A local's tour of Quito

Here's the thing about those wandering freelance guides who corner you as you stare up in wonder at, let's say, the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, the National Palace in Mexico City or the Monastery of San Francisco in Quito.

First, they are probably not history professors, as they always claim. Second, the tea is never "free." And third, you will end up at their cousin's shop and you will buy an Oriental rug, a pair of Mexican earrings or an indigenous Inca scarf. Whether you like it or not.

So I am standing on the corner, looking up at the monastery in Quito's elegant old town, when I feel a tug on my shirt.

I look down to see a man built like a fire hydrant, his face brown and wrinkled as tobacco leaves, his teeth square and yellow, like Chiclets. He wears dirty jeans, a plaid shirt and a baseball cap.

"San Francisco," he says in accented English. "Oldest church in South America."

Here we go.

Señor George then launches into a practiced spiel about how his guided tours of old Quito will impart the love and lore of the city, how I will come away a wiser and richer man for this education, which, it should be mentioned, is very cheap -- "almost free."

"You decide. Later."

To seal the deal, George taps himself on the chest. "History professor," he says.

•••

There is new Quito, all skyscapery and car-choked and as nondescript as any large city on any continent.

And there is old Quito, which is so special that the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) named the city to the World Heritage List, along with such sites as the pyramids of Egypt and the Serengeti.

I decide to let George take me on a quick tour, "money-back guarantee."

Among the city highlights is the Monastery of San Francisco, a towering white church with twin bell towers that sits on a cobblestone plaza against a backdrop of the Pichincha Volcano.

The Spanish began building it in 1534, finishing 70 years later. San Francisco perfectly represents the "Baroque school of Quito," a blending of Moorish, Italian, Spanish, Flemish and indigenous styles. The ornately carved altar is spectacular, highlighted by shafts of light that make the gold shimmer in the dark.

I expect George to launch into a quick art history lesson, but instead he pauses by a lifelike statue of a religious figure.

"Real hair," he says.

At this altitude, the sun is as bright as a prison break. The sky is a blue I've never seen. Clouds curl over one volcano in the distance like a slow-moving wave of smoke.

"Mountains," George says confidently.

•••

A few years ago, the historic district was tattered, dirty and often dangerous. But in 2001, Ecuador launched an aggressive spit-shine and anticrime campaign that was completed in 2006. While the U.S. State Department still cautions travelers about crime and sometimes violent political demonstrations, police were everywhere and people were exceptionally friendly.

The city dates back to pre-Hispanic times, when the Quito occupied the land before merging with other tribes. When the Spanish arrived in 1526, it was ruled by the Inca, which burned the city to the ground rather than cede it to the invaders.

George, himself a descendant of the Inca, leads me on a fast-paced walk through the streets with running commentary on everything from my hat size ("You have a big head") to Spanish tourists ("I don't like them") to Oklahoma ("too cold").

Pausing at a new five-star hotel, George looks up. "George Bush hotel," he says. "Five hundred a night; Bush prices. You like Bush?"

He doesn't wait for an answer: "Nobody likes Bush."

We move on.

Walking down narrow streets, I can smell cauldrons of potato soup, the national dish. A woman wearing a bowler hat sells ice cream cones in primary colors off a huge block of ice. Another woman pushes a bag of cherries on me. Boys hawk the newspaper, "Diario! Diario! Diario!"

In the Plaza de la Independencia, flanked by the Presidential Palace and the cathedral, old men sit in their Sunday suits and fedoras tilted to the side, looking like 1920s pool players.

Off Plaza Santo Domingo on a pedestrian street, old buildings that used to be bordellos, George says, are now art galleries and cafes.

"Expensive," George says.

George hustles me through La Merced, a church with a fascinating collection of artwork, some of it elegant, some garish. One shows a volcano exploding over the city. According to legend, the bell tower is possessed by the devil.

I didn't learn this from George, I might point out. Though he knew a little about the art, he mostly pointed out things that were pretty obvious.

"Mahogany," he says, knocking on a church pew.

"Original doors," he says at the exit. "Very old."

Heading back to Plaza de la Independencia, we slide past a line of soldiers carrying riot shields and tear-gas launchers. The plaza is filling with students carrying signs with complaints against the government.

I ask George if it's dangerous to be there, but he waves me off. "We have 16 political parties," he says. "Chaos."

The fact that kids are selling balloons makes me think I'm fine.

•••

"We go to the market," says George. "Have some free tea."

We enter a tiny store jammed with the usual goods. Indigenous scarves. Panama hats. The quality is not good.

Let me guess, your cousin owns this?

George smiles, then tries to sell me a hat. I tell him the price is too high.

How much for the tour?

"Thirty dollars," he says.

For less than two hours, it's astronomical pay for an Ecuadorian. For me, it's less than a taxi to the airport. I like George. I give him $30.

"Nice guy," he says.

I never did get the free tea. But I did buy a scarf from George for $5.