A Cobbled Street and a Rocky Road

July 5, 2025

Cobbled Street and a Rocky Road

As I sit in my apartment in Salinas writing (and rewriting) this story, I’m divorced and single. However, for the first year and a half of my time in Ecuador, I was married, and almost all the friends I made during that period, with two exceptions, were also married couples. The other couples were from the U.S. or Canada, and they were wonderful people who helped us with many different aspects of life in Ecuador, and Loja specifically. In large part because of these friends, my earliest days in Ecuador were great. There was a lot of bike riding and hiking in the mountains surrounding Loja, where we learned about all the new plants and animals that lived there. We would go to restaurants, bars, or cultural festivals sometimes just in the streets where there’d be people dancing! All of these experiences were usually shared with friends, and it felt like the beginning of a wonderful, exciting new life.

When my marriage ended, that was also the end of all those friendships and all of that social activity.

Of course, everybody was kind and understanding. In fact, most of them were open to continuing the friendship with us separately. For me, though, it was just too uncomfortable, and I knew it was awkward for them too. It was a terrible situation, as I had really become close with many of them. But I knew my ex wanted to stay in Loja, and since Loja is the kind of small town where you bump into everyone you know all the time, including your ex, I knew I had to move. I will add: the nearly constant rain in Loja had been causing me a great deal of frustration, so I now had two compelling reasons to get out of town and back down to sea level to find some sunshine.

Once I was separated, I moved into a cheap apartment in north Loja, where I spent most of my time completely alone. It turned out, this was also when my cats decided it was time for them to leave this world. Both of them had been with me for 17 years, and they died just three months apart. I was there for both Impy and Boomer as they were put to sleep, and as every pet owner knows, it’s one of the most awful things you’ll ever experience. The sadness of losing my marriage was compounded by the deaths of my cats. Grief morphed almost imperceptibly into depression, and weeks became months. For a very long time, I rarely left my apartment.

I knew I was in need of drastic change, but in my mind, that change would come when I moved to the coast, so I persevered. I had dealt with serious depression before, and I knew what to expect. In years past, I had dragged myself through that darkness, and I knew how deep it got. Everything hung on that one thought: just get to the coast.

Boomer and Impy were gone. The grey skies endured. I realized I was getting heavier, as my diet was rubbish and my drinking had increased. My motivation to do anything about it was extremely low, but the frustration and self-loathing I felt looking in the mirror gradually forced a decision to start riding again. Riding a bike regularly is a difficult thing to do when it rains almost every time you have a day off work, but I was committed to giving it my best effort. Soon after, I got lucky and Loja had a streak of absolutely gorgeous weather. Clear skies and sunshine affect my mood dramatically, and I was excited about riding again for the first time in a long time.

Pedaling my mountain bike slowly up a steep cobbled street on one of those rare, bright sunny days with a cloud-free, magnificent blue sky, I remember feeling quite relieved and even happy. I was climbing to reach a lookout that I knew well, and I had planned to take some photos from the top. The city of Loja lies in a long narrow valley with steep roads up into the mountains on both sides. Some twist their way up; others plow aggressively straight up the face. As I pedaled up this particular road, the incline increased and the bricks and stones of the street became irregular and loose. I was carefully picking my line, focused, listening to my breathing, when I first felt the pain in my chest.

It had crept in slowly, and it took a while before I noticed it above the usual effort and burning muscles associated with climbing a difficult hill. I thought I might have pulled something in my ribs, so I wriggled around a bit as I pedaled, twisting my chest and shoulders, trying to ease it. The pain, and then an increasing muscle tightness, began to make it difficult to breathe. I was in the lowest gear, which produced a grinding pedal action that pushed me up the road just barely faster than walking. The gravel crunched under my wide, soft tires as my wheels rolled slowly up and over each stone. Every pedal stroke was a small thrust forward, accompanied by the sound of the rubber struggling and scraping over the surface. The sky was deeply blue. The high-altitude sun was warm. Occasionally I wriggled my torso as I continued.

A new, deeper pain trickled icily down my left arm.

This was a throbbing pain that resonated from deep inside my armpit. At the same time, my neck and jaw also started to hurt. The pain spread and intensified quickly. I tried to shake it off by flapping my arm and stretching my head from side to side, but that didn’t help. I stopped and leaned over my handlebars, holding the brakes tight so I wouldn't roll backwards. Breathing had become almost impossible. I managed to get off my bike and stood, holding my bars and leaning forward, looking down at the stones and bricks on the street, trying to breathe. I remember feeling the cool mountain breeze on parts of my body that weren’t in direct sunlight. Pain pulsed aggressively in my jaw. Several birds nearby continued to sing their now-familiar songs. My arm, shoulder, and neck pounded. The eucalyptus leaves gently rustled above me, and some dogs were barking in the distance.

