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