The Amazing Adventures of Gramma

by Holly Vellekoop

  The picture vendor nodded back.

  “Gramma, isn’t that guy cute?” Lola said, pointing to a long-haired young man flipping plantains in a syrupy goo. Her half-lidded eyes were dreamily watching him.

  “I don’t know. He’s kinda’ hairy. Not a hot profile. Certainly no Barrymore or Cary Grant, but what’s most important is if he’s nice or not. Hungry for a plantain?”

  Lola chose a place for them to sit and eat their treat. She bought one for each of them, all the while staring at the cute young man.

  He stared back.

  Gramma placed her shopping bag near her feet. She sliced the plantain and took a bite. “Mmmm. This is delicious, but wait. Don’t eat yours, Lola. It tastes a little odd.” She looked to the place where the vendor had sold them the product.

  The young man’s hand quivered nervously and his dark eyes darted back and forth from his customers to the exit door of his stand. He bolted out, grease and utensils flying everywhere.

  As Gramma stood up to go confront him, she noticed something brushing against her leg. She pushed against it and felt a furry creature pushing back.

  While Gramma watched, a large pit bull bit into her bag of souvenirs, dragging it away.

  Not to be robbed by a thieving dog, Gramma rushed after him and grabbed his collar.

  The fight was on.

  End over end, dog and Gramma went, under the table and out onto the grass, all the while wrestling for control of the fabric bag. The fray was in full view of the astonished public.

  It was a fearsome sight to behold.

  Lola screamed as the table upended. Plantains, tablecloth and everything were tossed to the grass and dirt in a big mess.

  Some in the crowd were yelling, mostly in Spanish.

  The dog yanked and pulled, jumping up and down, tossing his head to and fro in an effort to dislodge his competition for the bag.

  Although everyone looked horrified to see a dog and an old woman fighting, no one stepped forward to help either of them. It was such a spectacle that all the crowd could do was watch.

  The only thing missing was dramatic movie music.

  While Gramma and the Pit Bull were rolling around all over the lawn, Gramma was contemplating using her pepper spray or stun gun. She decided against it, not wanting to harm the dog. Her mind was racing about what to do. She examined her adversary closely, all the while hoping her blonde wig didn’t fall off.

  Growls and snarls and Gramma commands in Spanish competed to be heard above the noise of the onlookers and nearby traffic.

  The large, powerful dog and the small old woman wrestled one another, sliding first one way, then another, across the grass, past gawking, shocked faces of tourists and locals of all ages.

  Children pointed, old men backed up, and folks were telling one another that someone should do something. Anything.

  Cell phone cameras were up and recording, and calls went out to God and God knows who else, for help.

  Someone suggested sending their videos to the internet.

  By now, the throng of onlookers had quieted down in disbelief of the sight before them. Traffic came to a stop as drivers and passengers rolled down windows or got out of their cars to watch.

  The pit bull held on tight.

  Gramma hung on, too.

  It was an Ecuadorian deadlock.

  The dog’s tenacious grip on the bag kept Gramma from being bitten.

  Strong doggie jaws were clamped tightly around the cloth tote and his sturdy front legs dug in for leverage. He jerked his head swiftly, attempting to dislodge the old woman he was sure was trying to keep him from getting his treat reward for taking the stolen bag to his owner.

  A plate full of barbecued chicken, fallen from one of the onlookers watching the dog-woman fight, was within Gramma’s reach. As she tumbled by, she snatched a fistful of the sweet-smelling pollo.

  “Poco,” Gramma yelled. “Sientate.”

  Grabbing the dog’s collar with one hand, she let go of the bag and waved savory chicken under the pit bull’s nose. She repeated her command.

  “Poco. Sientate.”

  Poco obediently sat and waited for the snack. The bag was now forgotten and in the past, having been replaced by savory chicken in the present. The dog’s full attention was captured by the delicious offering.

  Gramma handed chunks of meat to Poco and he greedily ate.

