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Yesterday the Dowbrigade was subjected to one of the true trials-by-fire
of the marital matrix – the interminable afternoon visit to the aged,
infirm relatives. In this case the relatives in question were an ancient
aunt and uncle of Norma Yvonne’s, whom she hadn’t seen in over ten years.
They lived in a modest but comfortable apartment on the Calle Galapagos,
a steep, narrow street climbing a hillside in the old city of Quito,
near the recently restored historical center of the city, at the foot
of the looming Basilica overlooking the busy metropolis.
It was the
morning of the much anticipated Parade of the Queens, when the 81 beauty
queens in country for the Miss Universe pageant, winding through the
streets on flower-bedecked allegorical floats, accompanied by bands of
musicians, military drum corps, swirling, spinning troupes of folkloric
dancers and adorable children in ceremonial Sunday best with garlands
in their hair.
The parade was scheduled to begin at 11, and we arrived around 10, anticipating
a crowd but totally unprepared for the massive tide of humanity choking
the streets and hanging from every available balcony, rooftop, lamppost
and ledge accessible from the street or within the buildings. The streets
were still damp after the previous nights rainstorms, but the bright
Andean sunlight and clear dry daylight was rapidly drying them out.
After
bumping and slipping our way through the packed mass of humanity to
a spot reasonably close to the parade route, on one of the rapidly ascending
side streets, from where we had a narrow window on the actual action
between ancient apartment buildings where the lane we were on ran into
the slightly wider avenue down which the parade would supposedly pass,
we settled in with our cameras and bottles of water to wait.
It seemed like the entire population not only of Quito (over a million
people, mostly poor Indians) but the whole highland region, had turned
out for the public extravaganza. The tickets for the actual Miss Universe
events were ridiculously expensive – over $100 – far beyond the means
of the general population in a country where the annual per
capita income was only around $500. This parade, therefore, represented
the only opportunity for most people to actually see the beauty queens
with their own eyes, which explained the massive turnout.
Within a few minutes of our arrival it became apparent that something
was serious wrong with our vantage point. Despite the festive atmosphere,
the people around us seemed upset, and when we could decipher the chants
rising up from the crowd, it seemed they were shouting, in unison, "Start
the parade from here" and "We want to see the Queens".
Asking some of the less dangerous looking locals around us we were informed
that there had been an unannounced, last-minute change in the parade
route, and in fact it would not pass the street corner a half-block below
us but would instead begin in a small plaza a few blocks away. Many of
these folks had staked out their spots at dawn and were understandably
upset that they would see nothing beyond the knots of police and street
sellers filling the street below.
When the chants took on a more aggressive tone and changed to angry
shouts of "Fraud, fraud, fraud" we decided discretion was the better
part
of tourism, and beat a careful retreat up the mountainside-climbing street,
away from the parade route. At that late hour it was obviously impossible
to get anywhere near the actual route, so we decided to head for the
apartment of Norma’s aunt and uncle for our luncheon date.
After a brisk and breathless walk (at over two miles above sea level
even ascending a steep stoop can be a challenge) we arrived. The aunt
in question was a wizened dumpling with a girlish giggle and sun-spotted
skin like poorly preserved parchment. The uncle was rakish and
acerbic, with a thin Vincent Price moustache, elegantly dressed like
a 1930’s Latin movie star shrunk to three-quarters size so he would fit
into some display case. He must have weighed less than 100 pounds.
They greeted us effusively, and our initial impression was that this
iteration of the ancient relative drill was going to be a gut. Whereas
years ago, in our wild and impetuous youth, the prospect of spending
a few hours with older feeble relatives (somehow being related to them,
even by marriage, made matters much worse) would have been greeted with
unadulterated horror and a desire to flee the premises screaming and
shuddering, in search of loud music and powerful intoxicants.
But now, we reckoned confidently, our hard-won maturity and transcendent
equilibrium had converted it into a placid opportunity to learn from
the lessons of
age and pay respects to the fading shadows of a bygone era. Or so we
thought.
The opening conversational gambits were standard and culturally choreographed;
polite exchanges of names and geographical origins, introductions and
expressions of pleasure at finally putting faces to names gleaned from
the family grapevine.
