I have been thinking about the idea of fear again lately... what it is that stops us from trying new things, going new places. I tried to get Tomito to go on a trip to another beach with me this weekend, but was unsucessful, and after working all day on Friday to prep classes for next week, I couldn´t stand the thought of staying put. Big Tom upstairs stays home on the weekends, watches TV, plays computer games, goes to the gym, and drinks in the evening, and he is happy. I wish I could be content with that, but every time I think of sitting still and doing nothing, I get the ´I´m wasting my life´ panic attacks. When does it become a liability to always need to be on the move, to have a sense of progression, and when does it become an insatiable stress, obligation, and need to deny the Empty. The Great Empty.

I´ve been running, running, running, and I always feel like I´m standing still. It´s not a physical thing... that all changes... but the emotional stasis that pins my arms down, tells me that the same Empty will continue forever, and I will always think the same thing, even as outdoors, banana leaves float by, irrascible and blowing.

anyhow, I decided that I was going to continue to fight the fear, and went on a weekend trip by myself. Odd to realize that this was the first time I went someplace by myself... not with the purpose of meeting someone, but with the purpose of visiting a place, an idea from a map. Or maybe the purpose was to know that yes, I could pay the 25 cents, hop on a bus to the main bus terminal, find the right busline out of a terminal with more at least a hundred different companies operating. And from there, get to a place, find a hostal, secure a room, and entertain myself by myself without the addition of friends, tv´s, or anything. I realized as I did it that, yes, I was proud, and yes, I´m going to do it again, but no, I don´t particularly like traveling by myself. I like being quiet when I want to, but then getting excited with someone nearby who is getting excited in a different way. I realized I am a social creature. I love the idea of people being with me, and so I carry them, I look at their pixed images crawling out of my handbag, looking out the window with me.

Ellen would say this. Natalie might say that. Sarah would know that. Alison would be excited with that. I try clustering everyone around me so tightly, that I don´t just have to depend on my own confused reaction. It´s hard though. I found myself crying the whole way to Playas, trying not to be visible (yeah, try that as a tall gringa on a bus) underneath my sunglasses. I wonder about all the tears, the endless flood as I watch. I feel sometimes like I won´t ever be able to close all that up. Close me up. Why don´t I have a choice?

And Playas... well, it wasn´t as lovely as Montanita, but it was something. A tiny wrinkled woman in a skirt and yellow baseball cap tilted sideways on her head. She sits on the beach all day and guards the tent-umbrellas that she rents shade-space under. They are like small cloth boxes with the side facing the water open upwards. She sits there and sells beers and water. I wonder what she thinks of me when I casually ask her if I might have a beer as she is reaching for water. I want a beer. When she smiles, it is with gaps in her mouth, and she gets nervous when I tell her that the waves nearby are larger than furhter down, because she thinks I might be indicating the preferable nature of other places. But large waves are fine with me, even though my bikini wants to exit my body constantly (I´m thinking of sewing). I burned my flanks sitting near the woman with a yellow hat.

The best thing about Playas besides the woman, is the ceviche... a new discovery. It is created with some form of seafood (i had both shrimp and crab) and involves salty lime, red onion slices, green and red pepper, cilantro, etc., poured over the seafood of choice. I drooled into the bowl. I closed my eyes and came. I ate slower than I wanted to. The friend plantains that are served along with it... sorta like french fries... are a little plain, and I could care less if I never have them again, but I ate them to fill up and acknowledge my full love of the ceviche platter.

The nights are very noisy, noisy noisy. Off-key karaoke wakes me up off and on throughout the night, and it is not through the ceiling, but rather because it is piped onto the streets with speakers that must rival the cars for parking space. Loud, loud. Cats on tiled rooftops crying. Shouts. Music overlaying the karaoke... these people do not sleep until four or five, and the wake at seven. They have energy, undebatable. They walk around in pairs,... I noticed out on the beach, embracing young couples were evenly distributed, as if applying laws of gases in contained spaces, throughout the area. If I had to guess, it would be one yoga position per every .2 km of beach space. When they are not finding each other´s pulmones, they are walking, arms linked. Girls do that too... three in a row, out for a walk. Wearing low-cut jeans and tight femmi tank tops. All the clothes look the same... homogeneity with economic differentials.

White small cranes (there´s a name I´m missing) walk along the shore.

Along the drive, the land can be lush lush... with careful management, it is so beautiful, and it gets wetter and more tropical as you approach Guayaquil. The best looking farms tuck their banana trees in small dips and valleys, and allow the other vegetation to stand and protect. The worst spots look stripped and started from dry exposed dirt. They have their work. Cut. I watch the banana cones pass by, longing, wishing the bus would stop at the stands and I could grab a cone of green bananas... I could show it to Lola (the maid) and say, ¨like this... not the brown ones, please.´ Diet is strange... there is so much I want to do by myself, but being fed is definately handy.

I also noticed that most of the buses have seats that are arranged for a people much much shorter than me. I wedge. It is uncomfortable. Especially with red flanks. The little girl behind me played with my hair on the way, the wind was lovely, and a baby fell asleep on her mother´s lap. I didn´t cry coming back, but I felt alone, walled behind a bad book that I cling to. I keep looking for other travelors... Ecuadorians or International, I don´t care, just people carrying backpacks, looking strubby and wanting to tell me stories. I want stories. I dream of people I know all night long.