  Poco burped and happily smacked doggie lips together. His eyes went to and fro, scanning for more delicious poultry. The would-be canine thief sniffed the bag as a final gesture, drooling dog spit and syrup all over it. He sat in front of his former adversary and whined piteously for more chicken.

  Chunky, cooked morsels were hand-fed to her new furry friend. Gramma reached down and reclaimed the bag which had been released from his sturdy jaws.

  “Pata,” Gramma said.

  The dog held up a paw for a shake.

  Gramma shook his paw and smiled at the grateful pooch.

  “Muy bien. Good boy.” She rubbed Poco’s head and ears, alternately looking about to see who’d attempted to steal her bag with the aid of this dear, sweet doggie. She rubbed his back and patted his butt, assuring him in Spanish she thought he was the cutest dog ever. Well, the cutest next to Sweetums, of course.

  Poco wiggled happily. He slurped and licked the face of his newfound buddy.

  Gramma and would-be-thief contentedly leaned into each other.

  The crowd was surprised at the former combatants’ newly formed friendship. People clapped their hands with joy. More photos were taken.

  “Hurry. Let’s get out of here,” Gramma said to Lola. She grabbed tightly to her bags as they rushed through the crowd of onlookers.

  “You were great,” Lola said.

  “Thank you. Poppy Gold couldn’t have done that, could she? I mean, if she'd have been in that fray, she'd have lost.”

  “No way could she have bested that pit bull,” Lola said. She congratulated herself for successfully dodging that bullet. “Why, Look at Poco over there,” Lola said, changing the topic.

  Poco burned through more chicken pieces he grazed from the ground and raced off to a group of men hiding behind some artwork for sale.

  The men yelled at the dog.

  A little girl yelled at the men for yelling at the dog. She petted and pitied it, all the while shaking a finger at the mean men.

  People took the girl’s side and frowned at the men who were scolding the dog.

  Soon, much yelling, blaming and gesturing amongst the crowd shifted the focus from the bag.

  The dog ignored them all. He licked his chops and rested.

  Looking back over her shoulder, Gramma saw that one of those hollering at Poco was the former plantain seller.

  “Are you all right?” Lola asked. She reached for her grandmother.

  “Keep moving toward the hotel,” Gramma replied. “I’m fine, Lola. It was just a kerfuffle. Walk faster.” She picked up her own pace.

  Lola pondered the word ‘kerfuffle.’ “Why did that dog grab your bag? Why didn’t you let go of it? How did you know the dog’s name?” Questions, one after another, poured from Lola’s quivering lips.

  “One, I think he wanted the envelope a vendor handed me which I put in that bag. Two, because I wasn’t gonna let a dog steal from me and three, his name was embossed on his collar. And worst of all, there’s dog snot and barbecue sauce all over my favorite bag. Boy, am I ticked! I bought that bag in Jerusalem and it’s one of my favorites.”

  Chapter 6

  Quito’s on Fire; Well, Maybe

  Gramma reached into her Jerusalem bag to retrieve the envelope the vendor had given her. She read the text and numbers. No wonder someone sicced Poco on me.

  “I’m starving Gramma. Let’s get something to eat,” Lola said.

  What Ecuadorian Specialty to eat for Dinner?

  The taxi ride into the hills overlooking the city of Quito was pleasant and refreshing for Gramma and Lola. They chatted in the
back seat about how lovely the community looked at night.

  Their vehicle stopped in front of a restaurant.

  Grandmother and granddaughter went inside and settled into their seats at a table with a view. Beautiful paintings of the scenic capitol of Ecuador adorned the walls.

  “What’re we having for dinner?” Lola asked. “I’m starving.”

  “Cuy, bizcochos, and yuca.”

  “What’s all that?” Lola said.

  “Don’t ask. Just eat,” Gramma replied. Some things are better left unsaid.

  “You know, Gramma, there’s always something going on around you, no matter where you go.” Realizing what she’d just said, Lola added, “That’s an understatement.”

  “It’s a crazy world we live in, sweetie.”

  “It sure is. Are you expecting anything to happen here tonight?”

  “You know I’d have warned you if I was expecting anything for you to be concerned about, dear.”

