Why

Is it so hard to eat in Bogota? Despite the fantastic weight-loss benefits, I miss enjoying a good meal.

I Would Like to Know...

Why Colombian Pizza has no tomato sauce. 

Conclusion: My Pants

Yesterday I picked up my newly taken in pants.  It turns out Senor Valasquez is a bit weirder than I initially thought. He was telling me how he believed he had discovered the secret to human flight and within a few years, he would be flying like a needle through the cosmos. He informed me very seriously that spirituality and positive thinking can make even the unimaginable happen when I questioned his flying potential. The silent, Tolstoy/Rushdie old man was still sitting in the corner saying nothing, and another long-bearded Russian Orthodox priest-looking old man came out of nowhere, giving me a bit of a fright. It felt like I had stepped into a Paolo Coelho novel.  

Unfortunately, Mr. Valasquez left one pair of my pants so very mind-boggingly tight that they only made it about halfway up my leg before I heard the very unpleasant sound of a rip. If only he had used his powers of positive thinking at that moment.

Visa

So, in order to renew my tourist visa for 2010 it seems I have to head over to Ecuador for at least a 24-hour period. Despite the fact that my soliciations for travel companions via blog have not worked in the past, I remain hopeful. It could be a fantastic adventure into the Andean heartland...

A Trip to the Tailor

Because I have only one pair of pants that currently fits me (despite my recent frappaccino craze), yesterday afternoon I hit the backstreets behind my apartment in search of a tailor. I unfortunately can't afford to buy all-new pants so I must do what the rest of the world does: Get things fixed when they stop working.  Very un-American of me.  Anyway, being Hispanic, I like my pants to be so tight I have to lay down to zip them, and the thought of walking around with huge, clown-looking pants is too much to bear.

My search was rather short; within five minutes, me and my pants-stuffed Colombian mochila found ourselves at the steps of a certain Mr. Valasquez, the "clinical tailor" offering "everything from treatment to surgery of clothing."

Mr. Valaszuez's shop is located on 20th and 4th, a somewhat dilapidated, graffitied and seedy street characterized by an unavoidable and penetrating seafood smell eminating from the many Pacific restaurants that make their home there. Across from one of these such restaurants (with their plastic chairs and tables and cafeteria-like atmosphere -- but that's another story) in a poorly maintained -- but still somewhat charming -- colonial-era house, behind a decrepit wrought iron door, I found Mr. Valasquez sitting behind an unstable, shaky wooden sewing table, in front of a yellowed, ancient-looking Singer sewing machine that sounded as if it was just barely clinging to life. I loved it.

To me, something about the word tailor -- sastre in Spanish -- sounds very old fashioned and noble. So it was only fitting that stepping into Mr. Valasquez's shop was like stepping back a hundred years in time.  The entire shop was appeared to be a mere 8ft x 8ft, spools of different colored thread sitting neatly on his work table, well-worn old wooden cabinents filled with various sewing tools and cut-off pant bottoms of varying colors and decades piled up a few feet high under his work table. And in the corner desk, with a white bushy beard, perfectly round glassses and deep, almost painful-looking wrinkles, sat a silent and expressionless man who I presumed to be Mr. Valasquez's father.  Had Salman Rushdie and Leo Tolstoy had a child, it would have looked just like that old man in the corner.

Mr. Valasquez's arhaic, formal language matched the old-time feel of his shop. Let me give you a little snippet of our conversation (Imagine a serious and poised middle-aged man with yellow measuring tape around his shoulders, spikey gray hair, a white, tucked-in turtle neck and brown trousers slowly and intently circling me while marking my pants with chalk where they need to be taken in):

Me:  Do you think you can take these pants in?
V:  But of course, su merced  (literal translation: your grace).  It is, of course, quite imperative that you try these fine vestiments on so that I may adapt them to your particular anatomy. I will explain to you the methodology I will employ in order to maintain the integrity of these pants while tailoring them just so to your body.

And so I left my clown pants at that little shop on 20th and 4th with the high hopes that Mr. Valasquez will work his magic (at $3.50 per pair) and return to me five pairs of pants that leave everyone wondering how someone like me can manage to squeeze into such mind-boggingly tight-fitting jeans.

Just So You Know...

I am addicted to Frappaccinos.  Cafe del Sol makes the best ones. In fact, that's where I'm headed now.  Dunkin Donutes' are just cold coffee on ice and were a serious disappointment despite having only 230 calories.  La Boheme's are hot coffee with a scoop of ice cream.  I've yet to try Oma's or Juan Valdez's, but I will report back when I do. Maybe I've replaced diet coke with frappaccinos. I feel I have become quite fat in the last week. Oh well.

As as side note, I've noticed that men on the street often call me negra, flaca and fea. I think this is some kind of opposites game they find funny.  At least that's what I hope with regards to the fea part.

A Question.

I would like to know why Colombians get so excited about Christmas lights and decorations in the city parks.  Does this happen in American cities too?

I found a New Cafe with Free Wi-Fi.

I didn't actually just find it -- I saw it when Stephen was here and have been intrigued ever since. It is called La Boheme, a much more romantic name than Cafe del Sol, I think.  Maybe this will be my new office. It's in La Macarena, in my opinion, one of the coolest neighborhoods in Bogota. It's very small with tiny tables, a brick bar, stone floor, black and white photos of early 19th century France and Italy, old-time Parisian post-card art, a wooden ceiling, lantern lights and iron-rail windows. I like that sort of thing.  It's much nicer to write about incontinence due to an enlarged prostate and motels in Jackson, Tennessee when in a pleasant environment. It's located on a lovely tree-lined street and happy hour features two glasses of red wine for COL$5,000 (US$2.50). Maybe I will be here everyday from 5-7pm, although that may result in a drinking problem. Right now, Edith Piaf is playing in the background and the waiter is having a very gossip-filled conversation with a costena he seems to know very well. In fact, everyone who comes in is greeted with a hug, kiss or handshake.  Very nice, I think.

The only problem is that La Boheme is that it's about 10 blocks from my house. But maybe that is a good thing now that I've discovered that frappaccinos exist in Colombia and that they usually include at least two scoops of ice cream.  This new discovery isn't good for my diet or wallet, but I've decided to sacrifice my public transportation budget in pursuit of artificially flavored, sugar, fat and calorie-filled zero-nutrient coffee drinks and now walk anywhere under 50 blocks.

Anyway, a bit about La Macarena: The vibe is kind of like East Village meets Eastern Europe meets Vancouver. You'd really have no idea what country or even continent you're in when you're standing in the middle of it. I think it's one of the most exciting neighborhoods in Bogota; it's very artfully designed with lots of soul, character and life. La Macarena has a bit of a new-age/bohemian/leftist feel to it, factors that lend themselves very nicely to writing, even if about trivial topics.  It's a really hilly, leafy neighborhood with lots of stairs, brick buildings and recently renovated old houses converted into bars and restaurants set against Bogota's pine mountains. If I had my camera charger, I could do the neighborhood more justice.

There's one street in particular -- I think it's La Carrera Quinta -- full of small bars, experimental/funky restaurants and small apartment buildings. There's a Serbian restaurant, a sushi place, a tapas place, a pizza place (La MonaPizza) a creperie and a restaurant called La Jugueteria which looks very intriguing. Perhaps if I didn't squander all my disposable income on frappaccinos, I could visit a few of these places.

Up toward the mountains, there are these massively huge, beautiful Mediterranean-style houses and apartment buildings up narrow, rarely-visited streets and nearly hidden behind stone walls, forest and vegetation. I did some exploring in a gated community up around carrera 3, but was politely asked by the portero to leave, so I was only partially able to imagine myself in a quaint Italian or Greek hilltown.  I wonder what kind of people live there?

