113 Degrees and Humid

The thing about the Alhambra is that it is not only vast, but overwhelmingly detailed. I could probably spend the rest of my life there and not understand it or discover everything there is to know. However, I didn't have the rest of my life; I had an Airbnb reservation in Cordoba to get to in the afternoon, and the drive would be a couple hours.

The "interstate" system in Spain is a bit different to the one in the States. I took the non-toll roads, which wind around a bit more than the direct toll roads. You see more countryside and pretty towns, I suppose, but it takes longer.

Not that I minded countryside. I loved it. True, I didn't love that there were seven roundabouts in a row with six different directions I could choose, according to my GPS. I did not love the fact that one of those six was a dirt road that looked like a Flavius or Julius could conceivably have been the last person to take it. Nor did I love the fact that the next roundabout had a dirt road that didn't make it onto the map, despite it being well-worn and much-traveled.

I found out quickly that it's best to just go with whatever exit you think might be right and make a U-turn if it isn't. After all, it's not like there is anyone around - except for the exact moment you decide to make a U-turn.

So it was a good thing I had my GPS.

Cordoba turned out to be a bustling city with fairly quiet streets. I don't know how that works. Driving in it wasn't a problem, and I seemed to have turned up at the precise moment when there was exactly one parking place open. This was better than I could have hoped!

After a short rest, I felt ready to see the sights. Lupe, my host, had kindly brought me a glass of ice water when I arrived. It melted completely in 10 minutes, with the A/C on. Everyone was dripping sweat. No one was prepared for the heat this early!


I'd heard great things about the Mosque-Cathedral, so I knew I wanted to see it. It used to be a grand mosque when the Moors ruled Cordoba, but ages ago some Catholic architect had asked permission to build a church in the middle. The Holy Building Permit Office (I assume), rather than go to the trouble of going over to look at the proposed site, gave permission sight unseen. Hence why it's called the Mosque-Cathedral: there is a cathedral built in the center of the mosque, incorporating the side aisles but completely removing and rebuilding the very center.

Getting there took some doing. I took the wrong bus twice, ended up I-know-not-where, walked until I got to the river, and figured out my way from there. The heat and humidity pressed down on me and fogged my mind.

After the Alhambra, the Mosque-Cathedral was a disappointment. The ceiling still soared above my head, ancient and mesmerizing, but it was dingy and discolored.

I left, hot, sweaty, sunburned, and feeling like the drive to Cordoba had been a waste. I wandered around a little, looking for the palace of the kings of Cordoba. I found it! It was closed.

Somewhat discouraged, I stopped at a small heladería (ice-cream shop) nearby and decided to eat my dulce de leche ice cream across the street by a large and rather out-of-place monument (to Columbus, I think). The ice cream was melting rapidly in the 113°F heat, and so was I.

Just past the monument, a several-times-rebuilt Roman bridge spanned the Guadalquivir River. When I looked at it and mentally shrugged, I knew I was overly tired. Normally anything with the word "Roman" in it captures my attention. This time it did not.

I stopped to fill my water bottle from a fountain on the street, forgot to take my camera off my wrist, and stuck it directly into the stream of ice-cold water. Getting upset would use too much energy, so I sat on a park bench, took out the batteries, let the thing air-dry for a few minutes (Everything just evaporated. It was scary.) and it was just fine.

I decided to do the smart thing and go back to my room, eat something, and go to bed early. I wandered around, smelling the bitter orange trees that dot the city, glad for the shade.

The "smart thing" involved getting on several buses, not knowing where I was going. Somehow my heat-addled brain deciphered the maps and told my body where to go. Somehow, without knowing what I was doing, I got back to my room with not a single bit of backtracking.

After a short rest, I set out again, this time in search of supper. I found a small store nearby, selling fruit and cheese and bread. The wind was picking up, and the heat was not so bad anymore. Dust was flying everywhere, though, and static electricity crackled in the oppressively humid air. The clouds were black and roiling by this point, the sun either sinking fast or completely obscured.

I hoped desperately for rain.

