After an overnight bus, I'm soon into my hostel in Quito. My German surf student, Ben, is here, and thankfully has hearing restored to full Dolby stereo. On the standard tourist trail, you often to bump into the same people each time you check into a new city and hostel. I met an English couple, Christian and Juliette, at the Paraguay-Boliva border, then again in Santa Cruz, again in Copacabana. I repeatidly bumped into a travelling group in Sucre, Potosi, on the Salt flats, and finally in a Cusco discotheque. Here I've found Emma, also English, who I met in La Paz whilst I was a grim jester and she was a frog, then Mancora and Montañita, sans costume.
It's a reassuring to see familiar faces. Back in the bank, we had a nice open plan office, and it was my business to know the better part of three-hundred people in my immediate vicinity, and many more beyond. Travelling, largely alone, for these four or five months has been a different story. I think what I miss is the sense continuity in people.
Emma and I spend the day wandering around the Quito's old town. The Basillica here has a famous view from the top. We enter the Basillica for two bucks. As churches go, it's big, but it's nothing special, by a long shot. The gates between the main church and towers of stairs to climb up to the bell tower are locked. We're told we have to exit and walk around to another exit. We're greeted at the entrance to the bell tower with the news that our two dollar ticket only covered the church. The climb and the view is another two dollars. The view is nice, but for the rest of the day I'm trying to contain how absolutley livid I am at having fallen victim to this shameless, malevolent church con. I only pray that the whole thing is destroyed by raging hellfire.
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