Maybe I should start a company.  I'll call it Alternative Bogota and the logo will be Bogota: More than Unicentro, La Zona T, Gripas and Peligro. It will be aimed at tourists and locals alike. While thinking up that logo I looked up pensively and I think the waiter took it as an amorous, seductive look, because he smiled and winked. I think I am now officially a very welome client at La Boheme.

Just in case you're interested...

For all you friendly, giving, care package putter-togethers out there feeling particularly generous this holiday season, feel free to send mail my way:

Edificio Residencial Sabana, apt. 1408
Calle 19 Carrera 4-56
Bogota, Colombia

Baked goods and English-language books are most appreciated, not that I'm soliciting gifts or anything, as I'm aware, as my mother has informed me, that one must be present to receive presents.

Why?

I would like to know how it's possible that my purchasing power is lower now than it was when I was 16.

A Few Observations/Anecdotes from Today

1.) I was walking along La Septima this afternoon like a woman on a mission  with my arms swinging back and forth as they often do when I have no particular destination in mind when suddenly, I realized my palm landed squarely on the ample, blue-jeaned butt of a teenaged guy.  I was in shock over the uncomfortable situation and instead of pulling my hand away, my hand cramped up, an unfortunate reaction I believe the guy interpreted as an admirative squeeze.  He was pleased.  His girlfriend was not.

2.) Living on a budget is not nearly as fun as spending carelessly, and Milo, as delicious and nutritious as it is, is an unaffordable luxury.  Because beans are the second most economical food choice after lentils, I've made a giant pot of kidney beans, which I will be eating for lunch and dinner this week. I remember the days when I'd buy clothes whenever I felt like it, spend $5 on a Grande Frappaccino or $100 on books and stationary without thinking twice about it.  Those days are gone. I have abandoned my comfortable first-world life for a more difficult, third world life.  My poor immigrant parents probably don't know where they went wrong.

3.) Children everywhere love balloons.  Why?

4.) I keep getting e-mails from some "black singles" site and "Latin American girlfriend-finding" site, which starts with lines such as, "Are you a successful Gringo looking for a sexy, wild Latina?..." I am not a successful Gringo looking for a sexy, wild Latina but there is no option to stop receiving e-mails.  Oh well. If there are any successful Gringos out there looking for sexy, wild Latinas, Leticia, Leidy and Reina are waiting to meet you.

5.) There are certain less-than-wealthy people I see in my neighborhood everyday and some I feel sorry for and others I don't.  For example, I don't usually feel sorry for the indignantes because (judging by their slurred words and strange behavior) they did something to get where they are.  Maybe I'm wrong, but that's just my opinion.  But certain people you wonder how life can be so unfair.

Example 1:  There is an old man who stands in front of the Panamericana on Calle 18 with La Septima; he always wears the same blue suit and blue hat with a green feather.  His eyelids are so droopy that you can barely see his eyes, and everyday he stands there -- expressionless -- with a scale in front of him and a leather tan briefcase to his side that look to be about his age. He must be about 85 years old and he just stands in that same spot all day, not talking to anyone or doing anything. I've never seen anyone pay to weigh themselves.

Example 2: A legless man who sits in the middle of La Septima (toward La Plaza de Bolivar) with a little money can and a red cap.  He sits in the same spot everyday and I don't know how he doesn't get trampled at rush hour when a non-stop crowd of people walk past him.

Example 3: A middle aged man who plays the trumpet, also on La Septima, who always wears a navy blue suit and hat. On Fridays, large groups of up to two or three hundred gather around different street performers but no one ever gathers around him.

Roadtrip

In a valiant attempt to rise out of poverty, I've written about 20 articles since Monday. Most are only 300-500 words and the actual writing part doesn't take that long, but the research can be a bit tedious and tiring.

Luckily, I've discovered that the company I write for has a travel section, so I can now write about hotels in New Jersey, Ohio and Kentucky (e.g. Hotels and Motels In Somerville, NJ) rather than the phsychological causes of impotence or how to pass kidney stones. This is a very pleasant development as I now just pretend I'm preparing for an all-American roadtrip with the Bitar family. I just think of all the country diners with checkered tableclothes, gravy-heavy dishes and menopausal waitresses we'd encounter on these theoretical roadtrips. Or the gas station convenience stores we'd stop at so I could buy diet pepsi, runts and Slim Jims (As long as Yohis wasn't there as she would not approve), or the generic, Indian-owned, truck-driver frequented highway motels where a room seems to cost $49.99-$59.99 a night no matter the state or decade.

These hotel articles also make me nostalgic for the camping days, when the Perilla and Martin families would pack their cars to the brim in preparation for our yearly summer vacation, which included much back-seat sibling bickering, obsessive visits to the camp store, hot dogs and baked beans, national and state park visits, Giles being hungry, Ivan giving Tati wet willies and me watching everyone else working hard to set up camp. All day long, us kids would circle the campground on our bikes, shocked by our campground neighbors' propensity toward mullets and plaid,  feeling indisputably superior because of our "city" upbringing. We felt exceptionally liberated, independent and grown up on those bike rides, never realizing our trajectory only consisted of about 1.5 miles. Such good, all-American days, 10 loud Hispanics gathered around the campfire roasting discount, fruit-flavored Mexican marshmellows my mother found delicious and everyone else found inedible. So despite experiences living in Panama and Colombia and traveling to many, many countries, I've decided that America really is the best country for a roadtrip.  But then again, maybe I feel this way because American's the only country in which I've actually taken a roadtrip.

In other news, I did my weekly grocery shopping for COL$14,000 (US$7.50) yesterday, a feat I am very proud of.  For this small price, I purchased a canteloupe, queso fresco, milk, half a pound of ground beef, an onion, a pepper, a potato, a carrot, a bag of lentils and a bottle of carbonated water -- in other words, all the necessary food groups. Having decided that lentils offer "the best bang" for my buck, being a very cheap but nutritionally-rich food source, I will be eating lentils for the next week or so.

New York Times

Despite the fact that they don't actually mention my name, this makes me feel very fancy!

http://travel.nytimes.com/frommers/travel/guides/central-and-south-america/colombia/bogota/frm_bogota_4162010001.html

Milo, Rice and a Can of Beans

I've discovered that earning a Colombian salary while paying American bills requires a bit more budgeting and planning than previously anticipated. To prove this point, I will disclose the contents of my pantry: Half a can of Milo, half a bag of rice, a (full) can of Antioquian beans, one egg, three sticks of Colombian hot chocolate, a bottle of soy sauce, a bottle of hot sauce, a packet of cumin, three cloves of garlic and a salt shaker. (Thankfully, my mother left me a 250-tablet bottle of vitamins to get me through this period of inadequate nutrition). Now I will disclose the contents of my wallet: COL $1,700 (Approximately US $0.85). I feel more Colombian already.

So it seems I will have to take a temporarily sojourn from visiting cafes, buying obleas, taking taxis or doing anything else that requires capital. But I chose this life and other than my recently readjusted economic situation, I’m feeling very upbeat and positive about my new Colombian life. And I am thinner than I've been in a long time.

Till We Meet Again, My Love.

I have given up diet coke.

Those of you who know me may find this hard to believe because my consumption of this unhealthy yet refreshing drink was bordering on incurable addiction, but I am writing the truth. I did the math and it turns out that more than 5% of my meager monthly income was going toward this much beloved but ultimately unaffordable carbonated drink.

It’s been hard but I will persevere in my new carbonation-less life, although I've had to make some lifestyle changes to cope with this hardship. In my old life, if I felt stressed or anxious, I simply drank some ice-cold diet coke and all my worries temporarily disappeared. Now, if I feel stressed or anxious I walk around, usually in my sweatpants, glasses and a grandpa sweater, so that I am probably known in my neighborhood as the hoboess of La 19. However, I've found that I need to walk at least 25 city blocks to achieve the same calming effect as one bottle of diet coke. And I usually drank the equivalent of about two or three 20-ounce bottles. This new stress reduction technique has resulted in a five pound weight loss in a one week period. By the time I reach my one month sobriety anniversary, I may be skeletal.

