I wish I could say that at 5:00am today, the morning I leave for Ecuador, the adrenaline took the place of caffine. I wish I could say I was confident in packing for three months of travel. I wish I could say I had remembered every detail-like putting a name-tag on the backpack I checked through, or reserving a hostel for my first night in Quito. I wish I could say those things, but that isn´t how travel works. You inevitably forget to water the plants, bring the gloves you bought specifically for the trip, copy your birth certificate, turn the oven off-the little things. Such is travel, and such is adventure. "Always be prepared," is best for handling any obstacle, but forgetting a med kit makes for one hell of an adventure-at least I remembered the med kitt...I think.

St. Louis International Airport: Donkeys, Mormons, and Flooding

My fist time in the great state of Misourri (one of the hardest to spell). Thanks to the abilities of our pilots, the curt kindness of our flight attendants, and the two huge jet engines soddered to the passenger bearing hips of the plane, I arrived 10 glorious minutes ahead of schedule. Next on the itinerary- hurry up and wait. My flight to Maimi, FL boards in 45min.

Airial vistas were obscured by the wet wrapping of gray cotton rain clouds as I descended into St. Loius. St. Louis´defining structure that assurd its place in the travel magazines, the St. Louis Arch, hid quickly beneath the clouds as we sped earthbound to end my first flight of the trip.

Rain fell heavy on the runway as we landed. Buxom clouds enveloped our plane as we decended through their decieving fluff. Through minimal turbulance, we landed on a soaked black top. Jet engines parted the waters covering the runway in their wake as the engines idled and waited in line to take off. Like storm winds blowing across a normaly placid pond, the water gave way in elongated rippling swells half and inch high. The water'laminated sheen was peeled away by the heat and force of excreted wind supplied from ample power of the jet engines and propellar blades.

"Ron Lewis, please come to gate C29 to claim your...donkey. Ron Lewis...," and on it went intermitantly for ten minutes. Then came a new page, "cleaning crew to gate C29. Cleaning crew to gate C29." And on it went. I wonder...

The "aquaphiliac" St. Louis airport bleeds water through it´s C-terminal arteries. The quick drip-drip-drip is cotarized in its D-Terminal. Illuminated ligthing fixtures bleed water through their moldings, as absurd buckets and plastic office trash cans attempt to capture the water in their cylindrical bodies. Torrents supply the buckets with ample filling, but the impromtu flood deterants are too few to keep the St.Louis International Airport Waterfalls from saturating the cubist inspired carpet pattern.

Across from me are people smoking in a box, facing eachother in stony silence. Puff, puff, stare, repeat. They looked like prisoners in general lockup awaiting their trial dates. Rich by prison standards, each had at least a pack on them. To my left, Mormons, all sitting in a row like they were on a camp trip for young republicans. All dressed in black suits and shoes, smartly pressed with short haircuts and trim figures. One of them is wearing a charcoal black suit, noticably lighter than his religious compatriots, his burgandy shoes laced up tight around black nylon socks, perhaps serving to give him his individuality. Is he considered a rebel in this socio-religious circle? God only knows. Is he teased, reveared, or feared. Perhaps I´ll see him again on his mission in South America, as he slowly transforms the world toward the Mormon faith, taking a percentage of thier monthly pittance for the church, and supporting the statistic of Mormonism as the fastest growing religion in the world - all will be assimilated, resistance is futile.

Elder Casey sat next to me on the flight from St. Louis to Miami Intnl. Silence between us at first. He was the only Elder without a black suited companion seated next to him. Would he and I have anything in common? He looked about my age, perehaps a bit younger. His healthy babyface gave the impression that it was still virgen to the razor. His suit hung one size too big off of his chubby frame. At one point during the flight he fell asleep, and was awakened by the elbow that had been supporitng his chin, as it slid off the aisle armrest and struck him in the jaw. With a quick and reactionary movement, he jolted upright, pretended nothing had happened, and regained a faux composure. He apparently hoped to redirect the assumed attention by greedily grabing for the "Sky Mall" magazine and scrutinizing the "miracles of modern invention," the ionizers.

I rudley glanced at the itinerary he was absently eyeballing, and took note of his final destination: Lima, Peru. "Going to Peru?" I queried. "Yep." Waiting for more information from the funeral attired missionary, I was surprised to find none forthcomming. I had always, and apparently mistakenly, assumed that those in the service of a God were ripe for comfortable and willing conversation. I was also intrigued by the possibiility that he might provide me some insight into the workings of a missionary, a subject I am admitedly ignorant of. I dug further. "How long are you going to be in Peru for?" "Until July." Two words followed quickly by an elongated silence. "Ah," I said much too belatedly. I surmised that this impromtu interview was going to be tough. "Are you going to be staying in Lima the whole time?" "I´ll be working in Puyra." Yes! A common ground. I had spent some time in Puyra on my last visit, a small and relatively forgetable coastal town in the Northern coast of Peru that housed fishermen and traders, and as I experienced it two years ago, a transient home to travelers. "I know Puyra!" I offered enthusiastically, hoping to encite a conversation that would allow me the oppoortunity to ask more questions. Not even an acknowledgement was given. Might Big Casey have struck out in this conversation? I pitched him three conversation starting questions, and he had wiffed at each of them, assuming he even saw the pitches.

In silence, that would have done a vaccum justice, we finished our flight without another word exchanged between the two of us.

