The equator runs all the way around the world at its thickest point... passing though 13 countries and masses of public and private land. As such you have to hand it to Ecuador for finding a way to charge admission to it.

It's about an hour's bus ride to the equator park on the outskirts of Quito. You may have seen pictures. There's a big monument with a globe at the top marking the equator. A yellow line runs up the sidewalks approaching the monument and a sign declares that you've arrived at 0 degrees, 0 minutes, 0 seconds latitude. Some pay the three dollars for the elevator ride to the top of the monument. Others are content to take photos straddling the yellow line that divides north from south.

All the while the folks who work there keep a dark secret. This isn't the equator.

Feeling Divided at the Equator

"They only tell you if you ask."
Yes, the sign declares it. The yellow line confidently streaks along the concrete. The soaring monument proclaims for eternity the Mitad del Mundo, the center of the world. But it's not. It all got built in the wrong place... off by nearly 1,000 feet. They only tell you if you ask... or read the Spanish in a display in a museum near the monument.

I remembered reading something about this when I arrived, but wasn't sure. But being the geek I am, I came prepared. I sat down on some stairs with the yellow line running directly under me and pulled out my GPS. The coordinates... 7.7 seconds of latitude south of the equator. After confirming in the museum that the monument was built exactly 7.7 seconds too far south, I set out to find the real equator.

"The parking lot of a quarry."
I walked out of the equator park and onto the highway, down the loose berm for about a quarter of a mile before I found it. I located the equator near the guard shack of a limestone quarry on the highway out of Quito. I suppose I looked a little odd standing there taking a photo of my GPS in the parking lot of a quarry, but whatever.

Zero Latitude at the Real Equator

I'd woken up the previous morning well north of the Equator in Panama City. My flight left at 11:30 but I was up at six to be sure all was well. My first hint that things were going to go badly was that Lonely Planet was wrong about where to find the buses to the airport. No surprise and no huge deal. They were about five blocks away and took about a half hour to find. It was then a little over an hour's trip to the airport where far, far worse news was waiting.

"Where did you buy this?"
You know the maitre d' kinda guy at the airport that stands at the entrance to the checkin line and greets and directs you to the appropriate line? This guy says hello in English, checks my ticket and frowns.

"Where did you buy this?"
"A travel agent in San Jose, Costa Rica."
"When?"
"Couple of weeks ago."
"We're no longer accepting tickets from this agency. They're out of business and not paying their bills."
"Can I fly today?"
"Yes, of course."
"Phewww."
"But you'll have to buy a new ticket from us."

Yeah. Another $270+ for another ticket to replace the one I'd already paid for. I called the travel agent that had sold the ticket. No answer.

Having a Bit Too Much Fun

Then went to call Citibank to stop payment before remembering I'd stupidly paid cash. I resolved myself to coughing up another three hundred dollars.

"...haul me and my bogus ticket away."
So I did what I do best. I went to the counter to which I'd been directed and played dumb. I handed over the worthless ticket with a smile, a "buenos diaz," and all the confidence I could muster. Before I could figure out what was happening I had a boarding pass, my luggage was checked and I was on my way to the gate. The counter guy never noticed. I then had to wait like two hours at the gate, sweating the whole time that men were going to come and haul me and my bogus ticket away.

Finally I was actually on the plane with nothing to worry about. And by the way... someone needs to tell Panama's airline, Copa, that air travel is supposed to suck. It was a brand new 737 with the cool swing-down flat TV's in the ceiling and seats that seemed to actually fit me. It was an hour-and-a-half flight and my jaw dropped when I saw them begin the meal service. The flight attendent saw my amazed look and smiled as if to say "your not in the US anymore." This was not the "light snack" consisting of bread, mustard and school cafeteria sugar cookie. No, this was the full-on airline meal of yore and lore, unseen in the US in lo these many years. And it was reasonably good, although it was funny to hear the cliche "chicken or beef?" rendered as "carne o pollo?"

"About time for Boeheim to get a title."
So how about those Orangemen? Not that I'm usually the least bit into televised sports of any kind, but this was different. The last time we were in the finals, I was doing liveshots from a sports bar in Altoona, Pennsylvania wearing a jacket, tie and Syracuse hat. This time I was laying on a couch at a hostel in Ecuador listening in Spanish. About time for Boeheim to get a title, doncha think?