  They talked about college, fashion and one of the most important topics, Sweetums. Before Lola could finish her questioning about Sweetum’s puppies, the waiter brought their food which captured her full attention.

  “Oh, yeah. Remember not to drink the water,” Gramma said. “Bottled only.” She turned to the waiter, “I’ve got a coupon for our meals.”

  The waiter looked at the coupon. He looked at Gramma. He went to the kitchen.

  “You can save a bundle of money using coupons,” Gramma advised Lola. “Sign up online to get them in your e-mail and always check the expiration dates.”

  They ate and between bites they laughed and shared small talk and family stories.

  Adolpho the head chef passed by their table to gain assurance Gramma was satisfied with his specialties. Thrilled she was pleased, he fussed about her table. Backing away, he entered the kitchen. Looking over his shoulder, he was hoping for smiles from Gramma and Lola.

  Happy grins shined his way.

  “Did I tell you about the time your dad got stung on the lips by bumble bees when we were dragging a van he bought, out of the barnyard it was deteriorating in? Fifty dollars he paid for that delivery van back in the early 1980’s. It had been stuck in the same spot for who knows how long and we hooked it up and got it out. Anyway, bees had been living there, probably for years. Steven was stung so often his lips swelled shut.”

  Lola assured Gramma she’d heard that story, but was willing to listen to it again.

  “I’ve got a photo of him somewhere with his hand across his mouth to hide it,” Gramma said.

  While they were eating, Pasillo music drifted across the room from a live band in the corner. Strings were plucked and strummed and people got up to dance. Women in red skirts and white blouses swayed about the dance floor, swinging the folds of their skirts back and forth. One of them came over and beckoned for Gramma to join in.

  Gramma obliged. Her feet moved to and fro as if she had not suffered a fall earlier in the hotel lobby or a roll on the ground with a dog. The music gained tempo, and eventually the floor cleared of the other dancers for everyone to watch the elderly woman strutting her stuff.

  People were clapping their hands and waving them in the air to the beat.

  “Edgy. Such a pro,” one of the patrons said.

  Gramma picked up the pace, sashaying around the dance floor. She did a little ‘soft shoe,’ ‘walked like an Egyptian,’ then did the ‘stroll.’ Spying dessert being served, she weighed the options and danced the 'mashed potatoes' back to her table. She moon-walked then bowed to a thunderous applause. Gramma acknowledged the admiring glances and clapping, and sat down to enjoy the sweet.

  “Can’t miss dessert,” she said to Lola.

  Helado de paila dripped down her chin.

  “Can I tell Adolpho that Gramma is pleased with his specialty dessert?” the waiter asked in Spanish.

  Gramma turned to where Chef Adolpho was peeking out from the kitchen. She smiled and blew him a kiss.

  Adolpho grinned, grabbed at the thrown kiss, and planted it on his lips. He returned the gesture then disappeared into the kitchen, nose in the air, quite self-important.

  Lola wanted to ask her Gramma how she knew Adolpho, but decided to wait until another time. So many questions, so little time.

  Back at the hotel

  “I wonder if we could play some bingo while we’re here,” Gramma said. “I love bingo.”

  “They play bingo in Ecuador?” Lola asked.

  “All civilized societies play bingo, but for now, I’m ready to return to our room.”

  The hotel lobby was empty.

  Gramma hustled to where the gunshot went through the wall. She moved a chair which was hiding the black hole and was surprised. Someone had already patched it up as if it never happened.

  “Excellent help they have here,” Gramma said to Lola. “They do nice work. And so promptly, too.”

  Lola agreed.

  Nighttime brought peaceful sleep.

  At least until the fire alarm blared throughout the hotel.

  Water sprinklers came on in their room, dousing the bed and everything else with a cold spray.

  Lola shrieked and jumped off her moist bedding, clutching a blanket against her chest.

  Gramma screeched, put on her glasses and grabbed her granddaughter by the arm. On their way out the door, they retrieved their purses and Gramma’s attaché case which Gramma locked onto her wrist. She stuck something into her bathrobe. The pocket of her robe got caught on the doorknob, jerking her back and she fell down.

