Quito - Midnight, and Moo is restless. Occasional adjustment whines locate her somewhere out in the darkness near Lauryl's laundry, but when I wake up enough to flip on the light she scoots under the bed with a wiggle, dives into my laundry pile and up under the sleeve of my coat.

"Moo" I mutter, opening the door. "Do. not. pee."

The sleeve hiccups.

Moo is the hostel's puppy, no more than a few weeks old, which means she's one of those puppies you see in pet stores that you want to take home but can't, because they're still nursing 90% of the day, falling in to water bowls, covered in sawdust, etc. You'd think it would be dangerous for a not-quite-furry puppy who can't even scramble up stairs to wander around a hostel all day, but Moo is made of sturdy stuff. She was found tied up and left to die on the side of the road somewhere near Quito. Didn't die. Was rescued by a couple backpackers instead who realized about a day late that they couldn't actually take Moo on a plane. She is white but for a blackbrown head and big black spots - looks sorta like what a puppy would look like if it came out of a cow. (Hence, Moo.)

Today is Thanksgiving. By the time we emerged from our cave this morning Eric was pouring the first round of shots in to thin plastic cups. I begged off the first, accepted the second, and by the time the third "To Thanksgiving!" was cheered had begun using our metal camping cups. There's only so much fighting this sort of thing. We lounged around the garden in a sunshiney daze - reading, napping and scooping up Moo for a good chin licking whenever possible. Moo is universally adored. At various points in the day you can see her either being cuddled by the Erics over by the tents, chasing a cue ball that some Ecuadorian kid has let fly across the game room floor, helping the receptionist greet new backpackers or causing any one of the visiting language instructors (all 40ish and female) to absolutely dissolve in to blubbery high pitched coos that end in "iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiito!".

Later

We show up to dinner an hour late, knowing nothing about our hosts apart from the fact that they're American, male and own the bar where this year's backpacker Thanksgiving is going down. Not a long walk, just a few blocks downhill. When we finally wander in it becomes clear that lateness should not have been a concern. A small group of English teachers in their twenties are up at the bar, sipping the house IPA out of stubby steins and largely ignoring the football game that is being projected on to a bedsheet behind them. One of the owners waves us over and begins taking drink orders. The turkey isn't even close to ready.

It's a tiny space. A short, maybe 8 person bar stretches back to the door. Up a couple stairs is a row of long wooden tables for 20 or so more. It's new, but, like any bar you want to weather a holiday away from home in, it's also dim and close and friendly and couldn't really help but feel a little exotic, as though someone had found a keg in the basement of the Royal Geographic Society. It's an odd, delinquent sort of camaraderie that simmers below an expatriate Thanksgiving, and apart from the two of us, everyone has been away from home for a long while, which lends the proceedings a certain authenticity.

Nothing raunchy, nothing late, but staggering back a few hours later, we are nothing if not thankful. Moo greets us at the door, and, taking advantage of our cheerful exhaustion, somehow manages to finagle a new spot on the laundry pile.