When I think back to Ecuador, it’s not even the big things I remember first. It’s smells, textures, little pauses. The scent of grilled corn on a chilly night, or the way the forest in the Amazon quiets down all at once before it bursts into sound again. I’d looked at tons of Ecuador trips before going, read the blogs, the brochures but none of them came close to capturing the way the place actually feels. That part? You only get it by being there.
Where culture breathes in side streets
Quito was my first stop, and it wasted no time making an impression. I didn’t follow a map that day, just let my feet lead me. Turned into a narrow lane, saw a mural of a jaguar and a priest. Not sure what it meant, but it stuck. Later, I found a tiny café tucked between stone buildings, where María served me the softest humitas I’ve ever had. She told me how, years ago, the Plaza Grande would echo with chants and umbrellas when protests rolled in. I hadn’t asked. She just… told me.
And Otavalo, wow. It’s not just a market, it’s like the town exhales into that square every weekend. I wandered early, before the crowd, watched vendors arrange their stalls with slow, practiced hands. Met Rosita, who dyes wool using crushed bugs and plants. She teased me when I said “cochinilla” wrong, then let me try the spindle. My version looked like a toddler’s craft project. Still, she smiled.
Food that whispers and shouts
I never really understood the phrase “a meal tells a story” until Ecuador. In the highlands, I ate locro de papa thick like paste and so satisfying it made me close my eyes for a second. Down on the coast, I had ceviche standing on a sidewalk, scooped from a plastic bowl while taxis blared and pelicans stared. The tang, the chill of the shrimp, my mouth still remembers.
Then came the worms. Chontacuro, to be precise. Grilled, slightly crispy, weirdly buttery. I hesitated, of course I did. But Camilo, our guide in the Amazon, just said, “Do it.” So I did. And you know what? Not bad. That night we drank canelazo by a fire. Someone started singing in Kichwa. I didn’t get the lyrics, but the mood translated just fine.
Nature that doesn’t ask for attention, it demands it
Floating through Cuyabeno, I felt like I’d fallen into a moving painting. Mist curling off the water, bright birds flickering like sparks in the trees. We spotted sloths, and once, just barely, the imprint of jaguar paws in wet soil. Didn’t see the cat, but I swear I felt it.
Then: the Galápagos. Totally different. The kind of place where animals just are. No fear. On Isabela, I sat next to a marine iguana for half an hour. It blinked slowly. I blinked back. Later, snorkeling at Kicker Rock, I floated next to a turtle that moved like a dream in slow motion. I stopped kicking just to watch.
The spine of the Andes
Cotopaxi was both brutal and gentle. Thin air. Every step deliberate. But also the kind of silence that settles into your bones. I saw a wild horse there, alone, unbothered, standing against this surreal, cloudless sky. Like something from a dream.
Later, in the lodge, I met a woman who had climbed all the way up years before. She said she never talked much about it. Not because it wasn’t amazing, but because words never felt big enough. I got that.
The moments that don’t make it to postcards
Cuenca. Festival. Someone pulled me into a circle of dancers. I didn’t know the steps, but my feet found their own way. Laughter all around, roasted corn in the air, kids sprinting by with waxy candles. For some reason, I nearly teared up. Joy has that effect sometimes.
On my last morning in Baños, I ended up near a waterfall. Locals came with flowers, doing what I guessed was a blessing or ritual. An older man looked over, saw me watching, and gave a small nod. No words. Just that. I stayed put.
Still there, even now
Ecuador changes you in quiet ways. Not with flash, but with feeling. The rhythm of it lingers, its music, its pauses, even its silences. It taught me that wonder isn’t loud. It’s in shared meals, still forests, unexpected invitations.
Now and then, I catch myself humming a tune I couldn’t name, or slicing an avocado and thinking about that soup in the hills. It’s not nostalgia exactly. More like a gentle echo. And I hope it never fully fades.
