A weekend in a pueblo

For my first weekend in Medellin I opted to forgo the anatomically enhanced Parque Lleras for a pueblo an hour outside of the city. Lleras is a phenomenon like no other in terms of beautiful people per square foot, and in my previous trips I felt like a Gringo kid in a Latin candy store on most Friday nights. But this weekend was for nature, tranquility, and escaping the bustle of the big city, and Lleras deserves a night and an entry of its own. Santa Fe de Antioquia is one of a dozen pueblos within a few hours of Medellin that Paisa city dwellers frequent for long weekends and holidays. These pueblos vary greatly in climate due to the mountainous landscape, and one can literally choose if they want to leave the moderate temperature of Medellin for hot and sunny, or cold and crisp by traveling an hour in either direction. The norm for middle class to elite Paisas is not to go to the pueblo center, but to a finca (Literally “farm” but seems to really just mean “house not in the city”). Every Paisa will at least tell you they own a finca…..and have a cousin in Miami.

The poor backpackers of this world stay in a hostel on the main plaza. The design of Colombian pueblos seems to have been the brainchild for the today’s standards of product consistency, and all look as though they were made by the same assembly line worker. Church, big square, statue of Simon Bolivar, and benches lining the unvaried diagonal paths. I guess, like the perfect combination of water and ground coffee beans in a Starbuck’s dark roast, when you find something that works; you repeat it.

The first night it rained. Being from Oregon myself, I don’t melt, but Paisas must have one chromosome from the Wicked Witch of the West, and rain shuts down the nightlife as if each drop were a sister-crushing house falling from the sky. Us Gringos didn’t get the memo until we had already drunk a bottle of rum and went out onto the wet and empty streets looking for action. I settled for a hot dog, Colombian style. Showing us up at one true American food, they slather it with bacon, cheese, potato chips, sauces and a quail egg making it a perfect end to any drunken night.

Side note- I still have not figured out how this sloppy eating experience of about 3000 calories and 30 napkins doesn’t kill the romance of an evening, but it is common to see a couple after a night out, romantically devouring these heart-attacks-waiting-to-happen, before going home to devour each other.

The next day we wanted to go explore the surrounding landscapes and rivers. As it is a tourist town, you would think that people would constantly be asking the tourist office how to get to a trailhead, or to climb a hill, or get to the river…but being that it is filled with Colombian tourist, the attractions are man-made bridges, swimming pools, and resorts. Places where one never needs to set down their cerveza or be out of earshot of a salsa rhythm. We were pointed in the general direction of “nature” and went off on foot through a rural neighborhood of fincas; both real local farms and the vacation homes as per the Colombian version of the word. We were told that we would eventually make it to a point in the river that was crossable, but given the previous night’s rain and the rushing brown water, we became skeptical. My crew opted to call a taxi to pick us up cause we still hadn’t left civilization and working cell phones, but I could not leave for a day of nature-seeking adventure and dejectedly come home in a taxi. So, with 2000 pesos in my pocket (about a dollar) I followed the riverbank upstream hoping to find a shallow point or rock hopping bridge. What I found was two local kids crossing the river up to their neck and getting pushed down about fifty meters. No thanks. I approached them as they successfully skirted death and made it to my side of the river, and asked if there was an easier place to cross, but they both looked at me as a camper might awe at Bigfoot. Not sure if I really existed, and then even more shocked when I spoke their language. Through the very odd interaction I gathered that “No, dumb ass, if there were an easier way to cross do you think we would be risking our lives to be soaked right now?” A fair point, and so I headed back the way I came on foot.

When I got back to the main road I asked a 40-year old women where I could catch a bus back to the pueblo. Her reaction was similar to the awe and surprise of the river crossers, but instead of awkwardly staring silently, she actually giggled like a schoolgirl. I got the impression that the people outside of the town had not seen too many 6’2’’, blond-haired, pink-chested Gringos.

I made it back to town happy to still have one of the two 1000 peso notes I started the day with, and promptly ordered a well-deserved Sprite. As I sat alone in the main plaza, a group of obviously drinking, if not drunk, young Paisa tourists approached with a typical, lame attempt at English. Probably referencing their cousin in Miami. I am accustomed to the feeble yet good-natured attempt to engage me in conversation, and usually will do anything short of setting my hair on fire and running away to end the interaction. But in this rare case of solitude, I indulged Senor Drunk-Ass and joined his table in hope that is two friends had more tact and had drunk less. Both were true. After two pints of the vomit-inducing Aguardiente, as the third was being ordered, I was fully engaged in an interesting political conversation about the role of the Paramilitarios and Guerrillas. Senor Drunk-Ass at this point decided it was naptime. The third bottle went down easier than the first two, and when I came back from a quick empanada run, I found myself in the middle of a full-fledged sing-along with a local Vallenato band. It is amazing to me the ability of Colombians to memorize lyrics. I can’t think of a single American song that literally everybody in a bar would not only know, but happily belt out at 5pm……maybe Journey’s “Small Town Girl” at midnight.