Ladywell and Fish & Chips

Considering the fact that the Tube was down and all buses took about 4 times as long as the Tube would normally take, the day yesterday went remarkably well. Our 8-hour flight was delayed by about 35 minutes, and we arrived only 15 minutes behind schedule.

You must remember, dear reader, that Heathrow has been called, at least by The Telegraph, the "worst airport in the world." That takes a bit of doing. So we were pleasantly surprised, to say the least, that border control took no longer than 30 minutes. We seemed to be always either on the short end of a long line, or the long end of a short line, for everything. It was nice.

The Tube being as nonexistent as it was, we had to take the Heathrow Express in to Paddington Station, from whence we took a bus to Victoria. (We passed the Wellington Arch on the way, but we were holding on for dear life and couldn't be bothered to take a picture.)




While this was happening, we were still stuck in traffic.

Then, when we got off the bus, we walked past the turning where were supposed to go, got some help from a friendly girl who grew up in Ladywell, and arrived at our hotel safe and sound and utterly overwhelmed.

While all this was happening, everyone was stuck in traffic.

Our hotel is a pleasant sort of place - not much in the way of room service or sheets or shampoo, but that's OK - situated in Belgravia. The neighborhood used to be "fields of no healthy aspect," then "infested by footpads and robbers," then the unsuccessful launching pad of one of the first ballooning expeditions in London (resulting in the accumulation of a great deal of money for the owner of the balloon and great destruction by those who paid for it). It then became the property of the Grosvener family, and then "a convenient place for quiet murder," but is now mainly comprised of hotels and office buildings.

So, after checking in to our hotel, we unpacked our backpacks to make sure we had enough room for food shopping and took ourselves off to Ladywell by bus.

The reason we were in Ladywell was this:

This is my Grandfather when he was a little boy. He lived in Ladywell as a child. I feel like it would be a travesty to come to England and not see where he lived. It's a quiet street, for all that it's a busy thoroughfare, surrounded by spires and old, shrapnel-damaged graveyards.

His house isn't there anymore - after the bombing of the Blitz, the area was rebuilt.

We had fish and chips in a little park near Ladywell, and spent quite a bit of time looking through the cemetery of the church that gave Ladywell its name - according to tradition, Our Lady appeared at a certain church well (hence Ladywell).

We saw the World War I monument dedicated to the brave men and women of Lewisham - the borough where Ladywell is.

Then we went back to our hotel. Still stuck in traffic.

All the same, that was all we could take the first day. It isn't easy to jump right into the flow of life when it's 6 hours different from your own.

Hardhats and Sand Dunes

I started the day on Wednesday by hearing my mom say, "You should get up; it's 3:30." We had to leave by 4 in order to get to Page, AZ in time to go on a rafting tour of the Colorado River.

So I rolled out of bed and stumbled over to my computer. I had to write out the directions to get to Page since part of the road had collapsed and we had to take a detour. I took one look at the clock and said, "You looked at my phone clock, didn't you? That's two hours behind. It's really 1:30; go back to sleep."

Other than that minor catastrophe, the morning started off decently. We were able to see the entire blanket of stars when we went outside. We could also see the silhouettes of the elk grazing in the hotel yard.

There was a lot of "Are you sure this is the right way?" from my mom and sister when we finally did get going. I don't blame them; we had to go through the National Park in order to get to the right highway. They didn't like it very much when I said, "I don't know."

While en route, we got to watch the most beautiful sunrise over the eastern rim of the canyon. We also got to sit behind the most beautiful orange-and-white striped barriers for about 10 minutes. But other than construction and a bit of a kerfuffle at the end about which way to turn on S Lake Powell Blvd, everything went smoothly - a definite first for the Beckett clan. We even got to Colorado River Discovery's headquarters some 4 minutes early.


I am now able to boast that I have been on restricted government property heavily guarded by homeland security. However, I arrived in a bus loaded with other people who can also boast the same thing. On top of that, I was only there because CRD has an agreement with the government that they can use the access tunnel for Glen Canyon Dam. So it's not nearly as sketchy as it sounds.

