Everyone in Cuenca knows me as the “Gringo Gordo” (fat American). They could just as easily call me the Gringo Alto (tall American)—I am a head taller than almost everyone. They could call me the Gringo Rubio (blonde American) or the Gringo Rico (rich American). I would prefer they call me the Gringo Fuerte (strong American), or the Gringo Bueno (good American) or the Gringo Justo (fair American). My fatness seems to be what they focus on. They don’t just say it behind my back; they say it as if it were a title of honor. After carefully folding myself into a taxi slightly bigger than a suitcase I can usually expect to hear “Oh señor, you are so tall and so fat.”

Once, after directing me to the 5th floor, a receptionist winked and said, “Maybe you should take the stairs. The elevator is only big enough for four skinny Ecuadorians.” I was alone.

In their culture, being fat is good. After generations of worrying if you will be able to feed your children tomorrow, wanting to have a little extra weight is not a bad goal. They realize that obesity is not the ideal, but they would rather have the luxury of worrying about the consequences of excess than scarcity. They are like Tevia in The Fiddler on the Roof, who, after hearing money is a curse, said “May the Lord smite me with it and may I never recover.”

I guess some people always called me the Gringo Gordo, but the day my title became official has become almost a legend in the market there in Cuenca.

I needed to go to the market to buy some bananas. I love the market. It has a life of its own. You don’t just stroll through the market as you would a mall. It is like an exotic expedition: pyramids of polished fruits; winding, jungle-like trails with clothes, scarves and lingerie, hanging down like vines that almost require a machete to get through; chunks of ice floating like icebergs in glass barrels of tropical fruit drinks sweating in the sun; meadows of fresh flowers, herbs and spices; shish-kabobs sizzling over charcoal; a cacophony of aromas beckoning like their vendors in languages foreign to your nose; streams of brightly dressed people pulsing like lifeblood through the body of the market.

I blend in at the market like a white elephant in a herd of horses. When I enter the market, only a few stare openly, but everyone is aware of where I am and what I’m doing. It’s good for my ego, though I mistakenly assume all the attention represents admiration and respect.

To one side of the market is an ancient-looking scale. The oiled surface of the worn iron platform glistens in the tropical sun, like the moist skin of its ancient owner José. For a few coins you can weigh a crate of bananas, yourself or anything you like.

When we first moved to Ecuador we did not have a house scale. After a month or two my pants were feeling loose. Melodie, my wife, said it was because hand washed line-dried clothes, like their owners, tend to loosen up a little more than their machine-handled American counterparts. At that time we decided it was cheaper to hire a maid who worked for $1 a day than buy a washer and dryer.

I was sure I had lost weight, or at least I told Melodie I was sure. I wanted to weigh myself, but not when Melodie was there. So I had planned this solo trip. The morning sun seemed to arrive at the market just as I did. Its rays burned slanted golden bars through the fragrant steam rising from the food stalls.

I didn’t go directly to the scale. I meandered through the vegetable section, then through the dried beans. Each section is like a neighborhood, the same vendors sit next to each other all day, every day, for years. There’s a tangible, dark feeling of competition and envy in the vegetables, but the bean ladies all seem like friends with each other and the customers.

I finally ended up looking at some bananas at a stall right next to the scale.

There were two people in line waiting for the scale, a small bent man with a sack of potatoes that reminded me of Quasimodo, in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and a stately indigenous woman with a billowy, pleated red felt skirt and a large bowl heaping with fresh cheese. I self-consciously stood in line behind them. I noticed out of the corner of my eye a mother lowering her basket of mandarin oranges. She nudged her daughter and pointed towards me as if to say, “This should be good, the Gringo Gordo is at the scale.”

As soon as it became apparent that I was waiting to be weighed, the two in front of me stepped aside and let me go first. This was more out curiosity than of courtesy.

José, the owner of the scale, was aware that everyone in that part of the market had shifted so they had a good view of his scale. He bowed slightly and waved me graciously onto his scale as if he had been inviting royalty into his home. “Would you like to be weighed in pounds or kilos?” he asked a little too loudly.

“Or toneladas (tons)?” quipped Quasimodo, who was now sitting on his sack of potatoes. There was a wave of snickers from the growing number of people who were pretending not to watch.

“Pounds” I said quietly.

“I will weigh the Gringo Gordo in pounds” José announced in an official voice.

With great deliberation, José placed the large weight on the 150-pound mark, and then ceremoniously slid the small weight from zero to 50. The balance arm stayed up! There was a ripple of comment as everyone realized the Gringo Gordo weighed more than 200 pounds.

José slid the small scale back to zero, placed the large one on the 200, gently shook his hands, then blew on his sweaty fingers like a safe cracker and slowly slid the small weight from zero to 50 again. The balance arm stayed up. A collective gasp filled the market followed by excited chatter.

José held up his hands to silence the anxious crowd, returned the small weight to zero and placed the large weight on 250. With a wave, he invited Quasimodo to get up off his sack of potatoes and act as witness. He immediately understood his role and stood by his side. Trying to stand as straight as he could, Quasimodo watched as José slid the small weight carefully across the balance arm. As he passed 25, the balance arm lowered a bit and everyone seemed to hold their breath as Jose carefully tapped the weight to 27, then back to 25 then finally to 26. The balance arm was suspended exactly in the middle. José looked questioningly at Quasimodo who gave his nod of approval. Coming around to the front of the scale and raising his arms like a circus barker, José called out in his finest announcer’s voice, “The Gringo Gordo weighs 276 pounds!”

The crowd erupted in hoots and laughs and applause. The old man slapped me on the back. A tiny shoe shine boy was patting my stomach. I was a celebrity. I pulled out a coin to pay. José refused, saying “Free today, you are the fattest man I have ever weighed.”

I went home and announced to my wife and kids that I was a hero. I had lost 15 pounds.