The woes of a Barranquillero-Gringo lost in Bogota....

The "culture shock" that a good (American) friend of mine who had lived in Barranquilla for several years experienced when he left the coast and moved to the big city....

Bogota sucks!  Cold, overly organized, not only are people prompt but they expect you to be (???), there's no music playing ANYWHERE, they can't dance, they hardly drink, cars stay in their lanes, people cross at crosswalks and only when the green man appears, and they clear their trays at the food court, the stores have too many fucking choices, and - they're polite - like all the fucking time - they all want something from me, right?  What do they want from me???

oh, and the part that really tickles...

Taxis!

They have these little boxes that keep a kind of count, then they show you on a chart how much you have to pay!

Waaaaaaaaahahahahahahaha!

No tienda domicilio.  No fruteras.  No morning "bollo" "aguacate" "el heraldo" wake up calls.  No tack tack tack Pavlovian dog mouth watering as the butifarra man passes.

I went to get a paper notarized and first of all the whole process only too four minutes (yes, I timed it).  When it was time to give my fingerprint the clerk just handed me the inkpad.  I stared at her dumbly wondering what to do before remembering, way back when in a land far far away where normal citizens were actually trusted, no, expected to place their finger on the ink pad and roll it across the paper ALL BY THEMSELF.  I was giddy.

One afternoon after my nap (they can't take that away from me, not yet!), I stepped out of my stratus seis pupiville apartment to go for a jog.  The air was cool even though the sun was out and I couldn't even break a sweat.  I jogged down a street with trees on both sides before getting to a wooded park where I guy was sitting playing trumpet, another jogging further down the path.  Most surreal - OTHER PEOPLE WERE JOGGING TOO.  What a weird sensation to NOT feel like the village idiot jogging over patchwork cement that looks like it was laid over a fault line.  I sleepily smiled knowing that very soon I would jog past the lampost and back out of the wardrobe doors and awaken from my Narnia-like dream.

And through I'm not a Barranquillero I feel ... "affected" by my time there, I'll end this with a quote from a friend...

"You can take the Barranquillero out of Barranquilla, but you can't ever take Barranquilla out of the Barranquillero."

abrazos to all, 

Chris

My response:

Do you at least have a balcony where you can play your drums or do you have neighbors who will complain about the noise that is disrupting their nice, orderly life?  What about the fact that it's not necessarily a given that every person's house you walking into will have a (or several) hammock(s)?  I can guarantee that iguanas will not roam your new school campus and I think it's pretty safe to say that you will not catch little lizards climbing up your kitchen wall.

Where are the restaurants with plastic chairs?  And when you ask for chuzo desgrenado, they have no idea what the hell you are talking about and tell you that chuzo is ONLY shish kebob.  They drink some shit called Costena, which as far as I am concerned should be called cachaco because the only cerveza costena that I know of is called Aguila.

Be careful if you go up to Parque 93 because there is a TGI Fridays, a Subway, a Hooters, AND a Baskin-Robbins.  You might just think that you were drugged and taken back to Texas.

Buena suerte amigo,

Sarah

Operacion Jaque. CHECKMATE.

The news unfolded before my eyes and I couldn't stop the tears from falling.  I watched the live address by French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, which I randomly caught as I flipped through the channels, as he announced, ce soir, Ingrid Betancourt est libre et en bonne sante sur une base de l'armee colombienne.  Je voudrais d'abord remercier le president Uribe, les authorites Colombiens, et l'armee Colombienne. Que le president Uribe recoive la gratitude de l'ensemble de la peuple francaise.

I heard it in slow motion.  Ingrid Betancourt.  FREE.  Without a single shot fired.  After six years in captivity.  

I turned my laptop on and every single major news source was broadcasting the breaking news.  15 of the most high-profile hostages being held by the FARC - including former presidential hopeful Ingrid Betancourt and three Americans - were just RELEASED.  

I instantly messaged Tiffany to make sure that I wasn't dreaming this.  She confirmed what I had heard was true.  Bogota is already celebrating.  I am still in shock.  This is incredible.  A miracle.  

I can't help but think about everything that has occurred in the past six months.  This is the third time that I have literally not been able to tear myself away from the story as it unfolds - from the international peace protest, to the death of three of FARC's main leaders, and now this.  

Please, please tell me this is happening because I still shaking all over with the possibility that peace is in Colombia's immediate future.

In the words of Ingrid Betancourt, "creo que esta es una senal de paz".

I'm Streetsmart, I've got New York City Heart...

One year ago today.

I landed at JFK with two suitcases about to burst and more carry-on luggage than I could possibly carry. I had gotten a job offer no more than five days prior, packed up my life in Colombia, and flew out of Bogota the evening before my visa expired, knowing that when I woke up on my red-eye flight the next morning, the US would once again be home after a year abroad. It was time to move on. There were new adventures to be had. I knew little about what lay before me, but I knew that I wanted it more than anything.

The past twelve months have been one hell of a ride. This little town of Manhattan and I have learned to get along pretty well. This marks summer numero tres of living in this city. Summers of outdoor movies, tanning in Sheeps Meadow, street fairs, happy hours on rooftop bars, getting caught in intense summer thunderstorms, lazy afternoons spent wandering through the Village.  Summers where this is what's rolled into an average weekend....

Meat Market = fittingly located in the Meat-Packing District where fashion is edgy and it's ALL about who you know. This is THE place to see and be seen, where the right connections can get you sushi topped with caviar and a table full of drinks that are replenished before you even notice they are finished.  The music was hot, we danced the night away, bumped into a well-known AIESEC alum...this city is not so large after all.