Anger

Went to my "office" cafe earlier this morning to get some work done and much to my anger and dismay, it was full of people! Even my private area was full of college students studying, flirting, talking loudly, and being in no way condusive to me getting my work done. And the so-called quiet relaxing music transformed into blaring "Salsa and Merengue, Greatest hits..."

However, it's true -- even those with normal lives (who don't have as much time on their hands as me) deserve a break and its not as if it's actually my personal office.  Will now have to look for quieter weekend cafe or give up work on weekends all together...

Bogota Street Life

Like any major city worth mentioning, Bogota has an active and entertaining street life (and I don't mean the pay-by-the-hour illicit type, although there's plenty of that as well, if you're interested). You can be perfectly entertained without entering a museum, paying for a concert or heading to a bar. In other words, if like me, you suffer from a seemingly permanent lack of capital, there's no need to panic.

It being my first weekend in my new apartment and neighborhood, I wanted to see what el centro was like on non-work nights, so I put on my sweater and scarf, and prepared myself to brave the cold, penetrating mountain winds that characterize Bogota evenings. Pretty much all the action in my neighborhood happens on La Septima, which was flooded with people eating hamburgers from hole-in-the wall stands, loitering and talking on every street corner and gathered around the dozens of street performers between La Calle 19 and the Internationall Center. There was a mix of university students, desplazados and poor people from the nearby shanty-towns, middle-class workers relaxing a bit before heading home, street vendors, elegant-looking old men wearing berets and suits whose social class and life story I coudn't quite define, skateboarders, punks, hippies and homeless people. Within an hour, I enjoyed a very intricate, excellently put together street circus, watched a group of children peform cumbia, listened to a soulful, talented Calena sing Celia Cruz's biggest hits and saw what appeared to be a hopelessly intoxicated, homeless man shake some water bottles filled with beads (pretending they were maracas) and attempt a very crude and unpleasant version of Guantanamera.

After enjoying my fair share of street theater and street concerts, I turned around and headed toward La Plaza de Bolivar. On my way south on La Septima, I heard a homeless old woman talking with a younger, also apparently homeless woman about the lack of profitability on her relegated street corner and how she was going to have to fight for a more lucrative corner because things just weren't going very well. I noticed that rather than stand attentively on guard in preparation of any disturbances, the police force in el centro seems to hang out together and congregate around the fried papa and yuca stands, especially if the cart's owner is a particularly young and attractive woman.  They are not particularly enthusiastic about being called to duty.

Anyway, generally speaking, every plaza in the center seems to be home to a flea market or handicraft market.  Considering the almost complete lack of tourists and the supposedly dire economic state of Colombians, I'm not exactly sure who is buying all these goods, but that's another story.  However, because Christmas is just around the corner, Christmas lights and decorations adorn every plaza and the handicraft and flea markets have been converted to Christmas markets. While not as charming and beautifully put together as those in Austria and Germany, these little Christmas markets really do highten the Christmas spirit, as long as you don't mind replacing warm pretzels and apple strudels with obleas and arepas de queso, forget mulled wine and accept aguapanela and convince yourself that the light sprinkling of litter is actually the season's first snow. Every plaza had a group of musicians, usually school children, and the churches, all dressed up in Christmas lights and angel decorations reminded me of the miniature Christmas village we -- well, my brother -- puts together every Christmas. There were many little streets I would have liked to go down, but as it was dark and I had no intention of testing Bogota night-time security, I decided to save these excursions for later.

MY NEW OFFICE

As I currently have no desk or chair in my room and don’t enjoy working from bed, I dedicated last Sunday to finding myself an office. As you know, I don’t technically need an office because I make most of my money freelancing, but it’s nice to pretend I need to be somewhere once in a while. (Plus, that way my roommates won’t think I’m an unemployed, antisocial American who spends all her time locked in her room).

Well, I’m happy to report that I’ve found myself an elegantly-appointed 15 x 15 office with excellent amenities and very attentive, hard-working employees in a most historic and prestigious sector just a few blocks from my apartment. And I don’t even have to pay any monthly fees, unless you count the coffees and teas I ask one of the empoyees to bring me every morning.

My office is called Café del Sol, and it is a rather atmospheric place, frequented by students university and government employees. There’s always calming -- if dated -- music playing softly in the background (think 1960s Latin pop, 1940s American jazz), and plenty of pastries and coffee drinks to choose from.

However, despite the romantic aspects of my new office, there are practical reasons for choosing Café del Sol. Upon entering the café, two small salons are visible. However, if one looks a little further, there is another, larger and dimmer salon that no one seems to know about. Naturally, I headed to the hidden salon because it has a three pronged outlet and I can spread myself out as if it were my actual office. In addition, there is free wifi, the Internet being essential to a canine cataracts writer/researcher such as myself.

So I’ve been going to work very happily every morning from 9am to 1pm, because a canine cataracts writer/researcher can afford shorter workdays. It’s taken me a long time, but I finally feel like I’m living my life exactly as I always envisioned it.

Neighborhood Observations

Yesterday I went on an explorative evening walk, and I noticed that Bogota seems to have, without exaggerating, thousands of bookstores. I know Bogota is a city of eight million, but aside from the newspaper and magazines, it doesn’t really seem like the majority of people read all that much, unless they do so only in private. However, there is La Panamericana, La Libreria Nacional, Tower of Records, La Libreria de la Universidad Nacional, engineering bookstores, French bookstores, humanities bookstores, religious bookstores and used bookstores. In the center, there is even a street called La Calle del Libro and all that is sold there are books (most illegal copies) and related items such as agendas and calendars (You can obtain a special discount for all pre-2009 agendas and calendars). Then there are the street vendors selling the latest Dan Brown book and other popular books. I assume there has to be a market out there for so many sellers to exist, but except for my uncle, I haven’t really met that many voracious readers. Maybe Bogota’s book sellers are maintained by school kids and university students? It is a mystery I intend to solve.

Anyway, yesterday on my walk, I discovered shops that sell only hats, only purses, only women’s leather shoes, only Italian men’s shirts, only bread, only dairy, only pork, only beef, only chicken, only vegetables, only fruits, only alcohol, only pastries and on and on. I find it amazing that these small shops are able to survive because all of these items are sold in bigger department and chain stores or by street vendors (usually cheaper). Even in New York and Chicago, I don’t remember seeing this much “divisibility,” as the Full House theme song famously proclaims. Because of all its tiny shops, constant, interesting characters, narrow alleyways, dark, gloomy churches, cobblestoned streets, litter, pigeons, over-flowing trash cans, peopled plazas, street vendors, undiscovered corners, hodge-podge architecture and pine vegetation, the center of Bogota feels a bit like pre-industrialized Europe (minus the thousands of buses, taxis, skyscrapers and pollution). There are elegant, neoclassical bureaucratic buildings just a few blocks from mountain shanty-town invasions, grand avenues running parallel to embarrassingly unkempt, abandoned dead-end streets and important-looking men in expensive looking suits walking by ancient women with head shawls and long wool skirts selling candy and cigarettes from tiny, makeshift wooden stands. Not that I know much about how Europe felt and looked pre-industrial revolution, but the contrasts here and the “historical” feeling of the neighborhood gives me that impression. Or perhaps a Grimm’s fairy-tale. Not a Disney fairy-tale because there’s something a little bit dark, somber, far from innocent and less obviously happy, beautiful and perfect about el centro. I am really happy in my new neighborhood. It is the kind of place where you’ll always discover a new street, new shop, new corner, new plaza or new street vendor, and I’m less likely to get bored when there’s always something new to discover.

