I Love Boobies!!

Since my blog is called, "Laura and the Blue Footed Boobies," I feel obligated to post some pictures from my trip to the Galapagos Islands. Enjoy! 

Me and a Giant Tortoise

Marine Iguana

BOOBY!!

MOMMY AND BABY BOOBY!

The beautiful clear blue water

JUVENILE BOOBY!!!

No zooming in required....I was literally that close to this sea lion pup!! 

If I could be any animal, I would be a sea lion....this is the life

Two macho frigate birds

Beautiful sunset 

What I would look like if I was a giant tortoise

Sally Light-Foot Crab 

Frigate Bird

Walking to Volcan Negra 

South Plazas 

A land iguana having a little snack

Be One with the Ecuadorian...

In my time in Ecuador, I’ve had a few encounters with some locals the same age as me.  The conversation always revolves around funny accents and quirky, cultural differences, but one question that always seems to pop up is, “Are you bored in Ecuador?”  I’m always caught off guard by that statement.  I’m in a foreign country, and everything is different; how could I be bored?  When I say that, they usually respond with something along the lines of, “Americans are always doing something.  Ecuadorians aren’t really like that, we’re boring.” 

I’m not exactly sure bored is the right word to describe how I feel here, it’s just different.  At home I’m constantly a panicked mess juggling school, work, family, and a social life…and I’m always multitasking.  I’m texting while doing my homework, doing my homework while I’m at work, and if I’m not doing a bunch of things at once, I’m worrying about all I have to do.  It’s actually a horrible addiction, and since I’ve come to Ecuador, I’ve realized that I only focus on one thing: being. 

Time here moves differently than it does back home.  An hour is allotted just for lunch.  Food is savored, not wolfed down.  Families actually eat together and talk.  Back home, I scarf down a granola bar and run to my next responsibility.  I never stop to enjoy anything; I’m just working for something in the future: money, a good grade, a college degree that will hopefully land me a secure job.  I never stop and enjoy what I’m doing in the moment. 

It’s slower here, but I never want to kill the minutes that are in front of me; I enjoy them.  I like taking my twenty-minute walk to school every day; it gives me time to think and take in the scenery.  It beats my twenty-minute commute to school in frustrating traffic back home.  When I go home for lunch in the middle of the day, I take a half hour to eat my lunch, and miraculously, I don’t think about anything else besides eating!  

I realize that here I don’t have the same responsibilities that I have at home, but every day I notice my way of thinking is changing.  I think I needed to be removed from everything at home to realize that I always fixate on the future.  I’m not even sure I was even as busy as I thought I was; I just worried about the things I had to do rather than tackling things one step at a time.  I’m not bored here; I’m simply content with being.   

Muchas Gracias, Rita, I Mean....Laura

           Before we left for the Galapagos, I wanted to make sure I sent out all of my postcards (all thirteen of them).  I haven’t asked my host family for much help checking my Spanish homework, but I was sending a postcard to my high school Spanish teacher (in Spanish, por supuesto!), so I wanted the grammar to be absolutely perfect.  I wrote out my little blurb on a piece of notebook paper and when I was finished I asked my host mom to check it.

                My post card went something along the lines of:

Hi Senor,

I know you’ve heard from my brother that I’m in Ecuador right now.  How is my brother doing in your class by the way? Doing all of his homework I hope? The people here listen to Juanes!  I also thought you would find this interesting: I’ve tried guinea pig and llama here and they’re delicious!  Thank you for making this trip possible. 

Muchas Gracias,

Laura

I’m not sure if I wasn’t clear with my host mom that I wanted her to check it for grammatical mistakes, but she took my pen and “corrected” what I had written into this:

Hi Senor,

I’m in Ecuador; it’s a beautiful country with so many different things!  I’m staying in Cuenca, the best city in Ecuador.  The buildings are gorgeous, and the people are really nice.  There are also 4 rivers that run through Cuenca, adding to the city’s beauty.  I’ve tried llama and guinea pig (Cuenca makes the best guinea pig there is!) and they are both delicious!  Thank you for making this trip possible. 

Muchas Gracias,

Laura

Looks a little different, doesn’t it?  I’m a little offended that my host mom thought she could pull a fast one on me and totally change what I wanted to say.  I thought it was absolutely hilarious when I read it over.  They said two completely different things!  Both of course are true, but very different. 