This tunnel is two miles long, with several adits (windows) blasted through to the sides of the canyon. It has room for only one lane, though it is a bit wider at both ends. There are no lights inside the tunnel, and the grade is 8%. All in all, it's very interesting. I looked up the tunnel on the internet, and essentially all the government will say about it is that it is 2 miles long and not open to the public.

When we got to the end of the tunnel, Glen Canyon dam soared up overhead - 700 feet tall. We had to wear hardhats on the way to the dock for the rafts, since the government doesn't want rocks falling on people's heads. (Sounds reasonable.)

The actual rafting trip was superb. Nate, our guide, was funny and engaging. We had 18 people total on our raft, including two of the most precocious twins out there. They couldn't have been more than six years old, but I think they were five. The boy knew all about ospreys - do you? - and nearly everything else, effectively putting Nate out of a job. The girl, when questioned about how they knew all this stuff, replied in the most genuinely confused and matter-of-fact voice I've ever heard, "I read." (Of course you do. Don't all five-year-olds? I did, so I know the feeling of complete bewilderment when people ask you how you know this stuff, but most five year olds, in fact, do not read unless it's absolutely necessary.)

We stopped for a few minutes on a beach on the river. This was in order to go to the bathroom. Yes, the bathroom. They put free-standing stalls on a beach. I don't know what would possess someone to do that, but it was a good idea.

Past the bathrooms was a wall of petroglyphs - images cut into the rock by ancient and not-so-ancient peoples, including both Native Americans and cowboys who didn't know they were defacing a future National Park. (Joy says, "It's only fair for them to leave their marks, after risking their lives to explore the river." But I think it's a case of "Kilroy was here.")


Before I go on, you must understand that the water released from Glen Canyon Dam is a steady 47 degrees Fahrenheit year-round, since it's released from the very bottom of Lake Powell. We went wading in the river, and our feet quickly felt like blocks of ice. But the coldness showed its value when Nate hauled a bag full of cans of lemonade out of the water and passed them around.

The grandeur of the canyon is not something that can easily be described, or even photographed. It's too big, and too red, and too full of history. There's a deep, pervading sense of silence even when the motor of a raft is running.

We went around Horseshoe Bend and saw people up at the top taking pictures of us. They looked about three millimeters tall. I'm sure we looked just as small to them. Nate had us all yell "Hello!" on the count of three, but I don't think they heard us. The people camping on the other bank sure did, though!

On the way back, I decided to sit on the pontoon (we were allowed to!) instead of in the raft itself. My mom told Nate to try to get me soaked with the spray coming from the bow of the raft, but he didn't seem too interested in doing that. Until the end, when a huge wall of water came up to meet me and I had only enough time to close my eyes and mouth before being thoroughly drenched. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself before apparently remembering that this type of raft tour promised that no one would get wet.

 Let me tell you: 47 degrees is cold, even on a hot day. By that time we were back at the tunnel - and air-conditioned buses. I thought I would be grateful for the air conditioning; in reality, I could not feel my feet because they were so cold.

We entered the tunnel and were zipping along when we saw the one thing no one in a one-lane tunnel wants to see: headlights. Since they had come almost two miles and we had just started, the bus began to back up until the tunnel widened enough for the car to squeak past.

We headed back to CRD headquarters and were pleasantly surprised to see that we had a free Bistro lunch. We were, nevertheless, glad we had packed our own lunch as well, as nothing gets you quite as hungry as a large expanse of water and a tremendously hot sun. They also gave us directions to get to the kayaking place.

I wouldn't say that the kayak tour on Lake Powell was necessary, but it was fun. Our mom has always said that she will never get into a kayak or canoe; she hates them and they hate her. But this time she did get in - successfully, no less - and proceeded to kayak a distance that distance-challenged Joy says was either 2 or 4 miles. I, myself, have no idea how long it was, because on the way there I was busy trying to just keep my kayak straight. (I was the only one, besides the two guides, who was in a solo kayak. Everyone else had a partner.) On the way back, I was busy squinting with one eye because my sunscreen had gotten in the other and I was having a painful allergic reaction.