The center is also interesting to me because I’m seeing characters here that I had no idea existed in Colombia. Who would have known that Bogota actually has a middle-middle class, not just a desperately poor class and a crème de la crème upper-class? Because 99% of the people I’ve been around on my visits in Bogota live between la Calle 80 and la Calle 127, I’ve really only been exposed to one type of Colombian -- one type of Bogotano: Well-mannered, upper-class, educated and cultured, but choosing to remain in their world in northern Bogota and generally terrified of anything with the word centro associated with it. In fact, they most likely only ventured to the center during their university studies or when foreigners come to visit. I can’t blame them. I wasn’t here when Colombia was the most violent country in the world and Bogota was one of the most dangerous cities in the world. But because I’m an outsider, I’m not burdened with the same sense of fear.

News about my new abode: I put shoes on my bed, so now it doesn’t roll around. I can lean against the wall while sitting on my bed without being propelled two feet forward. My bed looks pretty stupid because beds are not made to wear shoes, but because shoes have leather soles, it’s the only thing that really seems to keep my bed in place. Also, one of my roommates works at night so he sleeps all day; another one works all day and is only here at night; the other one spends a lot of time traveling and is often not here at all. And all of them are from other cities, so they go back home quite a bit. In other words, it’s almost as if I have a huge apartment to myself, another reason all visitors are welcome!

New Apartment

My dearest readers,

It is with great enthusiasm that I inform you that I have officially moved into my new room in my new building. It's a two-level apartment and I live on the first level (but on the 15th floor).  Upstairs there are two more bedrooms, a large family room, a large kitchen and a pleasant balcony. There are four of us living here, two guys from Cali, a girl from Manizales and myself. As I have a new DOUBLE bed, all guests are welcome. For some reason the bed came with wheels, so I am afraid there cannot be very much locomotion during your visit. However, there is also a hammock for your resting pleasure.

In addition, I have inaugurated my very cute mini rice cooker, a gift from my mother, thanks to the encouragement of my grandmother. Due to my -- complicated -- financial situation, I have decided to economize by cooking one well-balanced dish a week and one less-balanced quick dish.  This week, I have decided on rice with chicken, peppers, vegtables, peas, curry, cumin, pepper, garlic and soy sauce for lunch and dinner and oatmeal with milk for breakfast.  This way, I am getting my protein, dairy, vegtables and grains.  We shall see what creative dish next week brings.

Anyway, as many of you know, I am living in the less-than reputatable, less than beloved center of Bogota.  While many look down on the center as dangerous and unsightly (true), I think it's one of the most fascinating neighborhoods in Bogota.  Within a three block radius of my apartment, there are architectural styles ranging from the 1500s to the present.  I am walking distance to La Candelaria, Bogota's colonial, cafe/museum/student sector, La Macarena, an up-and-coming slightly bohemian, slightly edgy neighborhood with nice restaurants and bars, the international center, el parque nacional and La Septima, my favorite avenue in all of Colombia.  Sure, there are a few hobos here and there and many of the colonial buildings are slightly dilapidated and extremely graffitied, but Monserrate is about 100 meters away from my building! Behind my building, there is a street home to Pacific-style restaurants run by Chocanos, serving (or so I've  been told) very delicious fish dishes. There are also many breadshops, cafes, (non-fish) restaurants and bars in my proximity.  The neighborhood demographic appears to be a mixture of "popular," homeless, artsy, punkish, creative, student, intellectual and inde. When my camera's charger makes its way back from Panama, I will post pictures of my new place and neighborhood.

Interesting

I have found that Colombians often begin a racist statement with the words:  "No es que sea racista pero..."  (It's not that I'm racist but...).

Working Hard for the Money

Some of you out there may be wondering how an individual such as myself can afford the comfortable expatriate lifestyle, and the answer is work. Not traditional, 9-5 employment, but a mixture of freelance writing/editing and tutoring. I am currently writing articles for an online company on such fascinating topics as: "Early Symptoms of Lyme Disease in Pets," "How to Stop Cataracts in Canines," "How to Reverse Stroke Damage" and "How to Improve Cardiovascular Health." As a child, when I imagined my glamorous writing career, pet and elderly healthcare wasn't exactly what came to mind, but I have found that realistically, being a writer is more of a romantic notion than an actual career. I also get occasional proofreading/editing assignments from a most generous European benefactor on topics such as "Characteristics of Sexual Murderers" and "Degenerative Macular Disorder."

In addition, I have started tutoring private English classes. At two hours long, I was nervous I wouldn't know what to teach/talk about, but the two hours actually go by very quickly and I've found that I actually enjoy tutoring.  Tutoring is not a particularly high-paying profession in Colombia, but it does pay the rent.

I like to think of myself as a struggling writer (who has not written a novel or book of any sort) living the contemporary, romantic expatriate/writer life, having replaced early 20th century bohemian Paris with slightly disorganized, slightly third-world but fascinating Bogota.

Colds, Danger and Anti-independence

For the most part, I really enjoy living in Bogota, the somewhat sophisticated, progressive capital city of Colombia. The people are educated, friendly and warm and friends are easy to make.

But being an American, I’m kind of used to doing you’re my own thing and taking care of myself. In fact, independence and self-sufficiency are much admired qualities in the U.S. Not the case here, where mothers, grandmothers, aunts, female neighbors and friends cannot come to terms with the fact that a 25 year-old is perfectly capable of feeding, dressing and taking care of herself. Coming from a home where no one thought you’d starve if left to your own devises, it’s initially shocking the amount of interest everyone takes in knowing what you’re going to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner, where you’re going, what route you’re taking, what you’re going to wear, how you plan to do your hair and what Laundromat you plan to take your dirty clothes to. Whatever your answer, there’s always a better way to do things.

A heightened sense of danger and disease is another common characteristic of Colombian women, particularly mothers and grandmothers. Because watching the news is such an integral part of the day (there's the morning, afternoon and night news, plus radio news) older women hear about every single violent incident that's happened in the country multiple times a day. This means, for example, that if I want to go to the internet cafe about 100 feet away from my grandmother's building to print something out after 6pm (when it gets dark), my grandmother gets panicky and says she'll go with me because otherwise, I'll get (at the very least) robbed at knifepoint. I know Colombia is dangerous, but her predictions seem a little excessive, especially considering there are about a dozen security guards between her building and the Internet café. Besides, no 25 year-old wants to be chaperoned to the internet cafe by her grandmother.

Then there is the obsession with colds. In the U.S., no one is going to feel too sorry for you if you catch a cold. Everyone catches a cold at least once a year, but it's no big deal. In Colombia, the word gripa is uttered with great trepidation. The way my grandmother and great aunts fret about me catching a cold, you'd think they were talking about Ebola or some other deadly condition. Even when it's a sunny 70 degrees, I have to wear a scarf and jacket or else --le va dar gripa, mijita. I've tried explaining that in the U.S., the weather gets much chillier than Bogota during the winter months, yet somehow we've managed to survive over the years without succumbing to deadly colds. But supposedly, the cold in Bogota is more penetrating and dangerous than in the U.S., and a scarf and sweater are essential.

My grandmother often laments the fact that in the U.S., no one cares about anyone else. She thinks mothers don’t care what their kids eat or don’t eat (major preoccupation with food here) and if your neighbor dies, the only way anyone would notice is because of the smell. I’ve tried to explain to her that the reason there’s a lower level of involvement in the U.S. is because people are raised to take care of themselves. By the time we reach our twenties, getting dressed, feeding ourselves, getting around and dealing with life is something we’re prepared to do; it’s not necessarily that no one cares about anyone else; it’s just that we have faith in other people’s ability to make their own decisions and take care of themselves. But my arguments are to no avail here; what I consider over involvement is considered human warmth here.