Maimi to Quito, the Last Leg

Only three and a half hours and I´d be in South America. Ten months of scrimping at a thankless job of cleaning dirty plates and moving heavy furniture as a golf club steward - think bus boy, now add a vest, tie, and surround me in well endowed (financially) members who know what they like (very little), and what they hate (everything else). I generalize, but not much. The realization of travel was ebbing into me, slowly. Like tides advancing and retreating on a stretch of beach, I was getting excited.

The plane was nearly full. The on board announcements came to us biliguilly, a sign that another continent was only a flight away. I sat next to a London man who was returning to Ecuador after only a four day respite. He said his job demanded that he be modile and expected to travel within 24 hours notice. Mi6?, I wondered. "Just popping off to save the world from destruction and all that, cherie oh and tut tut." No, he dealt in much more serious matters. Ecuador is an economically suffering country. *

The heart of the country beats to the combustion of fossil fuels. Large reserves have been found within the Amazon. This black gold has the potential to lead the country out of the third world.

Bruce, the English chap next to me, was employed by the oil companies that had invested in the oil pipeline that ran the length of the country, east to west. Unfortunately for the Ecuadorian economy, the pipeline has been the target of terrorist groups found within the bordering jungles of Columbia and Ecuador. It is believed that these groups seek to destroy the infrastucture of the country and retain the profits for themselves in the name of "revolution." Bruce informed me that mother nature also has a tendency to miscalculate her strength when playing with the pipeline, and frequently destroys sections of it with earthquakes, mudslides, and storms. How does London Bruce assure the well being of the economy saving pipeline? It is Bruce's job to detonate explosives hundreds of meters below the surface, and interpret the sonic resonance that the shock waves produce, in order to find more oil reserves. Apparently, he does this all over the world - Australia, Houston, Paraguay, Ecuador, perhaps even his backyard. "Hell on the social life," he says. Yeah, but can you imagine him at his class reunions? Question: "So, Bruce. I just got back from Hawaii. What have you been up to?" Answer: "Oh, the usual. Been traveling the world a bit, playing with explosives, you know, that sort of thing." Through the course of the flight we talked about politics and international relations between Britain and the rest of the world - cross-cultrual babble. He was even kind enough to translate the "horrible, absolutely horrible" attempt at cockney ryhming slang in the on-flight movie "Bulletproof Munk." NOT an Oscar contender.

We flew over Quito at 10pm. Late night in the Andean sky makes for magnifying glass clarity, where everything appears twice as grandiose as it actually is. The sky was clear and the ground was lit by thousands of lights that grasped the contours of the Andes as they plunged down valleys and along peaks, overwhelming the horizons. The plane landed somewhere within the illuminated mountain sea, and we taxied towards the terminals. Over the announcement system we were informed by a surprised flight attendant that "tonight we get to use the jetway. We won´t be disembarking on the runway." Wow, Ecuador had changed in the last two years. Two years ago the standard drill was to race out of the plane so you could stand in a customs line that reached almost to Peru. But, as I soon took notice, Ecuador had not dramatically changed. I would come to find out that in fact Ecuador was still the same poor country that I loved two years ago, and that a new wing in an airport, and the use of a jetway, were not indicative of a larger country transformation.

Quito Baggage Claim

The Quito International airport provides two baggage carrocels that greet you just after you wait in the three month old customs corridor, where returning Ecuadorians and visitors await entry. My traveling companion and I had taken separate flights into the country to save money, and I was obliged to wait an hour in at the tiny baggage claim until she landed. I could go into indepth detail about the baggage claim, but I´ll save the reader the same boredom I underwent.

When finally she appeared from the end of the customs line that had grown substanially longer than when I entered, we collected our bags and quickly headed for the exit. While the new airport was nice, we were eager to see more than just white tiled walls and confused gringos.

While in line to exit through security we wondered about finding a hostel at 10:30 on a monday night in a city I barely knew. If we even caught a cab, would we know where to tell him to take us? We mused about how best to remedy this fault in planning in English, as a majority of locals around us spoke amonst themselves in a mixture of Spanish and Quichua (an indigenous Andean tongue). As we spoke, a short dark haired woman, in her mid-twenties, in front of us, turned around and asked us if we knew the city. I exagerated and said I did, a bit. She said her name was Meredith, and she offered to share a cab with us. Eager meet fellow foreign travelrs, which she certainly was, and to split the cab fare, we accepted. Meredith informed us that her Spanish was minimal, and wondered if we could do the talking. Sure! Why not? But, I think I´ll let Michelle, my traveling companion, take care of this one, I still wasn´t completely confident in my abilities. I was definately aware of the fact that it had been two years since I was last in a Spanish speaking country. Luckily, the Quito airport comes equipted with a taxi ticket booth. Not only did the first Ecuadorian we talked to personally help us find a cab - temporarily closing her booth - but she also phoned a hostel a friend had recommended to us, "El Cafecito", (The Little Coffee), to make sure they would reserve a room for us - free of charge. A word to the traveler, be kind to those who are kind to you - tip, even if it isn´t customary.

We arrived safely at "El Cafecito," our home away from home. Meredith, Michelle, and I thanked the cabby, and rented a room. In the second floor room we unclipped our bags, chose our beds, and waited for the excitement of a new counrty to loosen its grip on our eyelids, and allow us to fall asleep.