Sample Chapter - I Sold My Gold Tooth for Gas Money Lost in Translation Why does ordering an apple Danish have to be so difficult? By Conor Grennan The first person I spoke to upon arriving in Quito was the woman at the airport tourist desk. I had flown all the way from the United States to do some cycling in Ecuador, and I now needed to find a hostel for the night and figure out how to get my bike into town. The chain had been hopelessly twisted on the long flight, and it needed repairing. The woman was kind and very helpful; she called the hostel, booked me into a room, and told me where I could find a van to transport my now useless bike. If I had known then that this nice lady is the only person in Ecuador who speaks English, I probably would have hung out at the airport for a while, chatting about myself. In my ignorance, however, I walked outside, loaded my gear into a waiting van and headed into Quito. I arrived at the Hostel Varama in an area known as New Town at around nine-thirty in the evening. A guy in his early twenties unlocked the door and showed me to my room-the most expensive one in the place was ten American dollars per night. Ecuador evidently decided to give up their own currency a few years ago and adopt the US dollar. They do, however, mint their own coins; thus, instead of Thomas Jefferson on the nickel you have Juan Montalvo, who, like his American counterpart, must have invented something as timeless as the dumbwaiter. It wasn't too late at night, so I would normally have gone for a walk to stretch my legs-but not in Quito. No sir, the Lonely Planet guide assured me that if I walked out the door in Quito after sunset, I would immediately be attacked and murdered. Not only that, the thief would steal my identity and return to the US to spend Christmas with my family and arrange to meet up with my ex-girlfriends. Just a quick drink for old time's sake, you know. I wasn't real anxious to let that happen (though it would make one hell of a story), so I decided to stay inside and take it easy. I was tired after my long trip anyway, and felt absurdly jet-lagged. I sat down with a pen and paper and calculated that my body clock was now set to about late June 2020. I tried going to sleep, but woke up every fifty-five minutes, which is apparently how people sleep in the future. I woke up early the next day, eager to have a look around Quito in the safety of daylight. The first order of business was to move my bags to the five-dollar room down the hall, the one that was large enough for a single bed and maybe a handful of peas. I didn't have any peas, and was thus hoping to spread out a bit. I informed the young guy who was running the place that I wanted to switch rooms, and quickly discovered that he spoke no English. It took some convincing to get him to follow me upstairs so I could show him what I would be doing, and presumably, get him to give me a key to the other door. He had a wary look in his eye, and I finally had to physically take his arm and lead him upstairs to show him I was changing rooms. What he could possibly have been afraid of is beyond me, though it probably didn't help that I was barking out various combinations of the four Spanish words I knew like a disturbed parrot. It probably didn't help either that in seeking the door key to the new room, I used the word "muerte" (death) instead of "puerta" (door), and that my miming of a turning key may have looked, in context, like I was planning to gut him like a hog. In the next hour of wandering around, I quickly discovered that the good people of Quito do not speak English. And really, why should they? I found this to be rather exhilarating, like this was real travelling somehow. If nobody was speaking English in the backpacker quarter of the capital, they certainly wouldn't in the rest of the country-I had no choice but to learn some Spanish if I wanted to eat. And I really wanted to eat. Right then, in fact. So I headed off to find some breakfast. I quickly discovered that there is not a whole lot of choice at 8:00 a.m. in Quito, but the neighbourhood was quite pleasant. Walking west toward Old Town, you trundle through narrow streets that roll along with the hills, rising to the north, falling to the south, as if the whole city were on a swaying ship. There is so much whitewashed, colonial architecture to catch your eye that you don't even notice the grand old plazas until you burst into them like a clearing in the woods. I had just traversed one, the Plaza de la Independencia, shaded by tall palm trees and lined with stately colonial-era arcades, when I found what I was looking for: a small café that was selling a variety of pastries, most of which looked quite appetizing. I wandered in and perused the glass case until a man with a large smile greeted me, no doubt asking what I wanted to eat. This being my first Spanish conversation in Ecuador, aside from the rather unsuccessful one at my hostel, I think it is worth describing here. Now, if I had wandered into a café in, say, northern China, the process of buying a pastry would be fairly simple. The man behind the counter would take one look at me, know that I had a better chance of juggling giraffes than speaking Chinese, and would move straight to mime, pointing at things, so that I could nod or shake my head as warranted. But this was not China, this was Ecuador, and that completely altered the equation. In Quito, people simply assume that you speak Spanish, even if you are American (in fact, especially if you are American), and that confidence is rather contagious. I just did not to want to let this friendly chap down, and it was inspiring the way he spoke to me as someone with equal or superior Spanish to himself. From the first moment, I had myself believing that I knew exactly what he was offering me. That's when things started to spiral out of control. I do not wish to sound as if I am passing judgment on the 330 million people who claim Spanish as their first language, but I would appeal to any etymologists out there to explain how you get "naranja" from "orange," as they have done in Latin America. It doesn't make any sense. You know what "orange" is in French? "Orange." In German? That's right, "orange." How about Swedish? Go on, have a guess. Give up? Well, folks, you can look it up: "Orange." So what's up with Spanish? Unable to locate anything on the board that resembled "orange juice," I took a stab at one of the other word combinations up there. I received for my efforts a set of raised eyebrows accompanied by a super thick yogurt drink that tasted remarkably like bean dip. And then there was the meat pie/apple Danish mix-up. This was especially irritating, because I'm sure I pointed to an apple Danish. The guy behind the counter must have made some sleight of hand while pointing. Not to trick me, you understand, but because that's probably how the conversation went, which is to say, his end of the conversation. He was speaking a great deal, and I was simply smiling and nodding a lot. Let me paint you a picture, as this would certainly repeat itself over the next few months. I point to an apple Danish and he says (in indecipherable Spanish), "I see that you are pointing at an apple Danish. That certainly makes sense, as it is eight o'clock in the morning. Apple Danishes are universally considered breakfast food, even here in Ecuador. There is no other logical choice, to be sure. You are certainly going to enjoy this particular pastry-it is one of my personal favourites. You would have to be crazy to order, say, a meat pie at this hour." I would nod enthusiastically, which for some reason would throw him off. "What? You want a meat pie? You do not actually want a meat pie, do you?" he would say. I, of course, would just continue to nod. "Wait a minute, perhaps I have unfairly leapt to conclusions," he would continue. "I have been guilty of this in the past, and it has brought pain to those closest to me. I will not repeat such an error now. Please tell me sir, are you in fact saying that you want a meat pie, rather than this delicious apple Danish, for breakfast? This is what you eat in America?" Nod, nod, nod. "Well, then, meat pie it is. I shall happily serve this to you, my friend. It seems strange to me, but I will not judge you or your culture. And it will probably taste rather nice with the bean dip you ordered." So I got the goddamn meat pie. And worse yet, every non-Spanish-speaking American who wanders in there for breakfast, nodding dumbly, will now get a meat pie as the default choice. All I can do is apologize in advance. Go To Conor's Bio Page < Back to Writer Spotlight Main Page
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