One thing is clear from this instance: my host mom is incredibly proud to be a Cuencana (a woman that lives in Cuenca).  She wanted to make sure that I included as much as possible on that tiny post card about how wonderful Cuenca is.  I thought the pretty picture on the front of the card did that aspect of my trip justice, but she obviously was not in agreement. 

She is just one example of how proud the people here are to be from their hometowns.  We had family stay with us who were from the country’s capital, Quito, and they religiously told me that Quito was the best city in Ecuador (that put me in a tight spot around my host mom).   After traveling over a decent portion of the country, it is easy to see why Ecuadorians are so proud of their respective provinces: everywhere you go is distinctly different!

 The country is split up into three parts: the Oriente (Amazon), the Sierra (where Cuenca is), and the Coast (including the Galapogos).  All three parts have a completely different climate and feel to them.  These past two months have seemed like I’ve traveled to a dozen different countries rather than just one.    Everyone would like to believe that the city they live in is the best, and when you live in a place with so much to offer, it’s pretty easy to be proud!

 However, I think because there is such a stress on regional pride, it dilutes nationalism.  The people from Quito believe that their city and way of life is the best, while the people from Cuenca claim that the only way to live is to be Cuencano/a!  I think that the regional diversity of Ecuador is part of what makes Ecuador unique, but at the same time divides the country greatly as a nation.   

Bésame, Bésame Mucho

This photo was taken after much begging from my mother. 

The other night I was thinking about what it will be like to go back home.  In my vision of that first day back, I see my family at the airport, faces lit up in excitement after not seeing me since the beginning of October.  I walk over to them, embrace them and kiss them all on the cheek while they enthusiastically tell me about how much they have missed me and shower me in unnecessary but welcomed compliments.  And then I remember that’s how it is in Ecuador, not the United States. 

                Will my family be ecstatic to see me?  Of course.  But how will they greet me?  My parents will hug me, I’m sure, but what about my younger brother?  I remember the day I left for the airport, my mom had to yell at him to come say goodbye to me.  Both of us were dreading it, because these instances amongst siblings, especially of the opposite sex, are always tricky.  We don’t like touching each other, and to be honest, the last time we probably got up close and personal was back in the day when we would physically fight over something petty.  So there we were, facing each other in the kitchen, gingerly waiting for the other one to make the first move.  We both knew we had to hug to appease our mother, so we awkwardly embraced for a calculated acceptable amount of time and then he ran back upstairs to play his video game (or wipe off the sister cooties). 

In Ecuador, the personal “bubble” that I, as an American, have been accustomed to all of my life is popped.  Every day I walk into my homestay, rushing around to make sure I kiss everyone on the cheek while they greet me with the utmost enthusiasm about how happy they are to see me (even if I have never met them before).  When I first came to Cuenca, I would get frustrated at how impractical this is.  If I walk into a roomful of people who are all sitting down comfortably, I have to awkwardly interrupt their conversation and hastily make my rounds until I have kissed everyone.  Can’t I just wave and say hola?

I know a kiss on the cheek is such a little thing, but I really think it makes a huge difference.  There are two siblings staying at my homestay this week: Valentina, who is 12, and Matteo, who is 13.  They have their fair share of bickering like any other pair of siblings do, but they have no problem getting close to one another to kiss on the cheek.  They even have to share a double bed because there isn’t an extra bed in the house!  I think about family vacations when my brother and I were younger.  We would double up with a parent because just the thought of sharing a bed with each other was horrifying!  Also, Valentina and Matteo always refer to each other as “mi ñaño/a,” a term of endearment in Quichua meaning brother or sister.  I have never called my younger brother anything even resembling endearing. 

   I thought about how many times I have kissed everyone in my host family and how natural it feels.  I had adjusted to it after about the first week, and since then I had never really questioned it.  But looking at it now, how pathetic is it that I am more comfortable kissing people that I have only known for 6 weeks than I am my own brother?  I realize that both are just cultural norms that I have adapted to, but I can’t help but wonder if my relationship with my little brother would be different if we didn’t give in to the standoffish American way.  

I've Got the Moves Like Jagger

The other night, I went with my host parents to a small family gathering at their daughter’s house.  When we arrived, my host dad, Jaime, ushered me to a couch in the family room.  He immediately drew my attention to the music playing in the background.  To me it sounded a little outdated, but I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be listening for, so I just remained quiet.  I could hear a few guitars playing to a calm but lively tempo.  Each song always had more than one singer, generally a man and a woman, who like the guitars, harmonized their melodies. 

