A Little Vignette for All of You

The place is emptier than I expected. But I´ve never been here so early in the morning. Two dozen tables sit empty outside the cafe. From a distance they look srewn about, like the place is closed. I order a mochacino and some nachos for breakfast.

A guard roams about in a navy blue coat. What exactly he is supposed to do, I´m not sure. Guard the cash register probably. It´s not exactly a rowdy place. Besides, guards here, they never involve themselves in real trouble. Shit hits the fan and they lock themselves inside with the cash--like one time when my friend ended up in a street brawl with some club-weilding hooligans outside a gas station while two guards with shotguns stayed inside and even held the door of the gas station shut. Now the guard is staring at our table, the only full one: a dozen people sitting around, writing in notebooks; all ecuadorian but for one gringo; an obvious gringo. So he can´t help it. He probably doesn´t see people writing very often. And even though there are gringos running all over this city, everyone still stares at us.

The writers at the table laugh and talk to each other more than they actually write. They pass packets of sugar around for their coffees. Four men are working on the open second story of the unfinished cinderblock building next door. They are spreading cement along the blocks.

Two foreigners walk in. They aren´t blond or anything. It´s just little things that give them away. First, they´re women. This is hardly a giveaway in itself. But one wears a baggy grey sweatshirt, a fashion faux pas for the appearance-conscious women of Quito. She also has her unbrushed hair tossed up under a powder pink cap. Add to that the zits not covered by an overzealousness with foundation, and her friend´s laptop and we have two all-american college girls who stand out more than they know.

The plaza, among the most popular in the city at night, seems almost abandoned the way the handful of cars drive through, without hesitation, on their way to work. A few people pass by, mostly alone. A woman walks with a deliberate stride. She carries a shopping bag. She keeps her eyes on the ground. Even at eight in the morning this is a bad idea. I´ve grown eyes in the back of my head.

A young woman with a thick purple top and a full figure passes by in a direct line to a table at the cafe next door. She greets everyone with a kiss on the cheek. When they sit, bushes block my view of them. A man, late twenties, middle class, short hair, carries a plastic bag of cucumbers into the cafe. A man, thirties, with a harsh life etched into his face and a striped polo tucked into his jeans strolls through the plaza. His head swivels back and forth as if he´s looking for something. His steps meander a bit, like he isn´t exactly focused on point B. But he doesn´t seem to see what he is looking for and he continues on through the plaza.

The sun steadily swims higher into the sky. The early morning chill is fading, the cafe´s shadow doesn´t stretch so far down the road, and the table of writers is no longer rubbing their hands together or wrapping scarves around their faces.

They get the check, and spend fifteen minutes doing math on their cellphones. They are confused, like no one has ever had to figure out how to split a bill. Eventually everyone seems satisfied. Then begins the process of everyone kissing everyone else on the cheek, and the group scatters leaving the plaza--once again--empty.