Sunday Reflection

Today was one of those days that come by on rare occasion. A day where you almost feel outside of your body, almost as if you’re observing the world from some celestial body hovering above Earth.

I was on a bike ride (with my new front tire) cruising through the old city, along the rocky uneven streets. The sidewalks provide a somewhat safer route, but there’s always the chance of running over a foot or running out of sidewalk (that happens here, unexpectedly.)

Traversing the town, I noticed how hot the sun was beating on my back, and realized  that today was the first day of spring. I smiled, acknowledging that I slipped from summer to spring, but not without some chilly-weather nights in between. With it being a Sunday, the shops were mostly closed down, and I marveled at how unrecognizable things seemed when everything was all shuttered. I still have to orient myself, I guess.

I decided that I would take a break from lesson planning and get some more reading done in The Kite Runner. It’s an excellent book. I stopped at Parque Calderon, which is probably the most popular plaza in the old city. The environment here was different from the rest of the town: vendors selling ice cream, teenagers lounging in their rebellious “American” clothes, old men stealing a smoke from their cigars, street performers entertaining the children. I took a seat on a bench, in the sunlight, but out of the sunlight. Cracked open my book, and became immersed in the storyline of the novel.

A very young boy walked up to me. Sat down next to me on the bench and muttered something. All I could make out was “choclo”. I looked down. He was lugging a big bucket of choclo, large corn kernels, selling it to the parkgoers. “No gracias” I replied, and returned to my book. The boy remained seated, shuffling his little sneaker-clad feet. I watched his feet swing back and forth, back and forth, and after a few moments, he got up and walked away. Milled about the surrounding area, repeating his line, and an older man dug in his pocket for a bag of choclo. I kept my eyes on this little boy…he was no more than 3 feet tall, donning baggy jeans, a T-shirt, and dark brown hair. His scrawny arms clutched the bucket, his walk a little lopsided from the weight of the goods in it. In the States, I’d probably never see such a sight. But here, it was completely normal. A kid selling goods on the street.

That’s when the culture shock hit. I wasn’t in the States. I was in Cuenca, Ecuador. I looked around, saw the polleras, the hats, the shawls, but also the baseball caps, the skinny jeans, the cell phones. It was surreal. I felt the sun again, it felt so good. I wondered what the weather was like in Philadelphia now. I heard it was getting cooler, fall was in the air. I wondered what I’d be doing now if I were back there.

But I wasn’t there. I was here, sitting on a park bench, listening to the police on every corner blowing their whistles, wearing their florescent vests and monitoring the plaza. Suddenly, I hear “hola.” I don’t move. “Hola.” I look up. A girl with blonde hair and sunglasses hands me a flyer. I look at it. It’s advertising belgian waffles. “Muy rico” she tells me and goes on her way. I watch her leave; where’s she from?

Where am I from? Where are any of us from? Does a country of origin really define us? Does this Phillies cap on my head or the visa in my passport truly differentiate me from the other people in this plaza? That little boy with the choclo, does he need the same things as me? Or are we worlds apart? I’ve been thinking of how I love celebrating my differences, of how I like to pay attention to what makes me unique. But I’ve been reminded that as humans, we really aren’t that unique from each other. Maybe if we all stopped thinking about what makes us different, we would see that we all are essentially in need of the same things. We all want to be at peace, we all want to have friendship and we all want to feel love. Most of the Ecuadorians here accept me into their culture and society. Back at home in Philadelphia, I see residents who get all into a tizzy over someone from Central America or Asia who can’t form a perfect English sentence. I’m not trying to preach anything or delve into anything political, but aren’t we all pretty much the same? Could this realization, if everyone had it, put an end to all the turmoil the world is facing?

So I reflect this Sunday afternoon, sitting here in Ecuador. And maybe somebody in China, or Norway, or Kenya is reflecting on the same thing.