Morning run in La Floresta

Slept in late, up and on the street at 9am, sun is already high overhead. Right out the door I hear “hola.” It’s Oswaldo, we chat and plan to meet up to work on his English later. Down Coruña, amazing vistas of Quito across the valley, how beautiful it looks, distance obscuring the trash, filth, and poverty. Down, down, past a drunken man passed out on the sidewalk, no older than me. Through a roundabout plaza, plastic cups, bottles, and other refuse from last night’s fiestas de Quito celebration litter the ground. A dozen plus pigeons observe my passing from a central fountain that no longer functions. Down some more, I pass a track and field stadium and think of my brother. Flat, past little shops, several panaderias waft their scent of fresh bread and pastries out to tempt me. Through a park, two more men sleep off the night’s revelry on the grass, oblivious to the hustle and bustle around them. Farther and farther, I’m not sure what I’m looking for, when I should turn around. Then I see it, a small local market, replete with fresh fruit, veggies, meat, and fish, a kaleidoscope of color and smell with numerous locals hawking their wares. As I enter all eyes turn toward me, the tall, white, sweating gringo. Everyone wants me to buy from them, expectant of my great wealth – all I carry are my keys. Two older ladies ask me where I am from, we chat for a while, I tell them I hope to return – every Thursday morning, this time they say. Reverse course, flat, flat, up, getting steeper, lungs burning, up some more, legs aching, close now, and then I see Carlos. We talk about my run; “gotta be real careful as a foreigner out there,” he says. Yup, yup. I’m running again, right up to our gate, home.