With a good guaro buzz and free flowing Spanish conversation I had no choice but to accept their offer to go back to the finca for, you guessed it, more guaro. I spent a ridiculously pleasant few hours of swimming in their pool, eating sancocho (a typical Colombian everything-in-the-kitchen soup), drinking, and being the center of their curious grad student attention. I eventually left what was an incredibly fun cultural experience to find my friends back in town, with the promise to come back for lunch the next day.

After a night that made me wonder why I ever left the finca and comfort of my new Colombian friends, and another late night hot dog, I went back for a traditional Colombian lunch of frijolitos y chicharrones (A traditional bean soup and some bacon-esque meat). I was shocked, first to see Senor Drunk-Ass awake and coherent, then to see that the rest of the crew was still drinking guaro…..this time, for the double effect of drunkenness and hangover cure, with milk. I passed, but enjoyed a great lunch, and left with phone numbers, emails and promises to hang out again back in Medellin. The whole experience, besides being good drunken fun, was culturally enlightening. I kept trying to imagine it from the reverse perspective. What if a Colombian or any non-American was alone in a touristy small town in the states? Maybe they would meet people, maybe they would have fun, but I can’t ever imagine they would be invited to someone’s house and treated with the warmth and hospitality that I received. Maybe it is different. Maybe as Americans we are so used to foreigners that the novelty has worn off. But maybe we as Americans have grown cold, business-like, and skeptical and the warmth and acceptance of the people of this so-called dangerous country could teach us something.

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.

Back to Colombia

Colombia. A country that evokes images of cocaine, bloodshed, and poverty. A place where political corruption and guerrilla revolution have clashed and combined to strip the image of Colombia down to that of a drug-filled thug haven . Your travel agent probably considers Colombia about as much as an architect considers putting a toilet in your kitchen. But there is something missing from the information the average American has on which to base his/her opinions about Colombia. They are missing the experience of walking the plaza in a Colombian pueblo, of taking the spotless Metro through the safe streets of Medellin, of hiking jungle trails to the remote beaches of Parque Tairona, and most importantly of meeting and enjoying the company of a Colombian.



When I was boarding my flight into Bogota, I met 2 other Americans. I usually have headphones in and a distant stare out the window on airplanes, and pretend to not speak whatever language the chatty frequent flyer next to me speaks. But on this flight something got my headphones off and eye contact made. We shared little in terms cultural background or personal style. One was a 22-year old alternative kid with a lip ring and tattoo; one was a late-thirties businessman from Miami (not the business your thinking). I, myself, am a classic “tweener”. Too clean cut and sporty to be alternative, to liberal and lazy to be a young yuppie. What the three of us shared was the experience of Colombia. There was a look, a clichéd glimmer, in each of our eyes when we spoke about why we were going back to Colombia. Little had to be said, because we each already knew. The people are amazing. Friendly and curious, their warmth and hospitality leads not only to intelligent single serving conversations, but lasting friendships and connections. Of course there are beautiful landscapes, jungles, mountains and beaches, as can be expected, and is even common among many of the worlds developing nations, but it is the day to day interactions and overall pleasantness that I think is the unique and unknown charm that makes those of us that come, want to stay.



In this blog I will describe some of my unique interactions in my daily life in Medellin, Colombia. I will try to paint an honest picture of both the city of Medellin and its people, comically pointing out the ironies and flaws, while noting the unsung ease and grace of the city. This is not a Colombia tourism blog. I actually hope that North Americans and Europeans stay scared and don’t taint the culture, albeit a historically violent one, of Colombia. I write this only to address an American ignorance about a country with a strong middle class attitude and dedication to a safer more prosperous future.



This is the first of 10 blogs that I will write during my visit to Colombia. My first ever blog (but third time in Colombia) will be written to entertain as much as inform, and draw from the travel writing style of Bill Bryson, the sports/pop culture humor of Bill Simmons (The Sports Guy), the self-deprecation of George Costanza and the well-written investigation of truth of Jon Krakauer. Undoubtedly falling short on all levels….except maybe Costanza.