There was nobody around.

I listened to the breeze and slowly, very slowly, the pain subsided. I cautiously moved my arm up and down, and then in a circular motion, expecting the pain to come back at any moment, but it didn’t. My breathing returned to normal and the tightness was gone. I experimented with a deep inhale, again expecting pain to return, but again, it didn’t. Far ahead of me, way up in the mountains, birds echoed and wailed in the forest. I stood there for a few minutes as a worry came over me, and a good deal of fear, while I thought about exactly what I might have just experienced. The faint sound of dogs barking continued.

I knew I was maybe 12 to 15 km from home, and it was mostly downhill from where I was, so I turned around and rode home very slowly, walking up the few hills along the way, and going over and over what had happened. The pain didn’t return as I was riding home that day, but in the weeks to come, it would grow to be a constant companion.

The next day I had an EKG with my general physician and it showed I likely had a blockage in one or more of my arteries, so an appointment was made to see a cardiologist. This was the beginning of what would become endless waiting at hospitals, specialty clinics, and test after test to determine exactly what was going on with my heart.

After about a month of testing and visits to more medical facilities than I knew existed in Loja, a conclusion had been reached: I had two partially blocked arteries, and one of them was at 80%, which required a stent inserted as soon as possible. Despite the urgency, delays dragged on. By the time I was approved for the procedure, I was in daily pain just from walking on level ground. The constant pain and fear of an imminent heart attack were terrifying.

Navigating the medical system was nearly impossible, and I could not have done it without the help of one of my Spanish-speaking friends. She went with me to countless appointments, sat with me for hours in the emergency room or outside specialty clinics, and advocated for me when I couldn’t speak Spanish well enough for myself. At last, with her help, the procedure was scheduled, but it was set for the week after I was supposed to move to the coast.

Reading this back to myself, it all sounds pretty quick and straightforward, but at the time, it felt like it was never going to be finished. I was genuinely worried that I might literally die before any date was given, and this thought had pushed me into a state close to despair. A few times I caught myself realizing that I had almost stopped caring. In these darker moments, I found myself ready to go. I remember thinking, “It’s been a good run. I’ve had a great life with lots of love, and friendship. Maybe now is the time?”

My mental state was absolutely grim when the day of my procedure finally arrived. My two good friends were both with me as I was getting prepped by the nurses, and the staff were all kind. However, I was a wreck and really had a hard time focusing on it all. I remember being relieved to see the technology in the room they wheeled me into was modern and sleek. Some doctors started setting up equipment around me, and I barely had time to realize my friends were no longer with me as they were outside, and this was actually going to happen now. The anesthesiologist introduced himself in heavily accented English and held the gas mask to my face. I practiced counting in Spanish for him, but I didn’t have to count very high.

One week after the procedure, I was on the bus to the coast. All my belongings were waiting for me in my new apartment, as the guy I had hired with the truck had generously offered to do it by himself with the help of his wife. All I had with me on the bus was a backpack and my camera bag. I hardly remember that bus ride at all. When I arrived, I was weak and foggy from the slew of new medications I was on. The staff in my building’s lobby were warm and welcomed me to my new home. They summoned the elevator for me and even pressed the button for my floor: 10. I opened the door with my awkward collection of new keys and wandered in through stacks of boxes, my bikes, and the few pieces of furniture I owned.

I pushed my way into the bedroom and fell onto my bed. I don’t remember if I cried or not, but I probably did. The next few days, probably weeks, were a blur. It turns out recovering from a catheterization and stent insertion is surprisingly awful, and to make things worse, I had some bad reactions to some of the new medications. I had naively thought that once they put the stents inside me, I’d be back on my bike, drinking cold South American lagers as I rode along the beach that was physically and metaphorically my new life.

In fact, those two stents and the medication meant there would be no more drinking alcohol for me, ever, and that was a difficult realization I was not ready to accept for a long time. These stents would change a lot of things for me, as I was soon to discover.

For now, though, I had arrived. I was alive. I didn’t have the energy to unpack for a few days. I mostly slept.

I was in a new city. My cats were gone. I was alone.

This was my second start in Ecuador. It was rough, but from this point on things would slowly start to get better.