Jaime began to tell me that this is traditional music of the Ecuadorian sierra.  He then told me about the different dances that accompanied each song.  In the middle of my music lesson, his grandson, Matteo, who is thirteen, entered the room.  With iPod in hand, Matteo’s face wrinkled in disgust to the music coming from the stereo. 

“Ew, turn this music off,” he said to his grandfather as he hit play on his iPod.  Maroon 5’s “Moves like Jagger” started to play over the traditional music.  

Annoyed, Jaime asked, “Why don’t you like this music? It’s the music of your country!”

Matteo scoffed, “Who cares! It’s old and boring.  Besides, you can’t dance to it!”  Matteo began to dance like he was in a club showing off his “moves like Jagger.”  When his grandmother, Rita, heard this blasphemy, she entered the conversation.                                                                                                                                    “You can dance to this music.  Watch!”  Rita began to dance a traditional dance to the rhythm of the song in the background.

“That dancing is more boring than the music,” Matteo retorted. 

Angered, Jaime said, “This is the music of your country.  You listen to that other music, but it’s all in English.  You don’t even know what they are saying! How could you like that more?” 

Matteo stared at him blankly for a moment and simply replied, “This music is for old people,” and walked away singing Maroon 5.   

Filled with mixed emotions of humor and awkwardness, I sat there in pensive silence as I reflected on what I just witnessed.  My initial reaction was I had gone back to a time when rock ‘n roll was the music of the devil, except the devil music was American pop.  However, this was so much more than just a generational disagreement.  Jaime didn’t fear that his grandson was living in sin by dancing like an American (although why anyone would want to do that by choice is beyond me).  Jaime, a traditional Cuencan man of sixty plus years, saw a serious lack of patriotism in his grandson. 

The world is shrinking, and with that, cultures are being overcome by one overarching global culture.  Some have even coined it American cultural imperialism.  Ideas, music, and fads are shared on a global scale, hence, Matteo’s obsession with Maroon 5.  While he is only thirteen, his blatant disregard for his country’s historical culture is not uncommon in developing countries like Ecuador.  The older generations see their culture disappearing and they want to protect it as much as possible, at the risk of segregating themselves from the rest of the world.  Younger generations wholeheartedly embrace other cultures, but at the same time forget their own. 

It’s a tricky situation, both arguments have consequences.  Only time will tell what the outcome of a globalized world will be.  While I do enjoy a good Maroon 5 song just as much as Matteo, the thought that one day the culturally rich music of the Ecuadorian sierra could be forgotten is really disheartening.  I don’t think it’s bad that Matteo loves Maroon 5; I think it’s great that he is able to have access to American music.  However, although American’s also have access to other cultures, how many American’s enjoy music from countries like Ecuador? Sharing ideas on a global scale has the potential to be so powerful, but only if information is shared both ways.      

 

If Only Disneyworld was in Boston...

If Only Disneyworld Was in Boston…

I wouldn’t exactly call it racism, at least not the racism that Americans are accustomed to, but there is a definite stress on skin color in Ecuador.  Despite the fact that many people in Ecuador are “Moreno” or tan skinned with dark hair and dark eyes, almost all of the mannequins and advertisements in clothing stores are blonde with blue eyes.  The 4 year old child in my homestay has only blonde baby dolls.  I found it exceptionally odd that the term “negro/a” is actually a term of endearment for the darkest person in the family, because to be dark in Ecuador is not revered nearly as much as it is to have features attributed to a “white” person (i.e. lighter skin, blue eyes). 

At first I thought I was just making an observation about something pretty minute within Ecuadorian culture.  However, I knew I was on to something after two separate occurrences with relatives of my homestay family.   

The first encounter was with a nice elderly woman named Yolanda.  She was in her early seventies but still lively as anyone.  When she learned I was from the United States, she mentioned that one of her children lived in Boston.  I replied that I thought Boston was a beautiful city, to which she responded (in Spanish of course!) “Yes, I like Boston a lot more than the other cities, like New York and especially Miami.  Those cities are filled with immigrants; Boston is beautiful because it has a lot more white people.”  Mind you, Yolanda did not speak a LICK of English, yet she prefers Boston over a city like Miami where Spanish abounds, and she would be able to express herself to her hearts content. 

