3 Never-Before-Published Stories Just For You!!

We met up with a couple we’d invited to join us at the venue. They weren’t dressed in all white. Nor was hardly anyone else inside the surprisingly full room. Not blending here was perhaps an asset. Cynthia and I were feeling very “receptive” and liking our chances with whatever these Spirit Doctors had to offer.

All of us were asked to sit on the floor around the room. Our hosts explained that a group of deceased physicians had joined together to continue treating patients from “the other side.”

Oh, boy------.

But, hey, here we were--dressed like Mr. Roarke and Tattoo on Fantasy Island. What the heck, let’s see what happens.

The lights were dimmed, and the male host beat on a drum to summon the Doctors. We were asked to stand up and focus on our most urgent health issue. Then as the hosts came around to each of us, the guy would push you gently on the forehead and his female partner would help lower you onto your back so the “healing” could begin.

Except when they get to me the guy whispers, “You’re too tall. Can you please lie down on your own?” Geez------.

I had been sizing up the other attendees and decided the cardiologist, plastic surgeon, and joint specialist were going to be super busy with this crowd. Since I didn’t really have any major problems I decided to ask the Spirit Dentist to whiten my teeth.

I whispered my idea to Cynthia who supportively replied, “Only you would think of something that ridiculous!” She said her knee had been bothering her and she was going to seek some help in that area.

Okay, we’re all lying on the floor in the dark waiting for our treatments to begin. All you hear is people breathing.

Suddenly---BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG---someone’s pounding on the front door. Really?? Maybe the Spirit Doctors had been locked out.

Then more pounding. The host finally went to the door. It was just some knucklehead teenagers wanting who knows what...very distracting. I was having trouble getting back into the “spirit” of things after that.

A bunch of barking dogs nearby weren’t helping matters either. Maybe they needed to see the Spirit veterinarian. During the orientation we were told of this recent addition to the Spirit staff in case you wanted to request healing for an ill or injured pet. I’m not making any of this up.

We had been instructed to quietly sit up when we felt our treatment was complete. I couldn’t see in the dark how my teeth looked, but I was sure tired of lying there. Soon all of us were sitting quietly.

Except my buddy we’d invited---Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z---he was fast asleep! I didn’t know if I should poke him or what. Finally he woke up on his own and our appointments with the Spirit Doctors came to an end.

Cynthia claimed her knee did feel better, but my teeth didn’t look any whiter. Wouldn’t you know it? I guess I got a damn quack!

So, of course, we went. This was a potluck affair, and in the spirit of the hostess’s veganism, Cynthia made a delicious salad and a bowl of hummus with sliced veggies for the occasion (against all odds this hummus recipe has become her signature party dish).

Many guests were already there when we arrived and we took our contribution straight to the food table. I noticed a few almost-empty dishes and a lot of full ones. That meant one of two things: 1) a bunch of folks and their chow had recently arrived, or 2) there was a lot of crappy food on that table.

It was Door #2.

Putting Cynthia’s bowls down was like throwing a kitty cat into a piranha pool. Guests immediately began circling the table and digging in. The salad quickly disappeared and I started poking carrot sticks into that hummus like a madman myself, fearing otherwise I’d be scavenging through “tofu surprise” and the rest of the mystery menu all evening.

The shindig starts. We actually have an MC who welcomes us to the party and what he calls our “sharing rectangle,” since everyone is sitting around the perimeter of the room. The first guy reads a birthday poem that is very sweet.

Then we look over to the side and are surprised to see our hostess and another lady dressed in "I Dream of Jeannie" costumes. Huh? What’s going on??

She announces something about a special song dear to her heart blah-blah-blah and starts the music. Out the two of them come dancin’ and a’ prancin’ to a mid-Eastern sounding New Age tune. The hostess’s go-to move that she does over and over is a sort of backbend shimmy shimmy shake.

Have you ever been in a situation where you feel like bursting out laughing but you’re not supposed to? Of course you have. Years ago when I was a young man one of my best friend’s father died. I and another buddy were among the pallbearers. It was a miserable, rainy day. I didn’t see this happen, but carrying the casket to the gravesite one of my pallbearer friend’s loafers got stuck in the mud and he walked right out of it.

What was he going to do? Say, “Excuse me, I just lost my shoe. Can you other guys hang on a sec while I go back and put it on?” No, you keep walking, which is just what he did.

We’re all standing there with the preacher doing his, “Dearly beloved, we’re gathered here today” thing. I look down and see my buddy, head bowed, wearing one shoe and a muddy sock. My friend with the deceased dad sees him too, we lock eyes, and our bodies are convulsing trying to contain the laughter. We tried to make it look like we were fighting back tears.

Now here I sit watching two ladies in outlandish outfits unexpectedly sashaying about and doin’ that crazy hand jive. At a birthday party... But they are so sincere and not at all trying to be funny, so I have to look appreciative of their efforts and not howl.

Someone picks up a guitar and does a song. Wait a minute---I thought this was supposed to be a birthday party. And a sharing circle. It’s quickly turning into an episode of Ecuador’s Got Talent.

Next a dramatic reading. Not to be outdone, the dude who did the birthday poem grabs the guitar and strums a tune. Then, our hostess appears in the doorway for an encore dance performance that nobody asked for. (Sigh) But, hey, it’s her house------.