I have several theories on overbearing women in Colombia. First and foremost, it’s a cultural thing. Women are raised to think about others and take care of everyone else before themselves. It’s considered impolite not to show intense interest/involvement in the lives of others. Secondly, the generally low-quality of Colombian husbands might mean that as a way to avoid future loneliness, Colombian mothers raise their children to be totally dependent in order to keep them close. For whatever reason, it seems Colombian women of a certain age believe that they know best and no one can do it as well as them. Here, a mother and her friends think it’s wonderful if a 55 year-old son lives with his mother and tends to her every need; in fact, this seems to be a lot of mothers’ ideal situation.

I guess it’s these cultural differences that makes you realize how deeply engrained culture is. I'm just glad my parents took an American approach to raising us. Although I guess if I'd been raised here, I wouldn't know any different.

I Might as Well Make This a Food Blog

Today I went to Usaquen with my mom and my grandmother because they have (in my opinion) the most pleasant handicraft market in Bogota.  When I replace my charger, I'll take pictures and post them.  It's kind of a more upscale handicraft market, and there are always dozens of food and dessert stands and Peruvian and Caribbean street musicians. Usaquen is a Spanish-style neighborhood with lots of atmospheric restaurants and bars, so it's always nice for a Sunday stroll.

Anyway, while there, I was struck by an uncontrollabl oblea urge and got myself a triple layer oblea with arequipe, crema de lecha and salsa de mora.  It was so good . They are sold from little stands like this one above, on the corners of the park, and you can put powdered sugar, cheese, arequipe, cream and fruit spreads on a couple wafers and make a little sandwich. Elsie, you must be so jealous.

Early Christmas Celebrations

Yesterday we went to an early Christmas celebration at my great aunt's apartment, as she'll be in Boston for the holidays.  We listened to and danced to Mexican revolutionary music, drank wine, and had very delicious ajiaco.  For those of you who don't know what ajiaco is, it's a soup with potato, half a corn on the cob, cilantro, capers, avocado, chicken, cream and hot sauce (if you want hot sauce).  It's really good and usually only cooked on special occasions like Christmas.  We had a very nice time.

Earlier yesterday, I moved most of my things into my new apartment -- I think I'll be all the way moved in late next week. I still need a bed though...

My Number One Material Possession

Now that I have no car, no bike and no computer, my new glasses (picked up today) are my favorite and number one financial asset.

New Developments

Several new and exciting developments to report which are very likely of little interest to anyone but me:

1.) I am tutoring English. One on one.  As of now, I have a grand total of one student, but I can't help but think that this signals the beginning of my great economic assent in Colombia. I thought tutoring conversational English would be hard as I am not particularly talented at regular small talk/conversation, but the two hours go by really fast. 

2.) I found a place to live.  My room is tiny, but then again, I'm just beginning my economic assent. The apartment is in the center, walking distance to La Candelaria, the Plaza de Bolivar and La Macarena.  Family members may be slighly terrified  I am living in the city center and not in the north, but it's a safe street/busy area. Am beginning slightly bohemian urban life in historic capital district, close to lots of cafes and restaurants. I am also now officially accepting visitors. As long as visitors are not claustrophobic and enjoy sleeping in close proximity to me. And don't mind the current lack of a bed. But potential visitors should note that a bed is my next big purchase.

3.) I have about 10 pounds to lose to be at my college weight.  I've done the calculations, and ten pounds equals about 3,000 Bogota blocks.  Today I walked 60.  This means I am 2% there.  Then perhaps I won't have to deal with Botero painting comparisons.

4.) I got new glasses.  They are red and I get them on Friday.  I wish it were Friday now.  I am overly excited for my new glasses. Wearing contacts in a heavily poluted city is not attractive, as I look like I have permanent pink eye.

That's it for now.

Barbie Botero

Today I was walking around the city center when a homeless man started catcalling me saying "Que barbie botella tan linda." For those of you who don't speak Spanish, this means "What a pretty bottle barbie." I don't know what a bottle barbie is, but I was feeling pretty flattered; I thought maybe he was complimenting my hip/waist ratio. Anyway, he repeated his compliment several times (yelling louder and louder as I walked away), which allowed me -- and the one million people around me -- to figure out that he wasn't saying barbie botella, but barbie Botero.  As in Botero, the Colombian artist who only paints ridiculously fat people.

Dispite the insult, it's nice to know that even Colombians in the worst economic conditions are in touch with modern art.

Home Repairs

In Bogota, everyone seems strangely interested in everyone else's home repairs and renovations. 

I'm not sure why. Home repairs are discussed at length.

The Dentist

In Colombia you greet and say goodbye to your dentist with a kiss, even when he is removing wisdom teeth and drilling screws into your mouth. I wonder what Dr. Gordon in Centreville would do if I greeted him with a kiss on the cheak...

A Day at the Beauty Salon

This afternoon, three generations headed to the beauty salon: My grandmother, my mother and myself. The salon was creatively called “Hair and Care.” As my mother and I are undergoing dental surgery tomorrow, we decided to treat ourselves before the pain…


Because beauty and presentation is such an important aspect of Colombian culture (and Latin culture in general, I think), the beauty salon is an integral part of many Colombian women’s lives. Women of a certain social class make weekly and even biweekly trips to the salon for manicures, highlight touch-ups, and of course, cepillados. For those of you unfamiliar with Latin American beauty salons, let me paint the picture:

A couple manicurists--always women and usually in some kind of uniform resembling a nurse’s outfit--sit on a couple coaches reading magazines and waiting for customers. The hairdressers are sometimes women but usually men with frosted tips and tight black jeans. When you come in and sit down in the waiting area, you’re offered tinto or aromatica (herbal water), as well as an impressive selection of high society magazines. Salons tend to be smaller than in the U.S and there’s at least one salon per block.

Perhaps my favorite part is the salon owner. It’s almost always a woman who’s had excessive amounts of plastic surgery and, despite several probable liposuctions, wears clothing not particularly appropriate for her shape or age, such as pink leather pants, a tight purple top, leopard print high heels and huge hoop earrings. She embodies the “typical Latina” stereotype and walks around like the she’s the queen of England, but a little meaner. You can tell she’s the kind of woman you don’t want to get in a fight with, and even though she’s perfectly polite and pleasant to you, you feel a little sorry for the girls who work for her.

So now that I’ve set the scene, let’s talk about the different things that go on at the salon. Probably the most popular service is the cepillado. It’s particularly popular with older women, and consists of getting your hair brushed and blow-dried while reading a magazine and enjoying a coffee or aromatica. Those of you who’ve traveled to Latin America know the hairdo I’m talking about: The carefully blow-dried bob, dyed blonde and kept in place through lots of hairspray. It looks like a helmet was used to mold the hairstyle and almost every old lady you see is a fan. Typical price for el Cepillado: COL$6,000-COL$12,000.

Then there is the highlighting/hair-dying procedure. Until a certain age, women flaunt their long, shiny black hair with pride. But at some point, usually between the ages of 35-45, it seems most women decide that long hair is no longer age appropriate and the above mentioned bob is acquired. This change in hair length appears to trigger psychological changes that compel the client to dye her hair blonde, even if she’s naturally tanned, dark-eyed and Latin looking. Somehow, it just doesn’t seem right when someone’s hair is lighter than their skin; I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a person with naturally black hair try to go blonde, but the result is a strange, auburn, almost-glow-in-the-dark color. Because I’m American and walk around like a disheveled hobo (as my grandmother says), I’m not a big fan of the cepillado or highlights, though I don’t know if ten years down the road I too will succumb to the cepillado-bob.