Shortly thereafter, I befriended a 6 year old girl named Antonella.  When I told her I was from the United States, her face lit up and the first question out of her mouth was about Disneyworld.  So we started swapping stories about Disneyworld, and I asked her who her favorite Disney character was.  She thought it over for a minute and finally responded Jesse from Toy Story.  I asked her why, and she matter-of-factly responded, “Because she’s the whitest one.”  I further prodded, asking her what she meant by that, and she rolled her eyes like it was obvious.  “Jessie has red hair and big blue eyes and she’s a cowgirl, like a REAL American.” 

I think I found it so odd because skin color is such a touchy subject in the United States, but here people talk about it like they’re talking about what they had for dinner last night.  Here, if you’re whiter, you’re prettier, if you’re darker, you’re a plain Jane Also, because everyone is so different in the United States, different cultures are constantly recognized to not risk discrimination (going along with the Disney example, think about the Princess and the Frog movie).  If people openly talked like this in the United States, it wouldn’t be tolerated at all, but here, it’s more of a fact than a personal opinion.  

"Ayyy Mamacita!"

One of the biggest points that my school’s study abroad office addressed before we came to Ecuador was the “machismo” attitude of Ecuadorian men.  Machismo is a phenomenon not only limited to Ecuador, but is prominent in almost every Latin-American culture.  I think the best way to describe machismo is by telling you about my morning walk to school every day. 

On my way to school, I walk by two buildings that are currently under construction.  Now I understand that construction workers back home aren’t given the most conservative stereotype, but every day like clockwork as I walk to school I am whistled at, kissed at, and told I’m beautiful by these men.  I realize when I explain it, it really doesn’t sound so terrible; who wouldn’t like being called beautiful on a daily basis?  EXCEPT: there is nothing I can do about it.  Responding to the attention only makes the situation worse.  Women are expected to assume a submissive role and just absorb the comments powerlessly. 

Women here are first and foremost, objects to be scrutinized.  On one walk through the city, I was with 2 other American girls, and a man approached us, pointed straight at one of us and stated that she was the prettiest one, and went on his merry way.  If I wanted to be rated on my looks, I’d enter in a beauty pageant thank you very much!  I recognize that women are objectified even in my beloved United States, but never before have I been expected to be submissive to men to that extreme.    

Sometimes it’s not even in an obvious manner.  In my homestay, our nightly ritual is bread and tea as a family.  I was already seated at the table with my “dad,” but “mom” was in the bathroom.  He got up and brought out the tea kettle to pour me a cup of tea when she came out of the bathroom.  She looked at him funny, and she insisted on pouring the tea, to which he replied, “I’ll be the waitress tonight.”  I realize it was to be taken as a joke, but the fact that it’s so tacitly understood by the two of them is what I found so striking.  Don’t get me wrong, they are happily married and very respectful to one another, but in their daily routine, Rita does “wait” on Jaime. At home, my dad sets the table, does the laundry and the dishes just as much as my mom does.  And I can guarantee if my dad “waited” on my family, there would not be any objections coming from my mother! 

But in all seriousness, I really did take for granted the gender equality that exists in the United States.  What I learned most from this experience is that there is a fine line between valuing the family unit and gender inequality.  Jaime really does respect Rita, and the way they run their household works for them.  However, I think the expectations in a typical Ecuadorian household allow men to have a superior attitude toward the women population as a whole.  

I Just Want to Eat Ice Cream!

 Yesterday we went to a rather interesting “museum.”  El Museo de las Conceptas is actually a cloistered convent with part of it open to the public.  Within the museum, there are various rooms full of religious art and sculpture from 17^th-19^th century.  There was one painting that particularly caught my attention.  It was a painting of a family tree.  At the very top of the tree there is a depiction of God.  On the limbs branching from the trunk are paintings of Spanish kings. 

It was with this painting that the Spanish conquistadors would exploit the indigenous people of Ecuador centuries ago.  Ecuadorians used to “export” many goods to Spain, that is to say, the indigenous people had to sacrifice their own well-being so Spanish citizens could reap the benefits.  In addition to shipping goods overseas, Ecuadorians also had to send a significant amount of their annual wages to the motherland as well.  Spanish generals would justify these laws by showing Ecuadorian citizens this painting.  The Spanish kings were “related” to God, and because of this, they needed to make sacrifices for them. 