Lake Powell is a water-filled canyon. Since it's warmed by the sun, the water on top is about 78 degrees - a welcome difference after the river water! The deepest point is about 400 feet. We were in an area that was only about 100 feet deep. Therefore, I put the camera in a dry-bag that was strapped to the kayak. There was no way I was going to find it if it happened to drop over the edge.

We stopped for about half an hour to swim by a little island - really the top of a canyon formation. Joy somehow managed to drop one of the cameras in the water. We are not sure how this happened, since it had been secured around her neck. She rescued it immediately, of course, but it was effectively ruined. (Incidentally, this is the same camera that has been living on borrowed time ever since she dropped it a couple of years ago into a small, water-filled receptacle generally found in powder rooms and NOT in kitchens.) The SD card was fine, though, and I was able to save all the pictures we had taken. Later, when I tried to take it apart and see what was wrong with it, I found it water-logged and rusted. Even without batteries in it, it electrocuted me twice. (Is that supposed to happen?)

Anyway, we tried to go into Slot Canyon, but there was too much gunk in the water. One of the other kayakers said it was like trying to paddle through chocolate soup. We turned around, and stopped by another island to rinse out the kayaks and get the nasty-smelling goop off of ourselves.

By this time, we were starting to get the hang of kayaking. None of us flipped over! We even managed to not be the last ones.

But our adventure was far from over. We had parked on the beach of Lake Powell. Beaches mean sand, and lots of it. We had to drive uphill in all that sand. Being Becketts, we got stuck. In all of two seconds a man in an SUV drove up, attached a rope to our axle, and tried to pull us out. We were still stuck. One of the ladies in our group got a delighted, evil grin on her face, asked to borrow our camera, and proceeded to take pictures of our mishap. Eventually, of course, they got us unstuck, because obviously I am sitting at home writing this.

On the way back, we had to wait at construction for 30 minutes, waiting for the pilot car to come get us and lead us to through the construction. We were just happy it was on the way back, not on the way there. We had barely made it as it was!

We did manage to see the sun set, though. It was spectacular, even though it wasn't really over the canyon.

Finally, our longest day on vacation ended. By the time I had finagled the waterlogged SD card into saving its pictures, I had been awake for 22 hours. That is why I am posting this now, instead of then.

And that, gentle reader, is how NOT to do a rafting tour. I suggest going on one, but not quite like that. Later on, I'll post my list of ways to have a great vacation, Beckett style.

One Month

According to the calendar, I have been in Ecuador for 4 weeks. (That first Saturday didn't count for me, since I showed up in Quito at 11 PM.) I've learned and experienced so much in this extremely long and extremely short month that I doubt I can put it all into one blog post. Nevertheless, I shall try.

I've learned that weather is unpredictable. There is no snow in Ecuador, but rain, hail, sunshine, clouds, wind, heat, cold, and drizzle can all happen within a few hours. Clouds do not always mean rain, and sunshine does not mean it's not currently raining. So it's a good idea to bring my ridiculous green poncho everywhere I go, able to transform myself at will into a walking tent.

I've learned that traffic is a game. Since the car and the pedestrian (or bus and pedestrian) cannot be in the same place at the same time, the car speeds up to get there first. It doesn't matter where "there" is. Horns are the main feature of every car, and are used frequently. Seatbelts are used less frequently.

I've learned that the combination of stairs and a backpack is my sworn enemy at high elevations. There are 50 steps to climb on the way to school every morning (unless I take the bus, which is an entirely different thing), four flights of stairs inside the school, and four flights to get to my house. And then there is another flight to get to the kitchen.

I've learned that the bus system works only when you know how to work it. (In that respect, it's like marriage.) I've learned not to stand up more than twenty seconds from my stop, or they'll let me off right there. RIGHT there.

I've learned that soup is not thick and chunky here. It is before they put it in the blender, but it just doesn't seem to end up on the table that way. And then they put popcorn, mote, or mini french fries in it to give it some texture. Go figure.