On and on it goes. Finally the birthday girl (oh, yeah...by this time I’d completely forgotten this was supposed to be a birthday party) gets to say a few words she had prepared about turning 70. You could tell she put a lot of thought into it, but at this point I think we all were kind of numb and the poignant moment felt sadly anticlimactic.

Did she have a cake? Perhaps not, because if I had been served a piece at a vegan event surely I would have remembered its “uniqueness.”

Folks without watches were checking the time on their wrists which meant it was definitely time to wrap this shindig up before someone started doing shadow puppets (Look---it’s a duck!). Empty and not-so-empty bowls and dishes were gathered, we all wished the guest of honor “Happy Birthday” on our way out the door, and so ended perhaps the most bizarre party we’ve ever attended.

When I say there is a small town atmosphere within the expat community, I am describing a double-edged sword. On the one hand we enjoy a connectivity that displays the best qualities of humanity. Giving blood to a fellow expat about to undergo a difficult surgery; donating money, supplies, and labor for earthquake victims on the coast; hosting benefits for local Ecuadorians with extreme medical or financial challenges. The list is long.

On the other, there is a vein of harsh, gossipy, downright mean-spiritedness that sometimes borders on shocking. People viciously attacking each other through online forums; reports of extremely rude behavior towards locals; an innocent, offhand comment at a party taken out of context being spread like wildfire.

I speak from experience regarding that last example. Long ago Cynthia said something innocuous to a frequently drunk acquaintance that somehow got translated into the two of us being swingers! We learned through the grapevine that rumor circulated for months. Geez------.

Which serves as a proper segue into the relationship drama that sometimes exists here. We always advise couples if both parties aren’t 100% sold on moving abroad, don’t do it. The “Come on, honey, this is going to be awesome!” ”I don’t know...” ”Trust me. You’ll see. Let’s do it!” conversation is begging for trouble.

Early on we couldn’t believe it when one couple went home after six months because the wife was so miserable. Several marriages have completely fallen apart. I’m no expert on this subject (well, being married to Cynthia for a zillion years maybe I am), but I suspect these were already on life support, and moving abroad was perhaps a desperate effort to inject some new energy into the relationship. Doesn’t work, folks.

There was the married woman who decided she would openly try homosexual life for awhile. That one sent shock waves through the gossip mill. Last I heard she’s back with her husband and they’ve returned to the States. How about the Hollywood “hotshot” shacking up with women from barely legal to grannies. He’s gone too.

Plunging into a life abroad new arrivals are anxious to meet other expats as a means of grabbing a comforting lifeline while struggling with their confusing environment. Deep, meaningful relationships often develop and become a reliable pillar of strength in an uncertain world.

Except, well, life goes on. And people tend to move on. They develop medical problems or simply tire of expat life and go back home. Or they love living abroad but decide to try a different locale.

Since most expats are first-timers who couldn’t have thought that far ahead, this natural chain of events often catches them off guard, and leaves them feeling abandoned as their dearest friends one by one fade from their lives.

“Why don’t they just go meet some new people?” you might ask. The truth is that surge of energy you feel when you initially hit the ground is hard to replicate. And once you’ve had boots on the ground for awhile you don’t have an interest in rehashing old conversations with newbies about obtaining visas and shipping household goods. Caught in the crosshairs of these unexpected shifting sands it’s easy to become increasingly isolated.

Given our baby boomer demographic I guess this next subject shouldn’t have surprised us, but we never anticipated attending so many funerals. When you’re getting ready for the big move there’s no thought of, “We’re going to be hanging out with a lot of older people who’ll probably be dropping like flies so I’d better pack a dark suit.”

Even more surprising (and sad) are the aged expats you see shuffling around town who, like the elephant graveyard scene in old Tarzan movies, have apparently come here to die. No money for medical care? No family? Who knows? One lady found dead in her apartment had absolutely no living relatives that anyone could locate, and local officials didn’t know what to do with her body. Another lonely soul died on a park bench in Parque Calderon and for the longest time passersby thought he was merely asleep.

I opened this post referring to expat life as one big party. Especially during our first couple of years in Cuenca we went to a LOT of them, stayed out too late and, full disclosure, often excessive alcohol was consumed. We had the good sense to dial it back, but for too many expats overuse of alcohol (and other drugs---we haven’t seen so much pot smoking since the 60s!) is a real problem, maybe the biggest problem.

Over the years we’ve observed an increase in both frequency and amount of alcohol/drug consumption with numerous acquaintances. I can’t imagine anyone planning to retire abroad saying, “You know what? My #1 goal when I get there is to become an alcoholic!” So what’s going on?  

It’s said that “idle time is the devil’s workshop,” and retired folks in this category apparently don’t have enough productive activities to keep happily busy, choosing instead to anesthetize themselves against sheer boredom.

We personally know several expats who have gone into rehab for drug or alcohol abuse. I just read that a guy we never met drank himself to death and was found alone on the floor in his apartment. Wow. 

Death, obnoxious behavior, and substance abuse are never going away anywhere, but I’m happy to report there’s sometimes a light at the end of this dark tunnel I’ve described. Several expats here have found true love again after losing a spouse to death or divorce. Others have entered and successfully emerged from rehab better than ever.

So perhaps expat life in Cuenca is no different than life anywhere else, except that the small town nature of our little subset community makes everything more visible. And endlessly discussed------.