PRIDEFEST = 100% undeniable proof that there are a LOT of incredibly attractive, SEXY men in this city, with unbelievable bodies that they aren't afraid to show off. It's also proof that they are ALL gay. My roommates and I watched the parade this weekend and decided that it was just a mean tease to all women who live here.  As if men walking down 5th Avenue in g-strings wasn't entertainment enough, the sudden bursts of rain made the show even more hilarious.

OLE OLE, OLE OLE Without even watching the EuroCup finals on Sunday, I knew the instant that the game was done and who was the champion.  I walked through the East Village to meet a couple friends for dinner and heard shouts of VIVA ESPANA, people pouring out of sports bars with red and gold flags draped around them, jumping up and down with the same amount of sheer passion that you would expect to find on State Street if the Badgers had just won the Rose Bowl.

The rhythm of the city
But once you get it down
Then you can own this town
You can wear the crown

makes me that much stronger, makes me work a little bit harder, makes me that much wiser....

Waking up at 630 am every Saturday doesn't feel quite as ludicrous as it did a month ago.  I've reached the point in training where every long run is the longest that I've ever run.  6.6 miles yesterday was easier than our first 2 mi run.  Adding on the miles feels natural.  I'm starting to believe that this marathon really is within my grasp.

Night or day, it's amazing how many people are running, walking, biking, rollerblading in Central Park; there are times when it seems as if the entire city is training alongside me.  Two of my teammates and I mused about this over coffee this evening.  Does the nature of the city attract people who are more active and used to a fast paced life?  Maybe the tranquility of Central Park offers a repose from the hustle and bustle of hedge funds and Wall Street?  New York offers so many intramural sports leagues and running groups, countless parks and running paths that it's almost impossible not to be drawn in.  For better or worse, New York is a city where IMAGE is influential.  Each runner, each athlete has his own reason, his own motivation, his own story, but each is drawn out to the same roads and paths converge.  A sense of community is formed.  

New York is turning me into the athlete that I never really was.  And I love it.

...so thanks for making me a fighter.

everytime i hear that song, i go back...

Growing up in a flat world of globalization, travelers of our generation have had to deal with the "perception of Americans abroad" when they travel to other countries. Coming from a culture that arguably has the most direct influence - positive and negative - on the rest of the world, just about all foreigners seem to have formed an opinion. While I've never experienced any severe anti-American sentiment, there were definitely times that I felt hostility when I was in Europe.

Colombia was different. At the risk of making a broad generalization, everyone I met was so incredibly warm to Americans. Many had never met someone from the States before and could hardly fathom the idea that someone from the US would actually want to come to their country, a country whose reputation has traditionally been tainted by negative images.

On one particularly memorable bus ride across the country, I caught the attention of a fellow passenger by reading the autobiography of the country most famous author and listening to reggaeton music, acting like traveling from Barranquilla to Bogota was a perfectly normal thing to do - which, by that time, for me, it was. We chatted for awhile, he complimented my Spanish, and I must have given him my contact info, although I hadn't remembered doing so until I received this email yesterday...

Hola Sarah:

Yo soy la persona que conociste, cuando viajabas de Barranquilla a Bogota, via terrestre hace como dos años...cuando leias la biografia de Garcia Marquez.

No te habia escrito, porque estaba viviendo en Italia y el papel donde me escribiste tu e-mail se me habia quedado en Colombia, donde me encuentro en la actualidad.

Estoy en Bogota, si vuelves por aqui, escribeme...

Mucha suerte y que que sigas leyendo los libros de Gabo.

HASTA PRONTO.....

RICARDO

(translation: Hi Sarah, I'm the person that you met, when you were traveling from Barranquilla to Bogota, overland, about two years ago... when you were reading the biography of Garcia Marquez. I hadn't written to you because I was living in Italy, and the paper where you wrote your email was left in Colombia, where I found it now. I'm in Bogota, if you ever return, let me know. Good luck and keep reading Gabo's [nickname for Garcia Marquez] books.)

For some reason this email touched me immensely - the fact that such a simple conversation almost two years ago left such an impression on someone.

Running down a dream...

I woke up with butterflies in my stomach early yesterday morning. Weather forecast was humid, but manageable, cooler than the past few days had been and the rain wasn't scheduled to begin until after noon. Perfect conditions for our first race.

The pre-race jitters picked up on the train, as I tried to remind myself that it was just Central Park, just like any other easy Saturday practice, that the hills and turns of these trails were starting to become second nature. I wasn't out of my element. On the contrary, the course was predictable and manageable. I psyched myself up a little more when I arrived to find my teammates gathered near the bag check. I was glad that I wasn't in this alone.

The race went well, I ran strong and steady, breaking my stride only at the fluid stations to grab a cup of water and pour half of it down my back. The more I run, the more I am starting to understand the mental aspect of the sport - the discipline, the determination, the consistency. The more I run, the more I appreciate the social aspect of the sport - having a running buddy who I can pace myself with, the volunteers along the course who push you along and tell you how amazing you look and how inspiring you are, hearing my mentor yell my name from the sidelines as we round the final curve and push ourselves into burning sprints. The cheers of the crowd, the lyrics of PUMP IT blasting through the speakers, my lungs burning in protest pushed me to cross the finish line. It was an amazing feeling.

And this is just the beginning. I can't even imagine the adrenaline that San Francisco will be in October.

I wanna go where the wind calls my name...

But if you ever come back around
This sleepy old town
Promise me you'll stop in
To see an old friend
And until then...

Finally purchased a much overdue new laptop for myself this morning.  And it's a MAC.  helllllll yea.  I'm lovin' it already.