I've learned that I'm not as afraid of dogs as I used to be. That's a good thing, because I've had to walk right through the middle of a group of seven stray dogs. They also like to follow me. One followed me from the bus stop right to the entrance of CEDEI.

Speaking of dogs, there are two categories of dogs here. There are stray dogs that no one cares about, and there are lap dogs dressed in sweaters and carried everywhere. When the two categories slightly overlap, you get dogs that live outside and are pampered inside.

I've learned that most expats from the States are ultimately just annoying. They yell into their cell phones, laugh loudly enough that pigeons don't stick around, and are generally the most entitled bunch of people I've ever seen. They are generally retired Americans, who talk about "the" Facebook as if it's a wonder that their daughter in Colorado "liked" the same picture as their Ecuadorian friend.

I've learned that I cannot seem to talk English well anymore. Spanglish is becoming more of a thing, when we speak English at all. We put definite articles in when we translate from Spanish to English, and it's common to repeat things in Spanish slowly when someone says, "What?" We don't always translate to English.

I've learned that Inca Lounge has the best American hamburgers, and Chiplote (that's spelled right) has the most wonderful taco salad. La Fornace's pizza is better than Tutto Freddo's, but you can't beat Cafe Austria's spaghetti. I've learned that there's a supermarket by the stadium, and that a burger place is definitely not at the intersection of 3 de noviembre and Gran Colombia.

I've learned that streets have odd names. I live on 24 de mayo; there's a 12 de abril and a 10 de agosto. Fray Vicente Solano vies with Gaspar Sangurima for difficulty saying fast. And doesn't Benigno Malo sound evil? The only street name that makes sense is Calle Larga: long street.

I've learned that Ecuadorians love to put alcohol sauce in ice cream. It's nasty stuff. They like to cook with it, too, but that's not so bad because the alcoholic taste goes away and all that's left is a taste that they could do very well without but don't want to.

We've learned that Parque de la Madre is a wonderful place to just lie on the grass and talk. It's also a place for couples to attempt to swallow each others' faces mouth-first for ten minutes without needing air.

I've learned that I'm hopeless with the preterite and gendered words in general. Thankfully my host family laughs at me and then corrects me. I haven't made any extreme blunders yet (as far as I know!), but it will happen sometime. Hopefully it won't end up being obscene.

But the best thing I've learned is that God is here, too. For the first three weeks it seemed like something was blocking His presence here. I've since come to realize that it doesn't matter if He's being blocked; He is still here. And then He tore through the barriers and made me realize that nothing can actually keep Him out. It was such a glorious lesson that I can't really explain it on a blog post! But it reminded me of this poem I wrote a while back:

No death nor life could shut Him in; no grave had power to hold Him.
No throne could keep Him from his own, nor wrath nor hell enfold Him.
Though leaving scars in their cruel wake, no spike could e'er detain Him.
Though sealed by Caesar's royal seal, no tomb could e'er contain Him.

No demon foul could conquer Him, no traitor could betray Him,
For all was done by God's decree and Christ by death portrayed Him.
And by His death 'tis true now that for one blood-bought forever,
No death nor life nor any else from the love of God can sever.

Lessons and Longings

I've been in Cuenca nearly two weeks now, and in Ecuador for three. It seems like so much longer. Imagine that every day was made up of 48 hours instead of 24. I'd have been gone from home for six weeks instead of three. That's how long it seems.

Every day I ache for home, for my church, for my mom's hug. Every day I long for the feeling of driving a car again, the feeling of the lovely embrace of heat produced by my furnace and not by the sun, the feeling of running around the house barefoot if I like. Every day I look at the delectable soups and main courses my host mom makes and I long for the taste of my mom's simple cooking.

I miss being able to cook my own food. I miss being able to whisper about my day with my sister at night. I miss having a pitch-black room to sleep in. I miss having sound-reducing insulation around my window. I miss pinto beans (they're not here; the only beans here are huge and white or purple). I miss the feeling of a one-year-old settled comfortably on my hip, and the feeling of a three-year-old's hand confidingly placed in mine. I miss going on the so-called "grand adventures" I used to go on with that one-year-old and three-year-old, consisting entirely of going down one set of stairs, through the basement and up another flight of stairs before completing the circuit another twenty times.