As soon as we were seated in the shaky wooden living room set on worn
leather cushions, we were served a toast of one of the specialties of
the house – a syrupy white liquid called "Ron Pon Pei" whose base of
sweet milk and cinnamon cleverly disguised whatever alcoholic additives
it obviously contained. We polished it off with polite enthusiastic compliments
on its exquisite taste and consistency, and were later rewarded with
an entire bottle of the vile delicacy to warm our voyage upon leaving.
This stuff was obviously designed to combat old-age insomnia, because
within a few minutes of our second glass (we were so successful in our
polite compliments they insisted), the Dowbrigade, no big drinker by
any stretch of the imagination, was engaged in a titanic struggle to
keep his eyelids anywhere above half-mast.
The conversation had turned to family reminisces. How many years
since Norma or her aunt and uncle had seen this or that great uncle,
niece, brother-in-law or distant cousin. Who had married whom, divorced
(and why), children seldom seen but meticulously dissected as to personality,
career path, and future prospects, rising and falling fortunes, degrees
of relation between estranged but labyrinthine connected branches of
the typically multitudenous extended family.
Since we knew none of these people, we for the most part stayed politely
silent, trying desperately to stay awake. At one point we tried to make
a joke. The aunt was remembering a favorite niece who had married and
later divorced someone named "The Engineer Runnah" (Ecuadorians often
use professional titles in place of first names).
"Oh, the fat one from Cuenca?" asked the aunt. "Wasn’t he related to
that Architect Runnah who went mad and had to be sent to an asylum"?
"I believe," we piped in helpfully, "That he was related to the famous
marathoner, "Road Runnah."
Norma Yvonne was the only one who laughed at our feeble attempt at humor. One
of the reasons we married her.
These reminisces were mercifully interrupted by arrival of the luncheon,
which consisted of a delicious carrot cream soup, a dense but edible
meatloaf, rice (always) and a green bean and egg salad.
After lunch the conversation unfortunately but inevitably turned morbid,
as the couple began reminiscing about friends, family and colleagues
who had passed on. They had, as old people often do, exact counts
of the years since those or that relative or acquaintance died. Recountings
of final conversations, days of the week, manner of death, names of hospitals
and doctors, details of medical mistakes and failed treatments.
This led to an extensive exploration of medicine in general, an encyclopedic
listing of all of the ailments of remaining brothers and sisters, cousins
and friends, advantages and disadvantages of this or that pill, patch,
syrup or infusion, dangerous drug interactions, folk remedies and the
quackery
of the medical profession.
We were listening with some marginal interest, hoping to glean the brand
name of some powerful narcotic to dull the pain of this prolonged flexing
of the politeness muscle and the growing ache in our buttocks, unable
to find a comfortable perch on the ancient furniture.
Just when we felt a ray of hope, as they seemed to have exhausted the
roll call of both the quick and the dead among their circle of intimates,
and as we began to plot a polite disengagement, disaster struck, in the
form of the emergence of the absolute bane of family reunions, innumerable
stacks of cracked and yellowing photo albums.
There followed an additional hour of excruciating trips down the garden
path of nostalgic recounting of weddings, birthdays, graduations, First
Communions, retirement dinners, professional association dinners, commemorative
banquets, family vacations and assorted candid snapshots.
Of course, each photo was accompanied by folk tales and family anecdotes,
worn thin like the photos from thousands of reviews and retellings, but
requiring the listener to feign not only interest but surprise, appreciation,
humor and horror at appropriate moments.
The uncle, in particular, had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of favorite
stories and memories attached to some of the photos. We will never forget,
hard though we may try, one particular album featuring photos of a historic
trip to Europe 40 years ago. Like many older people who have trouble
remembering the names of grandchildren or the current president, he was
able to recreate, in excruciating detail, every step of that tour of
Europe, every conversation, museum, meal, bus ride and mishap along the
way.
Somehow we arrived at the last page of the last album. We
felt like we had just run a marathon while simultaneously taking the
SAT, GMAT, LSAT and MCAT exams. With the ingenuous and only partially
invented excuse of wanting to visit the nearby Basilica before it closed
for the day, we began the complicated process of disengagement and polite
adioses.
Finally we slipped out into the gathering shadows of the crisp Andean
afternoon, clutching our bottle of Ron Pon Pei. We felt an overpowering
desire to search out loud music and powerful intoxicants. Norma Yvonne
owes us big
time.
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