Noche

Cuenca, Ecuador. Night shot of the city and our house circled in red. Photo by Homero Ortega Salamea, who has many more at his FB page. 

Memento Mori

 My mother-in-law died a couple of months ago. Not a sad time. She and her husband made my future wife- wotta deal! Here she is in the splendor of youth, second from left, with her brand-new husband and the rest of her family. She outlived them all. Cheers, Beverley, as always. I'll see ya soon: 

Intercity bus

 Nice pix of Guayaquil's bus station. On occasion we take the bus from Cuenca, then fly to the US from here. It's 3 stories tall, and buses run in and out of all 3 levels. On a busy day it'll move more than 80k people. The ground floor is half mall (with a big grocery store), half station. The upper levels are all bus business, with a big covered playground. It's pretty spectacular busing in and out of the top floor. It's right beside the airport, which is convenient, and across the street from the main metropolitan bus station, which is a huge covered open-air facility.

Pasaje

 Pix by daughter of a 2-block long alley we use as a shortcut between our house and the SuperAki grocery store: 

Tanques

 Nothing gives the same sense of well-being as 3 fresh tanks of propane, 1 for the stove, 1 for hot water, 1 for the dryer:

Naranjas

 Sellers come by our Ecuador house weekly, if not daily. Regulars sell propane, brooms, seafood, peanuts, trashbags, eggs, potatoes, veggies, and fruit. Many call out what they sell. Just bought these mandarines and limes a few minutes ago, a buck a bag. The seller singsongs "Naranjas...Mandarinas...Limones" so that we can be at the gate with money when they pass. It's a pleasant life rhythm that also extends to the gas trucks and other vendors.

Salita

Genova, 1981. The city is so steep that the roads slowly zig-zag up the mountainsides. The slopes were terraced long ago for olive groves, said my neighbors; in the last century, apartment blocks blossomed instead. But the salitas went straight up, breathless shortcuts for the walkers. In those days, they were also quiet places for the addicts to shoot up. More than once I walked down while i drogati sped past on Vespas, with disposable syringes and the dope they had scored far below in the Port.