There is so much that I miss by not being home. However, there is much I would have missed had I decided to stay home.

I would have missed fulfilling a lifelong dream of visiting the Ecuadorian jungle. Smelling the color green in all its various shades. Visiting some of the oldest cathedrals in Quito and Cuenca. The Equator. The friendships I'm developing with my group. Driving through the mountains with a driver who bus-races (I don't get it, either). Seeing all the places I've only seen in pictures. Haggling in the markets. Swimming in a waterfall's pool in the Amazonian jungle. Seeing ants an inch long. Flying over the Panama Canal, lit up in the setting sun. Going to a Catholic mass for the first time in my life. Walking to school through old and new Cuenca. Touring one of the older houses in Cuenca. Telling scary stories in the jungle.

I would have missed having a dysfunctional water tube on the Napo River. Being subjected to a wonderful hail storm at 14000 feet above sea level. Falling over while trying to walk on the Equator. Waiting at a street crossing with a guy carrying three machetes. Seeing a random banana vendor washing his hands without soap in a rain puddle on a busy street. Hearing an old gringo yelling into his cell phone about how "let's get together" (and rolling our eyes at how loud "those Americans" are). Climbing 50 uneven steps on my way to school. Taking the bus and getting off too soon. Being drenched in a sudden jungle rain storm.

There are many lessons I've learned.

I've learned that they do sell peanut butter in one place in Cuenca. That it's not advisable to order trout at the Cafe Austria because you'll get the entire fish, head and all. That political parades can go by at any time of day or night. That it takes 45 minutes to get to school walking fast. That you have to watch out for deep holes in weird places. That you have to be on the lookout for cars when crossing traffic circles. That they don't sell pocket folders in Cuenca. That "empapado" can mean either "soaked" (like rain) or "drunk." That fireworks can go off at any time.

At the Equator, I learned what it means that you can't try to walk the line between obedience and disobedience. Either there is the one or the other, but not both. Like trying to serve God and something else, it's impossible.

In the jungle, I learned that, as Proverbs 24:16 says, it doesn't matter how many times you fall, as long as you get back up right away. (I fell far more times than seven.)

On my way to school, I learned that two are truly better than one, since it's so much harder to walk alone than with a friend.

And I'm still learning. After all, that's why I'm here, not at home.

Lovely Anticipation

There's something beautiful about knowing that you're well on your way to a new adventure.  It became real (again!) two hours ago, when I registered for classes for next semester. Seeing it gave me goosebumps: Location: Ecuador, Quad A. Considering that all fifteen or so of my classes have been on the main campus (and, therefore, firmly on US soil), it's a thrilling prospect.

Do you know how far CEDEI (the school we're studying at) is from my house? 3,149 miles, as the crow flies. That's over twice the distance I've ever been from home. (I'm beginning to sound like Samwise Gamgee here.)

  I'm going to be thoroughly immersed in the culture, living with a host family and speaking only Spanish. I'll be far away from my church family, attending a small Protestant church where I hope my American-ness won't be held against me. I'll be gypped in the markets in the zocalo. I'll be identified immediately as a gringo by my weird Chicago accent. I'll be jounced and jolted on a two-day bus trip through the Andes to a point 3931 miles from home. I'll take lots of pictures and try not to be too obvious about it. 

And it will be wonderful. I'll come back with a hint of an Ecuadorian accent, with wonderful tales of seeing the Lost City of the Incas. I'll come back with a pair of simple earrings, which will quickly become my favorite pair, made there by a delightful old lady who can't see as well as she used to when her children were small. I'll say that Mamá said this or Papá said that or my brother did this or my sister did that, and none of you will understand why I forget to clarify that I mean my host family. 

I'll have a better idea of who I am when I get back. I'll know more about syncretistic religion than I ever wanted to know. I'll have a bigger burden for those people, the ones so engulfed in a mixture of Catholicism and native religions that the truth is unknown. I'll know them personally.

And I'll never be the same. It's a sobering thought.