We spent the morning under a warm equatorial sun. By the time the rain arrived, we had covered a good bit of ground. I followed as my guide, Patricio, brought me to many popular locations throughout Quito’s Old Town district. We walked through the main square where the country’s president resides and along the walk of the Seven Crosses where each cross is accompanied by a church more beautiful than the one before. Each chapel is adorned with immense detail. Gold lace is wrapped around massive columns and is spread about the many paintings of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. Such intricate decorations would give even Vatican City a run for its money.
The Basilica del Voto Nacional, Quito’s crowning architectural achievement, stands as a wonder of the world. At 460 feet, it is a remarkable piece of neo-gothic architecture and looks as if the hands of the Almighty had sculpted the most intricate of mud-drip castles. Its spires tower over the Old Town and stretch up towards the heavens. Inside, large stained glass windows fragment and shatter the sun’s beams, painting a dazzling mosaic on hundred-year-old stone floors.
Atop the cathedral spire, where my legs began their quake, the entire city presents itself. I am not one for heights and I’ve come to feel that it is unnatural for Man to stand so far above his own head. Though with such views as those atop The Basilica, where the entire sprawl of Quito is visible, clinging to the mountainsides like a never-ending wave of stone and brick and stucco, I am glad Man has so willingly challenged his gods.
We walked deeper into the Old Town, where the streets wind and dip further into the sprawl, I found it reminiscent of the streets of Boston. Both cities and their worn cobbled roads offer a romantic tale of human movement. Cities forever entangled in a balancing act between the old world and the new. Places where the fluctuations of human traffic have brought with them new ideas and where the stones themselves hold desperately onto traditions of the past.
It was around ten or eleven by the time we left the cathedral grounds. The surrounding area was packed with patrons all whipped up in a furious bustle. Motorcycles and taxis ground their gears, honking at any tourist unaware of the “car first, civilian second” mentality of the city. And, from shops and curbside vendors seeped luscious scents. Hints of papas, freshly baked bread and thinly sliced chorizo oozed their way into the corners of the blocks we strolled.
By the time we had finished traversing the inner confines of the Old Town, I had to remind myself that this place, in truth, was no different than anywhere else. Like others across the globe, the city had seen an active history of conquests, mass migration, political duress, etc, etc. Even later that evening as I strolled the rain-soaked streets near my hotel, awkwardly trying to weave my way through a blue mass of uniformed students only minutes after being released from their sentences, many of whom holding hands with a significant other, I was reminded of something. That our seemingly illustrious lives boil down to the physical connections we have made with those around us. Ah, the power of young romance. !Qué fuerte!
How is it that we have gone so awry? Have we forgotten that the only real importance in life is the relationships we make and have made along the way? We have grown far too accustomed to the false sense of belonging our many devices appear to grant us. The ability to achieve instant gratification has become toxic and our yearning for rooted relationships has dwindled. You may think that I am some kind of old soul, stuck in some past world or, that I am romanticizing a place I have only just arrived. I will tell you that you are correct. But what better eye to see with than a pair that sees a world where anyone can be swept off their feet in an instant. After all, I am a writer and therefore a sucker for happy endings.
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