Bogota to Medellin

I arrived to Medellin at 7am after a torturous night on a bus that was obviously designed by bitter Latino midgets to get back at us tall Gringos in the world. As I am sure every Colombia guidebook states, overnight bus travel is not recommended. But the fine print that fails to show up in your “Lonely Planet” is that it is not recommended for people over 5’10’’ with tight knees, not for any former dangers of kidnappings or bus robberies. Groggy, and with the imprint of the fully reclined seat in front of my still on both knees, I fought the urge of adventurous cheapness and forwent the Metro for a cab to my friends apartment in the Centro. 10 minutes and a mere 4 dollars later I got dropped off on a rainy street corner with all my belongings; including a lap top, 2 tourist suitcases, and in case the giant blonde haired Gringo in the Centro didn’t look out of place enough, I had a tennis racket to ensure I looked utterly lost and confused. I was happy to find the apartment with limited laps around the block, even happier with my decision to minimize my rainy walk and public exposure with the taxi ride, and then happiest of all to settle into a deep morning sleep reveling in the forgotten comfort of having both legs fully extended.

I awoke from a dirty mid-afternoon slumber with the regrets setting in of my “odd”, to say the least, choice of abandoning a cushy life in San Diego to revisit Colombia. What if I had over-romanticized it in my more youthful trips? What if it has changed for the worse? And most importantly, what the fuck am I going to do for a month here? In my past trips I had worked, albeit a slacker schedule of 20 hours a week, but it gave structure to the day. My friend, who has hardly left Medellin since I introduced him to the city 4 years ago, now had a whole scene of his own and it was me who was the Spanish weak link and socially dependent on him. A stark contrast to the dynamic between us in my last visit. With the regrets hidden behind an excited smile I left to explore the streets of my favorite big city. I walked through the action packed pedestrian streets of the Centro noting they relative absence of poverty or homelessness. Of course it was far from Rodeo Drive, as the gentrification of a city center that we see in the US, gives way to the classist stratification of neighborhoods in Latin America. But the vibe was that of a middle-class working population and was not poverty-ridden or sketchy as other Latin cities frequently are. I boarded the Metro that I had been so thoroughly impressed by in previous visits, to find that it was still just as impeccably clean with the same culture of respect and pride by commuters. No eating, no drinking, no smoking, no pushing, no running, no yelling; New York’s subways would be happy with just no pissing. I stand in the crowded car looking over the tops of most heads to see eyes darting off me as if they were doing “the wave” at a sporting event. At home I am your average, 6-foot, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, middle class American; here I am a freak. A phenomenon. A mystery. People light up in smiles when I ask a simple question in my good, but accented Spanish, and frequently a question as mundane as “Vos sabes que hora es?” (Do you know what time it is?) will lead to an in depth conversation about why I am here, American politics, and how great Colombia is. They are very nationalistic and take great pride in the improving state of their country.

I got off the Metro and went to a café for some world famous Colombian coffee. The irony of this coffee producing reputation is that the coffee they drink here tastes something like a cup of coffee from Denny’s mixed with luke-warm water and a bunch of sugar…served in a 4oz plastic cup. I’m used to a 20oz Starbuck’s dark roasts with a splash of cream, so here I need a coffee IV constantly running into my veins to reach the same level of caffeination. I sometimes ask them to fill up my American-sized to go coffee mug and get looked at as if I obviously mis-spoke and am pointed in the direction of a dealer of Colombia's other famous export if I want to get that cracked out . I have asked Colombians about this difference in coffee culture and learned two things. One is that Colombia exports all its best coffee to richer countries with greater coffee sophistication and brews only the dregs for its own people. And second, it is just as it is in the non-coasts of the US, that the masses prefer diner or instant coffee and Budweiser, my northwest upbringing of dark roasts and microbrews is not shared by many of my countrymen, let alone a culture with a history of problems far greater than if they want a skinny latte or a mocha.

I left unsatisfied in the caffeine department, but had enjoyed watching the bustle of people on the busy street corner. Next I walked through a residential neighborhood that if you changed the salsa music for N-sync would have passed as any-town, USA. I ended up at the soccer stadium that doubles as a Mecca for all sports, fitness and recreation activities of Medellin. Being a sports-lover myself, when I first stumbled upon this facility I walked through in a slow wonderment, and quickly made plans to just pitch a tent on one of many grassy fields and live there. On this day the rain had driven away a lot of the normal action, but there were still pick up games of slippery street soccer, hard bodies in beach attire playing sand volleyball, European handball games, and organized kids basketball games with parents on the sidelines and orange slices at halftime just like home. Unfortunately my hopes of dropping in on a pick up basketball game were trumped by the kids, and I contented myself being a spectator and fantasizing about how I could have dominated the 12-year old girl’s game I was watching.

Eventually I made my way back home with the regrets that started out the day fading and the plans of how to enjoy this city for the next month dancing in my head. One uneventful day walking through my old haunts, and I had remembered why I made that aforementioned “odd” choice to come here.