But even though -- as of now -- I’m pretty happy with my dark, hobo hair, I’ve become fond of manicures and pedicures over the last few months. For COL$8,000 and COL$12,000, respectfully (at a decent salon), I can get my feet and hands done. For those of you not familiar with the Colombian peso, that’s about $10 for a manicure and pedicure. For three blissful hours, I sit in front of the manicurist and pedicurist, who files, exfoliates, massages and paints my nails. Getting your feet done, in particular, is blissful. So blissful you feel a bit guilty paying only $10.

But women aren’t the only ones who frequent the beauty salon; when a friend who will remain nameless came to visit last month, we went to get our hands done. It was his idea. Thinking it would be a quick, five minute procedure, he was shocked by the large container of products the manicurist brought to the table. He thought a man-manicure just meant the manicurist trimmed his nails. I think the poor manicurist felt like she was torturing him. The more tools she brought out – the file, the cuticle clippers, the oils, the creams – the more his look of confusion and dismay grew. Since I love seeing people suffer (only about insignificant things) I couldn’t stop laughing and provided no sympathetic support whatsoever. After the procedure was over and done with, he still wasn’t convinced. He hadn’t expected a 45-minute nail treatment. However, later that evening, after a few too many rum and cokes at the popular Zona T Irish pub, he confessed he loved the result and couldn’t recognize his own hands because they looked so good. He said he would be going back for regular manicures and brought up the amazing state of his hands at least ten more times that evening. I am sure he will love me telling this story, but it’s all just part of a Colombian sociological study. And you see all kinds of men come to the salon – businessmen, blue collar types with tattoos and motorcycles and old men and yuppies.

So three manicures and three pedicures later, my grandmother, mother and I leave the salon feeling like queens, are hands smooth and freshly painted, our feet rejuvenated and baby soft. These are the luxuries Colombia allows you. Well, at least until you start thinking about how little money the girls actually take home. Third world life can be complex and difficult to process when you’ve grown up in the developed world.

A Day in My Life

Being non-traditionally employed, I work from home (or rather, my grandma’s home) on my own schedule. For those of you with 9-5 jobs, this means I have a lot of time on my hands.

If you’re interested in knowing how a non-traditionally employed expat in Colombia spends her day, please read the following:

Upon waking up, my grandmother asks me about 20 times what I’m eating for breakfast. As I’ve mentioned before, food is a major preoccupation in Colombia, and breakfast is approached with intensified interest. I usually have an arepa with melted cheese. This is a pretty typical Colombian breakfast.

Next it’s time for my morning walk. I generally walk to Usaquen, where I head to the bakery for a diet coke and pastry. It’s very important to counter sweets with diet coke, as artificially sweetened carbonated beverages cancel out the effects of unhealthy foods. For whatever reason, every time I come to Colombia I lose about 15-20 pounds in the first month doing absolutely no exercise and eating whatever I want. I have a theory that this weight loss has something to do with Bogota’s altitude, but whatever the reason, it’s wonderful. In three weeks in the U.S this past September, I gained 7 pounds riding my bike everyday and watching what I ate. People here say that the water in the U.S makes you fat; maybe they’re right. But back to my daily routine…

While enjoying my pastry and diet coke (if non-traditional employment revenues allows this luxury), I usually read. Without exaggerating, my uncle has about 1,000 books in my grandmother’s apartment. Most of them are at least 20 years old. Old books make me uneasy and sad and I’d much rather read something contemporary and recently bound – not very romantic but true. Anyway, a good 75 percent of my uncle’s books are written by American or British authors and translated into Spanish. I’m currently reading Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and somehow, reading about New York and New Yorkers in Spanish doesn’t feel quite right. You can’t capture a New York accent or attitude in Spanish. It makes me think of all the translated books I’ve read and how much I’ve missed out on. But oh well, back to the daily routine…

Around 1 or so, I go back to my grandma’s house for lunch and spend the afternoon writing, editing, researching and looking for traditional 9-5 jobs. There’s not much to say about this part of my day.

One of my favorite parts of the day is onces, or snack time. Onces are usually spent at my great aunt Lorenza’s apartment, which is right next door to my grandmothers. Onces at Lorenza’s consists of five or six people (nearly always elderly women and me) seated around the dining room table, enjoying bread, crackers, and hot chocolate with melted cheese. Some of you out there may be skeptical about the idea of hot chocolate with melted mozzarella or queso campesino, but it’s actually very good. During onces, politics, building and celebrity gossip, music, store-openings and the ever deteriorating state of the world is discussed.

In the evenings, I work a bit more, watch telenovelas and the news with my grandmother, read, and Skype. My social life hasn’t quite taken off yet, but I’m hopeful for the future. As you can see, life for an expat in Colombia is not particularly stressful. Though a bit troubling that all the pictures I've included are of food...thank goodness for Bogota weight loss miracle....

Prostitutes

I just finished reading a book called El Dulce Veneno del Escorpion (The Sweet Poison of the Scorpion). For those of you feeling restless, bored or needing a bit of spice in your life, I highly recommend it. It’s a memoir about the trials and tribulations of a Brazilian prostitute. If you liked Eleven Minutes, you'll like this one too. Usually I hate reading in Spanish, but I finished this book in about four hours.

Wilson Phillips

My sister reminded me yesterday that when we were little, she, Kim and I used to pretend we were the singers from Wilson Phillips. My sister was the cute blonde one. Kim was the attractive brunette. And who was I? I was Carnie Wilson. Pre-gastric bypass Carnie Wilson. We also used to pretend we were the witches from Hocus Pocus. Guess who was the fat dorky one on the vacuum?

The worst part is that I don’t even remember objecting to or being offended by these designations.

Urban Anthropologist, Part 1

Since this is supposed to be a blog about my travels and experiences abroad – currently in Colombia – it would make sense for me to write a bit about what I’ve been up to in the last few weeks.

Let me start today with a recount of last Friday: An unofficial cultural study on partying in Bogota. I took the bus to La Zona T with one of my cousins and we met up with one of his friends at a cigarreria. For those of you not familiar with cigarrerias (I wasn’t), they are these wonderful little hole-in-the wall type places that sell cigarettes, sodas and other snack items during the day and turn into bars at night. There’s usually at least one every few blocks, and they can be identified by the large number of construction workers gathered around and enjoying a few beers between 5 and 6pm. Unbeknownst to me, this is where the less-than-rich-and-famous go to get drunk before heading to a dance club, where half a bottle of aguardiente can cost you up to COL$60,000. So by 10 or 11pm, everyone is all liquored up and ready to party, usually for less than COL$10,000 a person.

Bogotanos appear to believe that there is no liquor worth ordering other than aguardiente, and it seems they even believe it tastes good. I believe differently and fought hard for rum, but when in Rome, one must do as the Romans. Shots are poured into tiny plastic shot glasses and drunk in quick succession so that half a bottle lasts about 10 minutes in groups of three or more. Aguardient is one of those rare liquors that can’t be mixed with anything; it’s not the kind of drink you can sip slowly and enjoy on the rocks. Very few things go well with black liquorish-flavored liquor, so you’re only option is to drink it straight and fast.

So by 11pm, we are all three feeling pretty good and decide to head to Maria Mulatto, a popular Zona T dance club. Because I’m a lady, I get in free but my cousin and his friend have to pay COL$15,000. Being a man can be expensive and sometimes it’s nice to be a lady. The typical Bogota going out uniform is as follows:

Women: Tight, fancy jeans, boots (or high heels) and a swanky – usually purple – long blouse. Cleavage is rarely present, but hair and make up is always perfect.
Men: Dress shirt and pants. Basically, men look like they’ve just come back from work but have taken off their ties and jackets. Luckily, the practice of gelling back hair to mafia-eque proportions isn’t overly present.

