Alina Bergstresser

Living abroad, one is certain to encounter new people, places, and, of course, some challenges. One harrowing event, one that I can’t precisely place on the calendar, was the day on which I had to pee worse than I ever have in my entire life on this blessed Earth. 

My day began with a lovely, balanced breakfast. Then, I started the short walk to my service organization, where I taught English. 

When I arrived, I felt the oh-too-familiar feeling; my morning fruit juice and coffee were getting to me. This feeling normally wouldn’t be cause for despair, assuming there was a bathroom nearby. And there was! But — no one had given me a key.

I began to summon a game plan. I was accustomed to going to my organization in the morning, sitting there for 2-3 hours alone working on my lesson plans, and then meeting my host family for lunch. I figured I could probably make it that long, young and spry as I am. 

I was wrong. I managed to write a few things down in my lesson plans, like “Today is Tuesday,” and “Adjectives,” and then turned to Instagram reels to distract myself from the unease within. It was no use. I ventured outside in search of places within the property where it might be socially acceptable to pee outdoors, trying to avert my eyes from the visible bathroom behind locked gates. 

I searched, to no avail, returning to my classroom with simmering discomfort. Thirty minutes passed with a few more scans of the area to see if I had missed any discrete spots.

I knew I had no choice but to leave this place. I considered options nearby with public restrooms. Then it came to me: the local gym where I had watched the grandkids play peewee basketball. After losing precious time with the front gate lock at work, which I did have a key for, I was on my way. 

I walked like a madman, trying to look away from puddles and keep my mind on the image of a dry desert. After a painful three minutes, I was there! The bathroom was open, and I ran inside. 

All was well. I looked at the wall for the toilet paper. I was really hoping they had some, because I didn’t. Luckily, it was stocked in a strange cylinder with no opening for the toilet paper. 

I frantically fumbled with the contraption, looking for a button or coin slot, trying to pry it open to the toilet paper that was clearly inside. As a last resort, I googled, “how do i get the tp out of the Tork Smart One?”

Turns out, this newfangled bathroom tech had been irresponsibly loaded. The toilet paper was meant to be distributed as shown here in the accompanying photo.  Tork, supposedly, “Smart” One was clearly too smart for the  rest of us. At least the bathroom door was unlocked. 

 

Josiah Miller

​​On the last day before service began, I found myself doing my usual hour-long commute on foot rather than in a public bus. That was its own story of bad maps, flower shops and shawarma, but the walk was nice. 

My phone died right after I sent my host family a message that I would be late, so I went walking on my own through Quito without any way of telling anyone if I got into trouble. Luckily, I had never been on that particular road before, so I didn’t know if it was the sort of area I should be worried about. Better safe than sorry, I decided not to worry about it. 

The best thing to do in a situation like that is to get distracted by the little bookstore you pass by. I remembered that from orientation, so I dutifully stopped and went inside, for my safety.

It was packed from floor to ceiling and wall to wall with books. There was a table in the middle, stacked high and filling most of the room. As I entered, a small woman emerged from behind a tall stack in the corner. In Spanish, she said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” I said back, also in Spanish. She thought for a while.

“Do you like to read… philosophy?” she asked finally. I don’t at all, but I didn’t say it quite like that. 

“No, not much,” I told her. That prompted a good amount of further thought. 

“Mmm,” she said pensively, before finally asking, “Do you like reading … Hitler?” 

Well, neither of these options were my top pick, and orientation hadn’t warned me about what to do alone, without a phone, in what seemed to be the only Nazi bookstore in Ecuador. 

“No …” I said carefully, “Do you …?”

“No, no … but there was a guy, once …” she said absently. I never know what to say to that, so I just grabbed a copy of “Alice in Wonderland” and made a quick escape. 

 

Marin Kauffman Smith

During my time on service in Ecuador, I lived about a mile and a half away from my service organization. This meant I had a few options for how to get there every morning. I could take a four-minute taxi ride, a seven-minute bus ride, or walk for 23 minutes. To me, the best option was to walk. Walking is free, and I very much enjoy it, especially if it’s through a beautiful country with breathtaking mountains. Nonetheless, my host mom wanted to test out each method of transportation to see which one would be best. The first day, we walked, and it went great. The second day, we took a taxi, and that went well. On the third day, we took the bus, resulting in a deeply unfortunate situation that still haunts me months later.

We managed to find a bus quickly, but the second we stepped on, the bus jerked forward. It’s safe to say that I was not expecting this, because I immediately fell to the ground. I landed on my hands and knees, and, when I looked up, every single person on the bus was staring at me. I already felt out of place as a tall, blonde, white girl with pigtails, and falling on my face after being on the bus for less than one second was not helping my case. 

I quickly stood up and saw that my host mom was trying to pay the bus driver. For context, the bus we were on costs 30 cents per person. Instead of paying the driver the appropriate 60 cents, my host mom was trying to hand the driver a TWENTY-DOLLAR BILL! This made us look even crazier because I don’t think that anyone has ever tried to do that, and they definitely did not have enough change. I rummaged through my wallet and luckily was able to find a spare 60 cents. 

Thankfully, the bus ride was only a few minutes long, and the second we arrived, we quickly scurried off the bus to avoid any further incidents. My host mom looked at me and said, “maybe we shouldn’t take the bus anymore!” and I couldn’t agree more. I opted to walk to my organization every day and did not step foot on another bus for the remainder of my time of service.