“A Tranquil Day in Otavalo – Misty Lakes, Candlelit Baths, and Local Culture”

🕔 05:00–07:00 | A Walk by Laguna de San Pablo Beyond the Horizon Mist

As I stepped out of ‘La Casa Sol Otavalo’, the clock showed just past 5:20 in the morning. After about a 10-minute drive, I arrived at the still mist-covered San Pablo Lake (Laguna de San Pablo). Ice-cold wind whipped past my face, and in the distance, white ducks swam back and forth among the reeds. Farther away stood the Cotacachi Volcano, still majestically capped with unmelted snow. Before the morning sunlight had yet awakened the world, I sat quietly on a bench, gazing into the stillness.

🕖 07:00–09:00 | Traditional Music Workshop – A Journey Through Time Following the Sound of the Quena

I walked toward the Taller de Instrumentos Andinos "Nanda Mañachi" workshop, located in the heart of the town. The stories told while carving wood and making holes felt like an old fairy tale. When the bamboo, the charango (a small string instrument), and the quena (Andean flute) were played, a sequence of sharp, fluttering notes rang out. A young boy carefully brought the quena to his lips and began to blow, and I could feel the breath of the air dancing. These instruments, beyond being mere objects, carried rhythm on the wind and were a fragment of this land’s soul.

🕘 09:00–11:00 | Cuicocha Viewpoint – Embracing All of Otavalo

After about a 25-minute drive, I arrived at Mirador de Cuicocha. Nestled within the arms of Cotacachi National Park, Cuicocha is a crater lake, yet quite vast, and as if it were the Earth’s heart quietly exhaling and inhaling, its gentle ripples spread out in circles. In the lake, two islands floated, glowing with an emerald hue. Birds circled and chirped among the dense trees surrounding the islands, and the occasional icy wind carried the breath of morning fully onto my skin. Every inhale filled my entire body with freshness. It was a place that, no matter how many words were spoken, could never be fully captured by language.

🕚 11:00–13:00 | Local Café “La Cosecha” – A Noon of Hand-Drip Coffee and Banana Cake

Returning to the city center, I walked over to La Cosecha Coffee, a café located right next to Plaza de los Ponchos. The roasted aroma of the coffee spread through the nearby alleyways, and at the window seat, a young cherry tree just beginning to grow was blooming with tender green leaves. The coffee captured the essence of Ecuador’s northern highlands, and within a single cup, the scent of the soil, the rain, and the sunlight of this region were all contained. The edge of the baked apricot cake was adorned with mint yuzu whipped cream, adding layers of flavor and color to the experience.

🕐 13:00–15:00 | ‘Tawka Sinchi’ Children’s Weaving School – Hands That Connect Thread, Dye, and Life

As I moved somewhat away from the city center, I arrived at Tawka Sinchi, a nonprofit institution located on the outskirts. Scarves and handkerchiefs dyed light green, natural threads colored with plants in yellow, purple, and green, all displayed a vivid diversity like a page from a picture book. Children between the ages of six and fourteen were spinning threads and rhythmically weaving using traditional natural dyeing techniques. Tiny, delicate hands helped guide mine as I spun thread, and with the children’s assistance, I had a brief chance to experience spinning for myself. A warm feeling pierced gently into my heart.

🕒 15:00–17:00 | Hotel Terrace – A Book Under the Sunlight, the Breath of the Andes

The terrace at “La Casa Sol,” where the noonday sunlight slanted in along the side, was the perfect place. With a chilled glass of refreshing, fizzy lemon-lime syrup juice brought by the staff and a landscape that felt as if it had been painted in hushed brushstrokes, I opened a poetry book about friendship. Perhaps rain was coming—the crows cried mournfully beneath the low trees, and the faint tapping of a distant woodpecker echoed like syllables settling into my heart just before I turned each page.

🕔 17:00–19:00 | Dinner – A Three-Course Meal of Traditional Ingredients

Outside, the crimson sunset was slowly fading along the curves of the mountain range, and I headed to the hotel restaurant for dinner. The prepared course menu began to grace the table one by one. The main dish, a lamb stew, was rich with the aroma of basil and herbs, and the mashed yuca root added a smooth, earthy depth. For dessert, a chiffon cake adorned with apricot slices was served, with green grapes embedded like jewels in the whipped cream. As the grapes burst in my mouth, their tartness blended with the apricot juice and cream, painting my palate with a tingling fruitiness. A youthful-looking staff member quietly shared that in the backyard, herbs and plants were growing all around, and all the strongly aromatic ingredients had been freshly picked from there. Perhaps because everything was organically grown and harvested just before cooking, the flavor was vivid, and its aftertaste lingered gently.

🕖 19:00–21:00 | Lavender Bath – Warmth Beneath Candlelight

Returning to my room, I lit two candles—one with a gentle cherry scent and the other with a hint of tea tree—placing them at each end of the bathtub. I dropped in a grapefruit-scented bath bomb and filled the tub with lightly warm water. Soon, bubbles began to swell over the surface of the bath. The warm water and foam swirled around my body like the edges of flower petals. It was cozy. In the distance, the soft call of a cuckoo and the gentle patter of rain faintly echoed, bringing the scent of life from the earth straight to the tip of my nose.

🕘 21:00–23:00 | Today’s Record – Pressing the Day in Otavalo Into Pages

I took out a small notebook, worn and tattered from age. I picked up a pencil usually used for drawing and carefully shaved it with a small knife—srrrk, srrrk. The graphite core, made of charcoal, gently clung to the blade’s edge and dispersed subtly into the air, slipping past the tip of my nose and quietly stirring my heart. I began to write, capturing today’s sensations in a modest, prose-like essay. Though my hand was writing on the surface of the notebook, in my heart, it felt as though a hazy watercolor painting was seeping in—page by page—along with the soft drizzle falling outside.