You usually stick with your group at clubs, not like D.C. where random guys come up and try to dance without you. All clubs and bars in Bogota unfortunately close at 3am due to worries over drunk driving, so there’s about a four hour window to party like it’s 1999. However, if you’re lucky, the party will continue at someone’s apartment, where you’re likely to encounter their angry, sleepy mother, wearing a bathrobe and telling everyone to keep it down for God’s sake.

One of the main differences I’ve noticed between partying in Colombia versus partying in the United States – or really, anywhere else I’ve partied – is that young and old party together. There were plenty of groups of 20 and 30 year-olds, but there were also 50 and 60 year-old couples dancing just as vigorously. A lot of people might think the presence of these old folks dampens the party spirit, but this isn’t the case at all. A lot of those grandmas and grandpas are more energetic and nimble than any young person. I saw once such couple that didn’t stop dancing till the lights came on.

Can you imagine a 60 year-old couple getting down at CLUB LOVE or one of those other big, four-story D.C clubs? It’s not a pleasant thing to imagine, especially if it’s Beyonce or T.I playing in the background. However, because the common American practice of “grinding” doesn’t happen in upscale Colombian clubs, one doesn’t have to worry about seeing these unpleasantries. Another noteworthy difference is that nobody really goes out alone. In D.C., it’s common for a single person to head to a bar on their own; here, if I headed to a bar on my own, people would just feel sorry for me. Or think I’m a prostitute on the lookout for clients.

Anyway, like most Colombian clubs, Maria Mulatto played a healthy mix of Salsa, Merengue, techno, Cumbia, and of course, Vallenato, Colombia’s much-loved and slightly overplayed coastal accordion music. At about 1am, a man wearing sunglasses and a flannel shirts got on the bar and started playing the drums. To spice things up, he poured alcohol all over the drum set and lit each part with a match, creating an impressive visual effect that would be considered a serious fire hazard in the U.S. Those of us who started our night early were thoroughly impressed by his musical and pyrotechnic abilities.

At 1:30am, Cumbia dancers in fancy dresses and white suits came out and performed, later taking turns dancing with festive club patrons. Around 2 am, I attempted an aguardiente-inspired Cumbia with a very disappointed costumed dancer who abandoned me in search of a more agile and competent partner within 30 seconds. Undeterred, I joined the Conga line instead.

It looks like winter has officially started in Bogota – the days are getting colder and rainier, but at least this only lasts a couple of months! I think October and November are the most depressing months in Bogota because the sun rarely comes out.

Luckily it was really nice weather when Stephen (previously referred to as Henry Waxman) was here. Bogota was unusually sunny and warm and it didn’t rain anywhere we went. Usually I’m just kind of here, but since I was a guide of sorts this time around, I realized how incredibly huge Bogota is. It goes on and on and on and there are hundreds of neighborhoods, many of them with their own unique character and feel. I think that I’d like to live in La Soledad or in La Macarena or another slightly bohemian/young people neighborhood.

We went to Villa de Leyva with Stephen, where I rode a horse for the first time. After the initial shock of being so high up, I actually really enjoyed it and will definitely be doing it again. I am now an expert horsewoman who should be competing in international equestrian competitions. I will soon post the very unflattering pictures of myself horseback riding. Villa de Leyva itself is really beautiful and quaint but the countryside is eerily barren and dry. I don’t know how much of this is due to deforestation or nature, but it seems in stark contrast to the rest of the country which is almost overly green and fertile.

From Villa de Leyva, we went to El Lago de Tota which was stunningly beautiful, surrounded by high mountains and little mountain villages. But there are a few problems with this area. 1.) If you don’t have a car, it’s hard to get around as everything closes around 7pm; 2.) The air has a permanent onion smell, as do the locals, because onion is the main agricultural product here; 3.) Aside from looking at the lake, there’s not much else to do. No water sports offered, too cold for swimming, et cetera; and 4.) Stephen had a near lung collapse when carrying my bag up hill. Even though I had excessive, unnecessary amounts of clothes with me, it was an altitude related near lung collapse. I wasn’t doing very well either and was very happy when a family offered us a ride down to the town.

Next we went to Villavicencio for the 13th Annual Cowboy Festival. The festival consisted of two men on horseback bringing an angry bull down by the tail. You watched from stands, and there were handicraft vendors, food vendors and chusitos selling beer and Llanero staples around the stands. Stephen was famous in Villavicencio. It was like Tati in China. I think no one in the town had every seen someone so white and tattooed, so everyone stared shamelessly. I didn’t mind. It was like I was walking around with a movie star.

Villavicencio has a very small town feel to it. It’s rougher, hotter and simpler than Bogota. Kind of like a more hardcore version of Medellin -- well, more hardcore than current Medellin, not more hardcore than Medellin in the '80s and '90s. No high culture or sophistication there, but it does have its charms. There’s this street called La 7 de Agosto, and it’s where all the bars and clubs are located, so it’s nice to have a central party street, although there was a lot of cocain use going on, but more than I've ever seen in Bogota or even Medellin. All these 16 and 17 year-olds would leave the clubs big-eyed and faraway, and fights were constantly breaking out.

The countryside around the town was really beautiful though, as was the drive down from Bogota. At the very end of Bogota, where the grittiest, saddest slums are, you go through this tunnel and at the end of the tunnel, you’re greeted by a completely different climate and view. It’s sunny and green with lush mountains, flowers. Colombia is a thousand different countries. Even within Bogota, you can travel through a hundred different economic groups, a hundred diffrerent lifestyle and mentalities. In the U.S., Alabama and New York are pretty much as different as you can get, but you pretty much talk to any American and can recognize them as American. Not so much in Colombia.

So now my little vacation is over and it’s time to seriously look for a job and work on my social life in Bogota. Hopefully everything will work out and I’ll be living in Bogota for the next couple of years. The ideal woud be to get enough freelance/editing gigs to live comfortably, though an embassy job wouldn't be bad either.

My Plan

From Top to bottom, left to right: Los Llanos; Lago de Tota; Popayan; Cali; Eje Cafetero; Barichara; San Gil; Bogota, Villa de Leyva.

During the next month I'll be traveling throughout Colombia for Frommers and my plan is as follows:

1.) Spend a few days exploring Bogota.

2.) Take a bus out to Bogota to Villa de Leyva, a really beautiful colonial town.

3.) Take a bus to El Lago de Tota, write a box review for El Pozo, a hotel I've heard a lot of good things about.

4.) Take a bus to San Gil, do some water-related things, maybe some hiking; it's known for being outdoorsy.

5.) Go to Barichara, supposedly the most beautiful town in Colombia, explore nearby towns if we have time.

6.) Go to Villavicencio and Los Llanos for the International Cowboy Festival which I'm sure will be very exciting. (It can get pretty rainy here in October though, so I don't know if we'll get a chance to see the supposedly very beautiful sunsets)

7.) Back to Bogota for a few days.

8.) Take a bus to Medellin, do the hotels/restaurants there, visit with the ladies I used to work with if I have time and money.

9.) Explore the coffee growing region (If I can find traveling partner).

10.) Take a bus or plane down to Cali, visit with Alexandra for a few days.11.) Take a bus to Popayan, include a one-page box review of this city in Frommers.

12.) Back to Bogota.

I'd like to go to Parque Tayrona and Amazonas over Christmas break if I'm able to find a job here. So, if you are free or want to take a vacation after October 15th, please let me know. I am currently accepting travel companion applications.

Journal of A residence and Travel in Colombia

I am reading this book by an Englishman named Charles Stuart Cochrane, written between 1823 and 1824. My uncle recommended it to me and it's pretty entertaining, especially as I'm moving to Colombia so I will probably be seeing things through his eyes when I first get there.

Some of Cochrane's observations:

"The greater part of the civilized Indians of Colombia has been, and still is, a class totally degraded." This is still true, I'd say.