As I was hearing this, my eyes began to water, not only out of sadness, but out of shame.  I had learned about the exploitation of these indigenous people before I came here, but now I had actually encountered indigenous people in my daily life, and I have to say, I’m generally annoyed.  Beggars dressed in indigenous garb approach me every day, asking me to help their kids, or their sister, or their brother.   When you’re trying to peacefully take in the quaint scenery of the plazas while eating an ice cream cone, the last thing you want is to be approached by beggars. 

However, after encountering this picture, I was brought back to reality.  I remembered the history I had learned about months before, the oppression that these people had faced for such a long time, and the rights that they still fight for today.  These were a people that were so trusting and kind, and in return they were manipulated and exploited.  How could I let a minor annoyance blind me from the bigger picture?  Poverty is not something that you can just overcome; it’s cyclical and can take generations to escape.  These people were oppressed for so long; they are doing the best with what they have been given.  

Repeat After Me

Repeat After Me

My host parents have family over all the time.  Of all the people who come in and out of the house, we are most frequently visited by their granddaughter Maria Gracia.  She is 4 years old and absolutely adorable. The first day I was at the house, she instantly accepted me as part of the family, and it wasn’t long before I found myself in the middle of a rousing tea party with a few Barbie’s and Winnie the Pooh. 

To get to know me, she asked me a variety of questions, from my favorite color to my Mom’s name (who knew the name JoAnne could be so hysterical)!  She was told by both her grandmother and her father that I don’t speak Spanish very well, so speak very clearly and a little slower than normal.  She obliged for the most part, but there were times where she sensed my confusion and asked me, “Me entiendas?” (Do you understand me?)  She then proceeded to ask me why I sometimes don’t understand Spanish.  When I told her I live in the United States and I speak English like she speaks Spanish, her face lit up in delight.  She started rambling off the array of English words she had learned in school.  I was astounded! She knew how to count to ten, the names of quite a few common nouns (dog, cat, parts of the body), and even a few phrases. 

One phrase eventually became somewhat of a joke between us.  Every time I see her, I ask her, “Maria Gracia, how are you?”  She smiles in response and politely answers, “I’m fine, thank you.”  Our conversation in English usually ends there and we resume in Spanish.  However, the other day when we were eating lunch, I asked Maria Gracia the usual “How are you?” and she cocked her head to the side.  I asked her why she was looking at me like that, and she told me I was saying it wrong!  She then patiently told me to watch her mouth as she asked the question and then repeat after her!  The rest of us instantly fell into a bout of laughter.

 I later had a conversation with her father, who told me that she has one hour of English class EVERY DAY!  My mouth dropped.  She’s only FOUR and is already learning another language!  I wish I had started learning Spanish when I was that young, then maybe I wouldn’t get so frustrated trying to converse with my host family (and I’ve technically been studying Spanish for over 5 years now)! 

English has become a universal language; global businesses use English to communicate with other countries, whether it’s between France and the United States or Japan and Ecuador.  Because of this, Americans have become lazy and don’t see the value in learning another language.  In fact, there is a xenophobic pride in being able to speak English in the United States.  I think about the people back home who are of the attitude, “They’re in my country; they need to speak my language.”  In contrast, if I walk into a little mom & pop store to buy a bag of chips here, the owners are so happy to use their English in front of me.  This concept amazes me!  I’m in YOUR country; I should be expected to speak your language!

The owner of that store saw that I was struggling with my Spanish and wanted to help me.  In the United States, those types of instances are rare, and I find that the people who are sympathetic to foreigners are the ones who have learned a second language.   I think the true value in being able to speak another language is that it makes you more sympathetic to others.  It makes you think beyond yourself.   

