and done, the photos were ready in 15 minutes and only cost a few bucks, which was great.
Then, because I didn’t have a guarantor to confirm my identity (Dave doesn’t count…apparently it needs to be someone who lives in Ecuador), I had to go to a notary public. That was also kind of a funny experience. I took a taxi to a place that the Embassy recommended, but no one there spoke English, and the forms that they needed to fill out were only printed in English and French. That caused a bit of confusion, and I had to wait for quite a long time in a waiting room, but finally the woman reappeared with the forms filled out and stamped correctly. This cost me $15 – way more than I was expecting, but still a small price to pay. The notary public, who was a very kind and friendly woman, caught me off guard by giving me a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek on my way out the door, wishing me a happy New Year, and telling me to be careful and watch my belongings closely.
t he wanted to capture my dimples in the picture by having me give some kind of slight half smile. It was quite an ordeal. Anyway, after all was said and done, the photos were ready in 15 minutes and only cost a few bucks, which was great.Then, because I didn’t have a guarantor to confirm my identity (Dave doesn’t count…apparently it needs to be someone who lives in Ecuador), I had to go to a notary public. That was also kind of a funny experience. I took a taxi to a place that the Embassy recommended, but no one there spoke English, and the forms that they needed to fill out were only printed in English and French. That caused a bit of confusion, and I had to wait for quite a long time in a waiting room, but finally the woman reappeared with the forms filled out and stamped correctly. This cost me $15 – way more than I was expecting, but still a small price to pay. The notary public, who was a very kind and friendly woman, caught me off guard by giving me a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek on my way out the door, wishing me a happy New Year, and telling me to be careful and watch my belongings closely.
I hopped in another cab (thankfully, the most any of these cabs cost was $2) and went back to the Embassy. It was 12:45 pm when I returned – I was
very proud of myself for accomplishing so much, so quickly, in a strange country where I barely speak the language. I was relieved that I’d be back to our hotel in plenty of time to check out by 2 pm (the wonderfully late check out time). At the embassy, however, I was informed that the consular officer was on her lunch break and would be back in 10 minutes. Ten minutes gave way to 20 minutes which gave way to 30 minutes and eventually 55 minutes! Two other people were in the waiting room: A 65 or 70-year-old Canadian man from Flin Flon, Manitoba (for anyone who doesn’t know, that’s like the equivalent of being from Nowhere, Montana, population 5,000) and his attractive, voluptuous, 6’ tall, Afro-Ecuadorian wife, who I’d say was probably 25, definitely no more than 30. She was wearing a sweatshirt that said Winnipeg on it and she didn’t speak a
word of English. His Spanish was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. He knew enough vocabulary and grammar, but his pronunciation was the worst I’ve ever heard. He almost sounded like he was mocking the language. Of course, I can’t talk because I can’t even string a sentence together, but his Canadian accent was so strong it was just unreal. He informed me that they were there to try to figure out how they could get his lovely wife to Canada. Ugh. The funniest part of all of this was that he was trying really hard to explain the concept of Hooter’s restaurants and the SPCA to his wife (he was reading an article about how Hooter’s did a bikini fundraiser for the SPCA and wanted to share this vital information with his wife). He was having so much trouble trying to explain these concepts, and his wife was just scowling at him like an impetuous teenager whose weird old father was embarrassing her in public (especially when he said, “In inglays, hooters...” and then made the universal gesture for huge breasts).
very proud of myself for accomplishing so much, so quickly, in a strange country where I barely speak the language. I was relieved that I’d be back to our hotel in plenty of time to check out by 2 pm (the wonderfully late check out time). At the embassy, however, I was informed that the consular officer was on her lunch break and would be back in 10 minutes. Ten minutes gave way to 20 minutes which gave way to 30 minutes and eventually 55 minutes! Two other people were in the waiting room: A 65 or 70-year-old Canadian man from Flin Flon, Manitoba (for anyone who doesn’t know, that’s like the equivalent of being from Nowhere, Montana, population 5,000) and his attractive, voluptuous, 6’ tall, Afro-Ecuadorian wife, who I’d say was probably 25, definitely no more than 30. She was wearing a sweatshirt that said Winnipeg on it and she didn’t speak a
word of English. His Spanish was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. He knew enough vocabulary and grammar, but his pronunciation was the worst I’ve ever heard. He almost sounded like he was mocking the language. Of course, I can’t talk because I can’t even string a sentence together, but his Canadian accent was so strong it was just unreal. He informed me that they were there to try to figure out how they could get his lovely wife to Canada. Ugh. The funniest part of all of this was that he was trying really hard to explain the concept of Hooter’s restaurants and the SPCA to his wife (he was reading an article about how Hooter’s did a bikini fundraiser for the SPCA and wanted to share this vital information with his wife). He was having so much trouble trying to explain these concepts, and his wife was just scowling at him like an impetuous teenager whose weird old father was embarrassing her in public (especially when he said, “In inglays, hooters...” and then made the universal gesture for huge breasts).
Anyway, at about 1:40 pm the consular official came back. She took my applications, photos, notarized documents, a copy of my ID and the police report, $26, and sent me on my way. I have to return prior to leaving the country to pick up the emergency passport. Easy as pie! What an immense relief.
The consular official’s late return from lunch reminds me of something funny that I read in our guide book. Apparently, punctuality (actually, lack thereof) is such a problem for Ecuadorians that, in 2003, a national public interest group embarked on a campaign to stop lateness. According to this group, lateness costs Ecuadorians $724 million per year (and their GDP is only $49.5 billion!), so they organized a date and time for all Ecuadorians to synchronize their watches and resolve to end tardiness. They involved national celebrities in the campaign, as well as the President, who was notorious for showing up 3-4 hours late for meetings (although he was only a few minutes late for the watch synchronizing ceremony). According to our book, the campaign had some effect at the gov
ernmental level, but not at the societal level. I would fit in well here, I guess, because apparently it’s still the norm to arrive to business meetings and social engagements quite late. Anyway, I’m taking rambling to a whole new level in this entry. After I returned to the hotel (late!), we stowed our bags behind the counter and went to grab a bite to eat and go up in the tower of the Basilica. We really wanted to climb up inside the tower, but it was closed on our previous visit. Today it was open, so up we went. It was great. We climbed staircase after staircase, and just when we thought we couldn’t go any higher, we climbed a few ladders and went right up into the steeple. The view was amazing and Dave took lots of great photos (below), of course. After visiting the Basilica we hopped on a bus and headed to a city called Latacunga, 2 hours south of Quito in Ecuador’s Central Highlands (the Andes). We found a hotel ($16 a night for a double bed, hot water, TV, and huge window with a great view of the town’s main plaza) and settled in for the night. I slept well knowing my passport situation was resolved!
Inside the clock.
Inside the clock.
This one and the next one show the view of Quito from the steeple.
View from our hotel room in Latacunga.
1 comment:
Actually we are classed as a city since we have more then 10,000 people and there are about three other communities minutes from us with about 5,000 put together... nice blog though!
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