  Gramma popped up, checked to make sure the envelope was still tucked in her bathrobe and raced down the hall, pulling Lola with her.

  “Stay out of the elevator,” Gramma said firmly. “We’ll take the stairs.”

  “Thank God we’re only on the second floor,” Lola said.

  They bounded down the steps, two at a time.

  Other patrons in similar garb and disarray, entered the stairway, illuminated by emergency lighting. They excitedly stepped out into the darkened lobby.

  Little children, frightened and sleepy, were carried or pulled by their parents. Some were asking questions midst the excitement.

  Elderly folks clutched their belongings and moved to the best of their ability.

  A wheelchair-bound woman, carried by her husband, was placed gently along the curb.

  Hotel staff shouted orders to facilitate emptying the building. They scurried about, assisting stragglers.

  “Move along quickly,” the night manager said. “Watch your step so you don’t fall. Here, let me help you,” he said to a handicapped lodger. He looked Gramma’s way. “Go help that old woman,” he said to some of the night shift. He frowned at the attaché case clamped to her wrist.

  Gramma insisted she could manage without them.

  Guests aided each other, offering an arm to those with ambulation difficulties and helping to carry meager items brought with them.

  Within minutes, a large gathering of hotel guests and onlookers filled the space along the street in front of the building. There was chaos everywhere Gramma and Lola looked.

  The fire department and police arrived, assuming management of the crisis. They herded people to the other side of the road, opposite the hotel. Orders were given for everyone to stay away from the building. Search lights streaked across everything, while aerial ladders were raised to upper floors. Chutes were readied for action.

  “Do you see smoke anywhere?” Gramma asked Lola.

  “No. And I don’t smell any either.”

  “Sketchy,” Gramma replied.

  They craned their necks looking upwards, seeing nothing but faint lights in the rooms above.

  “That’s our room up there, isn’t it?” Gramma asked. She pointed at a second-floor end room.

  “I think so,” Lola said. “Why?”

  “It looks as if someone’s inside there. Well, well.” She observed forms carrying flashlights while moving back and forth in front of gauzy curtains.<
br />
  Inside their room, hands pulled the heavy drapes closed.

  The crowd bustled about, some settling on the concrete curb and few available benches.

  “Have a seat here,” Gramma said to Lola. She pointed to a space on an iron bench encircling a tree. “Don’t leave this spot no matter what. And hang onto our purses and this attaché.”

  Gramma unlocked the attaché from her wrist and gave it to her granddaughter.

  “What’re you going to do?” Lola asked.

  “Just checking with the police to see what’s going on.”

  Gramma crept around the corner of the hotel building until she found a back entrance. Her fluffy bunny slippers scraped on the concrete. She swiped her key card in the slot, opened the door and went in. Back to the wall, she crept slowly up the stairs. Perspiration covered her face and curlers dangled across her forehead. When she reached the second floor, Gramma cautiously opened the door to step into the hallway. Somewhere in the background, she could hear firemen shouting orders back and forth from the floor above her.

  Past the elevator and soda machine Gramma stealthily went. She peeked around the corner just in time to see two black-clad figures closing the door to her hotel room. They were heading her way.

  “Hey you!” Gramma shouted. “What’re you doing in my room? You better not have stolen my work boots.” It was then she recognized them. “Wait a minute. You’re the ones who were with Poco. Stay right where you are.”

  Shocked to hear an elderly woman yelling commands at them, the two halted abruptly and squinted her way. They attempted to get back into Gramma’s room, but changed their minds. Turning this way and that, they fell into each other before hustling toward the staircase. Closing the door behind them, they disappeared from her sight.

  Gramma entered the stairway and heard them scurrying upwards. She thought better of chasing after them. She yelled up to them, “If you stole my work boots, you’ll be sorry. I’ll be after you.”

  “What could they possibly want from our room?” Gramma said aloud. “I’m not stupid enough to leave anything valuable there.”

  “Who’re you talking to, and what are you doing in here?” a fireman said from behind her.