"Every politcal point is discussed with much animation and gesture; but nothing unpleasant arises from this freedom of debate, where every man expresses his sentiments without offence, for they have a mild temper naturally and too much good sense to quarrel for difference of opinion." This observation seems to have been premature. Have not met many people who would describe Colombians as mild tempered.

"They have no idea of giving a quiet dinner party in our English style; if they consider themselves obliged to give a dinner to a stranger, they invite a great number to meet him; load their tables with dishes, and spend in one day what would support their own family a month at least. " I think this still rings somewhat true.

"Kindness of heart is a characteristic of a Colombian, who will put himself to great inconvenience to assist his friend..." Also think this is a pretty accurate observation.

"The majority of women are by no means handsome; they certainly have fine eyes and dark hair, -- but neither features , complexion, nor figure are good when compared to those of Europe. Some have, when young, little bloom on their cheeks, but in general, a sallow or Moorish cast of face meets the eye." He doesn't find Colombian women attractive, but luckily for me:

"The men, taken as a body, are far handsomer than the women, and their dark complexions more agreeable to the eye."

So that is what I've learned from Cochrane so far. I will see how much has changed in Bogota and Colombia in the last 200 years...

Colombia in Three Days!

On Wednesday morning I will be leaving for Colombia and will be there for an undetermined amount of time. It all depends on if I get a job after I finish the Frommer's project. I am excited to be going and am really hoping to visit a lot of Boyaca and Santander this time around. My uncle gave me this book about a 19th century English traveler making his way through Colombia, so perhaps I will use that as my guide! I love small towns and the tackier the better, so if anyone out there has any good suggestions, just let me know.

My record-setting tan (personal record) has nearly faded to pre-Panama levels and will probably continue to diminish in the cloudy, cold mountain climate of Bogota. The good news is winter clothes is much nicer than summer clothes so I will be much better dressed in Bogota than Panama City.

Life without a car in the American suburbs feels backward and wrong. As there is nothing to do within walking distance of Belle Pond Farm, my week days have been filled with Anthony Bordain, Samantha Brown, Dr. Phil, Discovery Channel and netflix movies. This time of unemployment (or between job transition period sounds better)and car-lessness has also given me an opportunity to explore my artistic side, which resulted in a Bavarian style birdhouse for my aunt and five Moroccan-style wooden plates, one for each person in my family. I am also currently working on three Moroccan style mirrors for my other aunt. Meals mark the passage of time, so I look forward to making my father lunch with unnatural enthusiasm. One can only go on so many walks. After walking around the neighborhood 72 times, you realize that everything is the same as it's always been and aside from noticing that one of your neighbors got a little lazy with their yard this year, you better have enough to think about because your surroundings aren't going to entertain you.

Luckily, it's really only the daytime that gets a little dull. I've gone out quite a bit, traveled to Vancouver a few weekends ago, went to the Farmer's market with Rasha yesterday, had a little going away party yesterday with my family and some friends, got to see Stone's new place, went on a few bike rides and went camping. So I can't really complain (even though I just did) but you don't realize how much freedom a car allows until you don't have one.

Next time I blog it will probably be from Colombia, from my grandmother's apartment. I love being around all the old ladies because they think I'm so young and have all the time in the world.

Wear a Helmet

Yesterday I was happily riding my bike on my usual path, thinking how well I've been doing with daily exercise and how much I love my bike. Well, there were a bunch of spriklers watering the grass and trying to avoid getting wet, I braked suddenly on a downhill and flew over my handle bars, landing face first on the pavement.

So now the right side of my face is scraped and bruised and I have my first black eye. Not bad, I guess, to go 25 years without a black eye! My right leg is swollen and I can't sit down, bend my leg or put my weight on it...I look a little bit like Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notredame, but with a limp.

Luckily, yesterday I spent a lovely day with my grandmother, which, of course, inovolved a trip to the craft store where I stocked up on wooden things to paint. It's as if I knew I'd need something to keep me entertained for the next week or so. Being the housewife that I've become, I enjoy crafts, along with cooking and talk shows, but not cleaning, so many of you out there will soon be receiving painted wood gifts, such as jewelery boxes, bird houses, platters and plates.

I guess I won't be hiking or biking too much this weekend on our camping trip (luckily it hurts to eat so I don't have to worry about overindulging in chips and marshmellows). Maybe I'll just go fishing now that I'm an expert and catch the night's dinner while everyone else is out enjoying the outdoors :(. I hope I don't still look the way I look now when I go to Colombia; it's hard enough getting anyone in Colombian tourism to talk to you because they're so suspicious of everyone, but if I show up with a black eye, swollen face and limp, I don't think that will help.

Wonderful Vancouver Vacation!

Just got back from excellent three-day Vancouver vacation with Emily and Rasha, both of whom I hadn’t seen in a long time, so I was doubly excited about seeing Vancouver and seeing my friends. I think it was actually one of the best vacations I’ve been on: No arguments, good food, lots of activities and going out!

Vancouver is kind of a mix of Portland and Seattle and is pretty much exactly what you’d expect from a Pacific-Northwest city: Mountainous, cloudy, edgy, druggy, strong Asian influence (lots of sushi!), outdoorsy and fun in a laid-back kind of way. Rasha and I talked about it and came to the consensus that we’re just too mainstream and not edgy enough for Pacific Northwest cities, although they do make excellent vacation spots.

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been in Panama for the past five months, but Vancouver seemed particularly expensive…a glass of wine cost about $9 and the cheapest bus ticket $2.50. The only thing that was inexpensive was sushi, which appeared to outnumber burger joints 10 to 1. I haven’t gone out in the U.S. for a long time, so maybe those are just normal prices and my perception is skewed by my time abroad.

On our first full day, we walked around the city and Rasha and I did some shopping while Emily visited the Vancouver Art Museum. I insisted on wearing four inch heals even though there was a heel nail poking the sole of my foot, but after about an hour of that, I realized the magnitude of my mistake and bought the first cheap flat shoes I found. So as of 1pm Thursday afternoon, I became about a foot shorter than both of my travelling companions in all pictures.

In the afternoon, we rented bikes and rode around Stanley Park, Vancouver’s version of Central Park, and it was a really amazing bike ride…lots of water, mountains and beaches. I was in biking heaven. Later that night we had a drink at our hostel where we were joined by a 70 year old man who informed us that men can have purses too and showed us his. He then started talking about the Canadian army’s role in Vietnam and let us know that 10 percent of Canada’s navy is made up of women. In a hotel full of mostly 20-something year old men, our group of three managed to attract a 70-year old grandpa with a purse. So anyway, we left the old guy pretty fast as he was pretty weird and went dancing for a couple hours at Hip-hop/soul/funk night at a local bar, which felt pretty much like your standard Adams Morgan bar, same kind of crowd and everything.

The next day, after a most educational and enriching trip to the Museum of Anthropology, where we saw a bunch of totem poles (see picture below), we headed to Wreck Beach, a fine nudist beach. The first thing to catch my eye was a young groom-to-be running laps around the beach with assless briefs and about a dozen cans of beer tied to his underwear. I guess that’s some kind of pre-wedding ritual in Canada. There were lots of naked old people and very few naked young people. Funny how the old ones like getting naked more than the young ones. We spent the evening drinking whisky at a very nice-pub like place with long benches and excellent ambience. The last couple of months in Panama really ruined my low tolerance, so a night out is no longer as cheap as it used to be, which is a real shame when one lacks money, which I do. Vancouver is apparently the Hollywood of the north and Rasha wanted to see some celebrities so we headed to Elixer after the pub, which is supposed to be ground zero on the celebrity-spotting scene. Unfortunately, they all decided to stay home that night.

And here I am, back in D.C., at least for the time being. Camping in southern Virginia next weekend! I am still looking for travel companions to Cartagena/Medellin, so spread the word…