You Say Tomato

Last week in Otovalo, a few friends and I went out to a club.  My first impression was that I was at a middle school dance.  As I took in the scene, I noticed everyone was decked out in Aeropostale, Abercrombie, or Hollister.  Because we were the only “gringos” (a term Ecuadorians use to describe Americans), we were deemed exotic and instantly approached by the locals.  We were talking to two men from the area (both dressed in Aeropostale).  One of the first topics covered was our age.  My mouth tactlessly dropped when they told me they were 25.  They were 25 and dressed like an American 7^th grader!  Being receptive to my “nonchalant” surprise, they inquired about my reaction.  The conversation naturally progressed into a conversation of cultural differences.  I told them that in the United States, the common demographic for such name brands are a little younger, more than ten years younger in fact.  They recounted to me that here, these name brands are EVERYTHING.  Here, having Hollister branded across your chest is a sign of wealth and affluence, and is fashionable among people well into their sixties.  I cringed as I imagined my mother (who is in her fifties) dressed from head to toe in something I wore in middle school. 

However, after thinking about it, how could I be so condescending?  I reflected on my three Coach purses at home, the Pandora bracelet I have, and the Movado watch I’ve coveted for the past year.  To me, an American that has outgrown Hollister, Abercrombie, and Aeropostale, wearing these clothes now seemed immature.  But how immature can it really be?  Although I no longer wear these clothes, my tastes have simply evolved into things considered by American culture “more” sophisticated.  Aeropostale to them is my Coach purse.  Neither one is better, just different.     

Both cultures put a stress on brand names and they signify the same thing: money.  However, here, a sweatshirt from Holister can cost you about as much as that Coach purse.  I know that back in the U.S. these clothes are a little pricey, but here they are double the prices back home!  Because these clothes are so costly here, it’s very easy to figure out who has money.  To own that shirt from Aeropostale is a big deal, especially when you think about how much less money the people here have.  To give you an idea, the average schoolteacher here makes about two dollars an hour.  Looking back on that instance at the club, I wish I would’ve had a different attitude; those guys were probably millionaires! 

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles...in the Amazon?

This past week we left Quito at 6:00 a.m. to begin our journey to the Oriente.  We stayed at Tiputini Biodiversity Station, a place six hours removed from civilization.  Because of this, we had to devote a whole day to traveling, with quite the progression of transportation: bus to plane to bus to boat to bus to boat.  Finally we had arrived at the small human habitat in the middle of the jungle. 

The knowledgeable Mayer and I  

The following day, the group split up into 3, each led by a guide from the station.  My group was led by an elderly man with a kind face named Mayer.  Remember, we were in the middle of the jungle; clean, paved paths were nonexistent here.  One of my first thoughts was “How is our guide going to hike with us?”  However, it didn’t take me long to see that Mayer was perfectly capable of getting by, having the agility of a man half his age.  Another thing I realized about Mayer fairly quickly; he loved the jungle.  An hour hike was stretched out into three because he stopped us every few paces to inform us about something.  It sounds frustrating, but everything was so informative and with purpose, that before I knew it we had been out on the path for four hours!  

His knowledge was endless, not only in biology but on the history of the area.  He identified plants that have medicinal properties used by the indigenous peoples for centuries.  All of the information he told us seemed like it was from another time. It seems barbaric to run out into the forest, pluck some leaves off of a tree, mash them up and boil them in some tea.  After all, we live in the age of CVS, where neat, coated pills come in a convenient, sanitary bottle.  I was shocked when he told us many of his stories were from personal experience!  He recounted stories from his childhood about his village using the plants from the jungle to cure illness.   As a child, his mother would often make him tea from a certain type of tree bark to remedy his colds.

 

One of the Ninja Turtles.... Michelangelo perhaps? 

After pointing out a tree that’s bark had recently cured his arthritis (proven by his expert hiking ability), we came across a turtle.  Mayer crouched down slowly and picked it up.  After a few minutes of coaxing, all of the turtle’s limbs were extended quite comically.  With a gleam in his eyes, Mayer turned to me, pointed at the turtle and said “Neen-ja…tour-tell.”  At the moment, I burst into laughter at the reference, not thinking anything of it.  Now looking back on it, it’s a little strange that Mayer, the king of indigenous home remedies, would know a reference so deeply rooted in American pop-culture.  It’s amazing to think how small the world has become, that something as trivial as the Ninja Turtles has made its way into the hearts of the people of the jungle.  Mayer is a prime example of how fast culture can spread.  Here is a man who was raised in a household of indigenous remedies, yet the Ninja Turtles are in his repertoire.  In one single generation, the world has shrunk to the point that while a person may seem completely different, you can most likely stumble upon a reference that brings you together.    

I have one week left until I leave for Ecuador! I can't wait! Blue footed boobies here I come!