By: Nicole Arpin | Echo
This short narrative describes an evening I experienced out on the town while studying abroad for a semester in Cuenca, Ecuador in Fall 2014.
"Why aren't there any cars?" someone asked as we walked toward Cuenca's central park on Wednesday night. Our small group of students and professors turned a corner and suddenly noticed the police officers in riot gear lining the streets.
I soon remembered a conversation I'd had with my host mother earlier that week.
"There's going to be a demonstration on Wednesday in el centro," she told me. "Lots of people are unhappy with the government."
"Will it be dangerous?" I asked.
"No, no," she scoffed and shook her head. "They're pacifists."
She was right. There was no hint of violence that night. Even if the 100 or so halfway-enthusiastic protesters gathered in one corner of the park had wanted to turn violent, the 400+ police officers and military personnel present would have stopped them quickly, I'm sure.
It seemed a little over-the-top; rows upon rows of heavily armored men and women blocking every entrance to the park, some on horseback, some on motorcycles and some wielding large guns. But hey, I'm not complaining. Better safe than sorry.
After wandering around downtown for a while (single-file on Cuenca's skinny sidewalks), we eventually made our way to our destination for the night: an old, decommissioned cathedral. The city now uses the space for performances and that night the church was presenting a jazz concert.
Inside the cathedral, I found a number of stark contrasts to the scene outside. The 447-year-old building is spectacular, full of intricate details and ornate embellishments-but that night, rows of plastic lawn chairs sat on the ancient floor, slowly filling up with gringo retirees.
Life-sized carved figures of Jesus and the 12 disciples filled the front of the cathedral, placed as though Christ was forever declaring, "Do this in remembrance of me." My view of the Last Supper was obstructed, however, by a low stage covered in snaky, black electrical wires. An Ecuadorian bassist, pianist, trumpet player and percussionist sat amidst the mess, ready to begin.
Their first song was wildly appropriate for the locale. As the instrumentalists swung the first few notes of "Someday My Prince Will Come," I closed my eyes (partially to block the sight of some aforementioned gringo retirees dancing in the front row).
How fitting-sitting in that ancient place of worship beneath painted angels, listening to a jazzified promise of the song:
"Someday my prince will come
Someday we'll meet again
And away to his castle we'll go
To be happy forever I know . . . ."
