Rachel Dann - Pieces of My Life

I don’t know what takes me more by surprise, the feeling of actually wanting to be at my mum’s house or the sudden pounding music that starts to blast out from somewhere below us.

‘That’s Ray getting the bar going – come on, Kirst, our first night in Quito has begun!’ Harry looks so happy and mischievous, I resolve to push my concerns to the back of my mind for now. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about whatever it was, but I’m sure it will all become clear in time, and I will have been worrying for nothing.

‘Drink up that beer and let’s go!’ Harry stops to kiss me on the cheek and cracks open another beer for himself.

After a brief effort to make myself look presentable, I follow him out of our hotel room for a night of wild partying.

‘Oh, wait.’ Harry stops dead in the corridor. ‘There are six missed calls, an email and about a hundred WhatsApp messages from your mother. You should call her first.’

Chapter Four

The hotel bar area is thronged with the same colourful assortment of tourists as it was this morning, except now they’re all knocking back pints of beer and gaudy cocktails instead of coffee and toast. Upbeat, tropical-sounding music is playing from a complicated stereo system in the corner. We spot Ray behind the bar performing several complicated manoeuvres with a cocktail shaker, then pouring a thick, bright-yellow liquid into two tall glasses, all the while chatting energetically to the other two barmen. As soon as he catches sight of us he gestures to one of his colleagues, and within seconds the two glasses of yellow liquid are placed on a table before us along with enormous plates of chicken, rice and what seem to be monster-sized fried bananas.

‘Mum sends her love,’ I tell Harry, sitting down beside him to tuck in hungrily. ‘I also had to assure her there are no volcanic eruptions, landslides or civil protests currently unfolding in Quito.’ Harry rolls his eyes in empathy at my mum’s typical fussing.

Ray pulls up a chair, too, with his own glass of the vivid yellow drink.

‘Sugar cane syrup,’ he explains happily. ‘They call it canelazo. Mixed with fruit from the jungle and canela – what do you call that? Cinnamon.’ He raises his glass. ‘Now Kirsty is finally awake, I can officially say – welcome to Ecuador!’

We stop stuffing our faces with the delicious fried banana long enough to chink glasses with Ray and take a gulp of the liquid. It’s spicy and sweet and throat-burningly strong.

‘So, any recommendations for a night out?’ Harry asks, already draining his glass. ‘I think it’s time for Kirsty and me to get smashed .’ Ray catches my eye with one eyebrow slightly raised.

‘Er, yes, definitely,’ I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. ‘Getting smashed it is.’

Ray’s gaze flicks between Harry and me, and for a brief second I self-consciously wonder what he is thinking.

‘Well, if you like, once the wife gets home shortly we can take you out to sample Quito’s nightlife? I’m sure these guys can hold the fort here.’ He waves vaguely in the direction of the bar staff. ‘Oh, and Barry always keeps an eye on things when we go out. He practically lives here.’ I notice the chubby man sitting in the far corner of the bar, in the shadows, silently watching us. Bizarrely, I’m reminded of Aragorn sitting in the tavern in Lord of the Rings , watching the hobbits cause chaos around him with a disapproving air. ‘She kicked you out again?’ Ray calls cheerfully to him. Barry responds by raising his glass, unsmiling, then taking a long drink from it.

‘Gabi’s eight months pregnant, so we won’t be joining you in getting smashed , but we can certainly show you some sights,’ Ray continues. ‘We were talking about meeting some friends in town tonight anyway, so how about we all go?’

‘Amazing!’ exclaims Harry, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. ‘How about it, Kirst?’

I nod and smile and thank Ray, but once he turns back to the bar I touch Harry’s arm.

‘Since when have we ever gone out and got smashed ?’ I ask him under my breath, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘I mean, since uni, which feels like a hundred years ago. I’m up for going to a bar, but…’

‘Oh, come on!’ Harry interrupts me. ‘Uni wasn’t that long ago. We’re still young – well, reasonably young!’ He laughs and grins and gives my waist a squeeze, and it strikes me that there is something a little bit manic about his smile. Something a little… forced. ‘After all the preparation and such a long journey we’re finally here , and I don’t know about you but I think it’s time for a drink !’

I stare at Harry as he goes over to Ray and indicates for his glass to be filled up again. I haven’t really seen this side of him since uni, when he was always the life and soul of any party… the Harry I moved in with soon became more of a glass-of-wine-and-takeaway-on-a-Friday-night kind of guy. It felt like the natural transition from carefree student to sensible adult, to a life with responsibilities and early starts… now it feels a little like Harry is regressing back to our pre-employment days.

But maybe this is no bad thing. Maybe a wild night out is just what we need to get this trip back on track. If it was ever off track. And wasn’t the whole idea for us to have one last adventure before… things change? We won’t get much time for partying once we have a baby , I remind myself. I’m sure that’s just what Harry means – we must make the most of this trip, and our current freedom, right from the first day. Also, I can’t help feeling a little relieved that at least Harry’s irritability of the last few weeks seems to have abandoned him.

My train of thought is interrupted as Ray’s wife, Gabriela, comes home amid a flurry of wavy dark hair, dazzling white smile and enormous pregnancy bump. Ray drops everything he is doing (lazily polishing glasses and eating nachos, I think) to rush round the bar and give her a long smooch, then tell her to put her coat back on as ‘Harry and Kirsty want us to take them out and get smashed’.

Gabriela greets us with warm hugs and cheek-kisses. It’s far more physical contact that I would usually feel comfortable with when first meeting someone, but something about this beautiful, smiling girl makes me want to return her hug with just as much warmth.

I start to understand why twenty-one-year-old Ray arrived here as a backpacker, then within five years found himself the owner of a bar, happily married to Gabriela. Who, it seems, speaks far better English than him.

‘I found him sitting with his backpack and a hangover in some dodgy café in town,’ Gabriela beams at Ray, ‘and decided I didn’t want to let him leave.’

I find myself watching this petite, delicate woman in amazement and wondering whether it can be true that she actually goes inside the prisons in Ecuador. But even as Gabi chats openly to us, I somehow lack the courage to ask.

After a few more canelazos we pile into a taxi and head towards what Ray and Gabriela describe as the ‘Mariscal district’, apparently a must-see part of Quito for any newly arrived traveller.

We pull up amid neon lights, throngs of people and a cacophony of thumping, Spanish-language R&B music. The taxi deposits us in the middle of Plaza Foch, a square surrounded by bars, some small and grungy-looking, others several storeys high with bright flashing signs and palm trees outside. The square is filled with groups of smiling and laughing locals, tourists wearing skimpy clothes and colourful bandanas, embracing couples and cigarette-smoking teenagers who don’t look old enough to be here. Ray half-heartedly argues with the taxi driver over the fare, then we throw ourselves into the crowd.