You go down Luis Cordero all the way to Calle Larga, make a right, go mas y meno two blocks and look right, and you are at the Sunrise Cafe Cuenca.
The Sunrise Cafe Cuenca is a hangout for ex-pats. It is a comfortable mom and pop place with good prices, basic local and American eating, and people coming and going.
In the back is a huge room where friends get together on Saturday mornings to socialize but the room is open to anyone who wants to take a seat.
Breakfast is huevos rancheros in a way I haven’t had them before.
They serve their plate with a scoop of guacamole, diced onions, fried potatoes, eggs over easy on a tortilla covered with homemade salsa.
Frank, the waiter from Cuba who sells Cuban cigars on the side, keeps coffee coming and a lady next to me is studying lines for a radio play she is reading tomorrow.
There are families and kids here, as well as married couples and singles. Some of the old guys have gray hair, pony tails, and talk Bernie Sanders. Some of the women are grandmothers and talk about last night’s smoking date.
In Cuenca, you do like Cuencanistas do.
This lady in red, walking in heels and checking her phone, is lucky. The sidewalk here is negotiable.
Her bumps, even from across the street, don’t appear to need repair.
After people watching, bird watching is one of the world’s favorite pastimes. Birdwatchers travel the globe, stand in swamps, dress in camouflage, take pictures and write bird sightings in little books, and swear there is nothing better.
In this city the most common birds are pigeons.
These survivors can be seen on top of statues, on ledges of buildings, waddling on paths in parks, holding to high voltage electric lines without a blink, and staying close but not too close to the humans who feed them, chase them, photograph them, clean up after them.
This morning, in San Sebastian Park, a group flocks at my feet.They are of the same family but their parents dressed them differently. Their range of color is from all white to all black with some shades of brown sprinkled like cinnamon on oatmeal. They show genetics at work and would make Charles Darwin dance a jig.
I don’t write morning sightings in a little book, but I take photos.
Their randomness this morning is interesting in the same way as pool balls on an unused table with a game left unfinished.
Panama hats have oddly enough always been made in Ecuador.
From the 1600’s, the weaving of hats out of the leaves of the toquilla palm has been done, at it’s finest level ,on the western coast of Ecuador.
These best hats are called Montecristo’s and are from the village of the same name in the province of Manabi. These hats are light colored, lightweight, breathable and have long been popular in hot climates where protection from the sun is essential . The price for Montecristos varies from hundreds of dollars to thousands.
It can take a skilled Ecuadorian craftsman up to six months to make one of these Panama hats. When you pick up a fine hat, it is light. You can roll it up in your suitcase and it returns to its shape when you take it out. The finer the weave the more expensive the hat.
President Theodore Roosevelt popularized the Panama hat when he wore one at the Panama Canal. A grandiose man, he was a President with an ego too large for whatever hat he was wearing.
It is said that a fine Panama hat will hold water and pass through a wedding ring when rolled up.
Machine made and cheap is the mantra of our times.
Turning men into machines and making machines do the work of men are themes of our day.
Walking, you see odd stuff.
This Museo and Cafe is on a walkway, just down from one of the tortuous staircases that lead you from Cuenca’s Historical District to the Tomebomba river.
The first time I tried to visit this curiosity, its front door was closed. The second time the front door was actually open. A sign on the next door inside said to ring a buzzer and admittance was one dollar and fifty cents. I rang, but no one came to let me in.
This third visit a tall lean kid opens the front door, says nothing as I am standing on the sidewalk behind him, goes through the interior door and slams it without saying a word. He is too thin to be Pugsly.
Sometimes you have to let stuff go.
For now, their website is my only entry into their world.
Sometimes places are prohibited for good reason.
If I enter through these locked and bolted museum doors, I might become one of the exhibits.
While parents like to see their children participating in this parade, it helps their children to see their parents next to them on the parade route. When the parade comes to a stop, waiting for something ahead to clear up, families hug each other, adjust their costumes, and wave at spectators along the street.
The adults dancing today do it because they want to. Their energy expended is palpable. You can see them breathing hard as they spin, twirl, lock hands and kick up their feet in old time folk dances. They put their hands on their hips and look down at their feet, catch their breath while they can.
Dancing, their movements are precise, yet flowing, and the old time costumes are colorful, proper, and hand sewn, some passed down through families..
It is a shame that what used to be common is now worn and brought out only once a year, for a parade.
Returning to the past is like trying to stuff a Genie back into a bottle.
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It warms adult’s hearts to see children doing dances they did themselves when they were little.
There is always concern by one generation that the following generation is going to hell,but traditions do get passed down and kept alive.
These children are wearing traditional clothes from the past, but, at home, these days, they are all about choosing their own clothes, friends, and attitudes, much to their parent’s chagrin.
This celebration makes me feel years younger than I think I am.
Watching kids reminds me there is still plenty of life for adults to discover too, even after they think they know everything about everything.
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The Christmas Parade on December 24th is the full Monte.
It is an all day affair with the parade route being prepared at seven in the morning and the end of the parade passing Calderone Park at seven in the evening. It is music, floats, dancers, walkers, Christmas religious scenes, traditional Ecuadorian dress, people watching, cars, horses, vendors selling food and drink, photographers, drones, flags, security, television cameras, children climbing over fences, sleeping babies.
Each neighborhood in and around Cuenca has an entry in the parade. There are smaller neighborhood parades leading up to this massive event, but this is the Mother of all Parades.
It is part religious, part ceremony, part showmanship, part outrageous. When you get this many people together there is no end to diversions and entertainment..
Closing streets and letting people dress up and parade without penalty is Cuenca’s Christmas present to itself.
There is a lively street art scene in Cuenca.
One can google Cuenca Street Art and find examples I haven’t met yet.
At an intersection where traffic moves from the Rio Tomebamba into the Historical District there are two skeletons on an exterior wall of a building cavorting amid a glorious cactus patch. The scene is reminiscent of ” Day of the Dead ” in New Mexico, a yearly Mexican celebration that sees skeletons come out and remind people of their mortality.You can bet the person on the other side of the glass in that anthropology museum, in front of you, didn’t know they were going to be an object of display when they joined the spirit world.
These two skeletons look full of life and the inscription above both reads ” Salud a la Vida. ” On one end of the art work is the artist’s first name signature ,” Juli 2015. ”
Just over the top of these skeleton’s grinning heads, in Plaza Otorongo below us, you can see a blown up Santa doll waving at street traffic and strolling tourists.
In a weird way, celebrating Santa is as weird as celebrating skeletons.
Fantasies and nightmares both come from deep places.
Gilberto is trying a new reed. Sue is playing clarinet instead of soprano sax. A different bass player is sitting in. It is Wednesday, the middle of the week.
At showtime, it doesn’t matter how many hours you practice, how much theory you know, how many times you have played a song.
Live jazz is irrevocable. You can’t erase what you play, You are the bottom line.
When the light turns green you play.
When a song is over, it is over, except for a few bars that resonate in hearts that causes people to whistle your melody as they walk home in the dark.
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This morning there is a Christmas concert in progress across the Rio Tomebamba, in Cuenca, Ecuador.
Two young boys have decided they aren’t going to walk up or down the river to either of the bridges to cross so they roll up pant legs, leave tennis shoes on, grab sticks for support, and cross the river with only a few rocks to balance on.
When they see me they wave.
The voices of the choir gives them a heavenly send off.
Catching these moments is like catching butterflies with holes in your net.
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