Report from Quito

We celebrated three months here on July 4, a quiet day with no fireworks to terrify the neighborhood dogs. They don’t need much to get them baying like the Baskerville hound.

To say our emotions about our new country are mixed is to state the obvious. We loved Minneapolis. I had lived there 40 years, and Bill never lived anywhere longer. We had friends, a history, a language, a life. Our son was born there and lived in the same house his whole life. There are parks around every corner and, in our case, a lake in the back yard.

But we couldn’t afford to stay there.

Bill’s eight years older than I and needed to retire, which he did — at age 73 — in December 2024. My job was not a source of growth or pleasure, but rather a way to pay the tuition bills for our son, born when I was 43. I didn’t begrudge the kid his education, but my work was, er, unrewarding — and it was clear that budget cuts would eliminate my position by June in any case.

Without jobs, staying in Minneapolis was not possible. A retirement income of some $4,000 a month didn’t begin to cover housing, car insurance, food and various discretionary niceties like haircuts. In March, as Charlie’s last tuition payments hove into view, I gave notice: the 20th would be my last day. We put the house on the market, sold it, and closed on April Fool’s Day. We stashed the dog with friends, packed up what we could fit into four suitcases and two carry-ons, and landed in Quito on April 4.

It was our third visit to Ecuador, and the culture shock was not as intense as it might have been. We returned the U.S. six weeks later to go to Charlie’s graduation on the west coast, then swung back through Minneapolis to retrieve Bella the dog (whose name came with her from the rescue agency). In our infinite solicitude for the rancid little hussy, we had determined to drive her to Miami so she would only need to be airborne from there to Quito, the matter of about five hours.

And so in our rented van we traversed America’s waistline and the entire vas deferens of Florida, and at the Miami airport we met up with a retired veterinarian (she liked animals but not the medical stuff) who was the courier for an Ecuadorian company called Lord Guau, which transports pets.

This lovely young woman strapped Bella into a vest with a velcro patch that read “Service Dog.” (I had no opportunity to find out what other patches might have been applied to the dog’s vest; “Rabid” would have been an amusing choice.)

Now, Bella is no service dog. She looks like a muppet having a bad day, barks quite a lot and occasionally snaps at unsuspecting elderly women.

But Avianca Airline was willing to take Lord Guau’s well-educated vassal — along with our selfless “service dog” — in the cabin of its airplane, something that Delta doesn’t do. No lonely crate in a frigid hold for our girl. We got back to Quito around 8 p.m., and Bella was delivered to us by midnight the same night.

Our new life, with all the players, was officially begun.