When To Let Fear Win

The air is smooth and soft here in Vilcabamba, Ecuador. The mountains are a lusty green, and a stream gurgles somewhere nearby. The center of town is full of hippy expats who affectionately call it "Velcro-bamba" for its magical ability to make you want to stay. The sleepy tourist town is nestled in The Sacred Valley of Longevity, south of Loja, and it's rumored that there are at least twenty residents well over 100 years old.

In the zen atmosphere of Hosteria Izhcayluma, a spa-hostel right outside of town, as well as the hopping hippy town square it's easy to forget that this is still a developing country. Poverty does not present itself in these areas, but it is sadly lingering just outside my immediate view. I must always be aware and conscious of that fact while traveling through South America. The hostel's information packet outlines restaurant hours, spa packages, and detailed instructions for various hiking paths around Vilcabamba.

I am intrigued by the hiking paths that range from beginner to advanced and are estimated to take anywhere from two to seven hours. My roommate, Jen-from-Canada, is also interested in a hike. We decide on the blue path rated "difficult" and with an estimated hike time of six hours. The view is said to be stunning and, in spite of my carelessness in forgetting to pack my hiking shoes, I decide I am ready. Adventure!

I glance at the precautions before we leave. It is advised to carry a rock or stick for possible encounters with angry dogs. If they still approach you, raise your hand as if to throw it at them and do not turn your back until they retreat. Great. I am terrified of aggressive dogs. Images of limbs shredding flash in my vision. I push the images aside knowing that I am strong and confident.

Jen and I pack our backpacks with essentials: sunscreen, water, a phone, a couple kinds of fruit, and a small amount of money. We get a map from the front desk and descend down the hill, out of Izhcayluma property. We cross a main road to follow the path which is getting smaller and smaller. The green of the mountain soon envelopes us and the only sound is the crunch of gravel under our feet.

The dirt path gives way to a small stream and my non-hiking boots become watery and weak. I express my concern for these crappy boots in a loud voice as Jen is considerably farther ahead on the trail, when I hear rustling in the grass next to me. Suddenly two dogs start barking and growling ferociously near my ear. I can't see them as the shrubbery is high, but they sound... Angry. I freeze, my grip tightens on the rock in my hand and Jen comes back to assure me we are ok. She holds my hand and confidently leads me away from the angry hidden dogs.

Ok. Ok. I can do this. "Do you want to go back?" Jen asks gently. "No, no, I'm ok!" I say, trying to convince myself as much as her. My heart slows back to a semi-normal pace and I try to take in the gorgeous scenery around me. I feel sick now, however, a mix of fear and dehydration sloshing in my stomach. The sun is hot and the path is steep, but Jen seems unphased. I bolster up my courage, sip some water and continue following my fearless female companion.

Houses scatter the isolated path as it broadens into a small road. I hear music in the distance, but we are the only people as far as I can see. In fact, even the distant highway seems strangely deserted. We hike a bit further up the mountain and out of the brushes, a man appears. He is middle-aged, swaying slightly, and he seems to be signaling something to us. A thumbs up? Or perhaps an invitation. As we get closer, I realize there are more men on the side of the road. They are laughing, looking at us. I think one is peeing, but decide not to look to close. They reek of alcohol.

We pass them after a quick "hola" making sure to keep our pace steady and confident. When the men are out of earshot we discuss the slight discomfort of that situation and reiterate how happy we are to not be hiking alone. The road narrows back to a thin path and I just miss stepping in a large pile of cow shit. It's fresh. "I hope we don't have to walk through a cow field," I say. Though cows are normally gentle creatures, I shudder at the thought of an angry bull charging me for somehow knowing I ate his cousin for lunch. Cow karma. "Noooo," Jen says. "I don't think so..."

We hear a loud moo. There before us is a large brown cow completely blocking the small path. Thankfully it's not a bull, but that doesn't make me any braver. "Do you want to go back?" Jen asks gently again. I think of the drunk men and the angry dogs we'd have to pass in the two-hour walk it would take to get back to our hostel. "No, I'm fine!" I say, shaking, the rock still clasped in my terrified grasp. She moves slowly toward the cow and claps a couple times. It shies away and leaps back through a small gap in the barbed wire fence. Safe again.

The trail indicates that we are to walk along a highway for approximately 300 meters before crossing it and hopping a barbed wire fence for the last half of our trek. I welcome the cement under my feet and the broader range of vision, but I'm still nervous. A taxi drives by and I resist the urge to flag it down and return to the safety of my touristy spa-hostel.

As it disappears around the bend, a truck honks at us from behind. I turn to see a white truckbed slowly pass full of men and, strangely, trash bags. They are smiling at us, but not in a way I like. How easy would it be for them to throw these two little traveler girls in the back of that pickup? They could even cover us with those trash bags when they were done with us. How convenient for them. A shiver runs through me and I tell Jen that I need to head home in the next taxi. My fear has gotten the best of me.

She reassures me kindly that it's perfectly fine. She'll go back with me. A taxi comes within two minutes of my decision and I eagerly stick out my hand. As we climb into the taxi, he says something I don't quite catch in Spanish. "Lo siento, cómo?" I ask. He repeats himself and this time I understand. I repeat the message to Jen who doesn't know Spanish. "He said when he saw us he was scared for us. That this road is very dangerous for two girls to be walking alone. He said we should be more careful." Noted.

I don't know if my paranoia was warranted, but as a woman traveling alone -or even with a very capable and brave female companion- I know that intuition is a powerful survival tool. Although I initially hated myself for "giving up" and apologized profusely to Jen for my ridiculous nervousness, I feel better knowing we are safe. Sometimes when you let fear win, you win too. But just sometimes. Trust your instincts and take whatever path you dare... Just listen closely and keep your eyes open. And maybe carry a rock.

Practice Love

Do your homework. Get good grades. Respect your elders. Clean your room. Eat your breakfast.

Practice love.

What? Who's the hippy in the VW Bug that says THAT to their kid?

Hopefully someday, that long-haired, big-hearted, rose-colored-glasses-wearing-mama will be me.

Pause.

This is the first time I have publicly admitted EVENTUALLY wanting children in a roundabout way. So... now that we've all swallowed that... why is this last rule more obscure? It's surely more important than cleaning your room! And why "practice" love? Shouldn't it just exist?

That's the big question, right? Why doesn't love just exist in all of us all the time? There would be less heartache, less depression, less war, and more tolerance. But love is a practice, just like music and meditation. We must consciously make the decision to try harder and love deeper. We must practice quieting our own useless insecurities to hear the shy whisper of love's song (seriously, Jana? Love's song? Cupid is destroying you). But in all seriousness, so much can be healed with this simple ancient potion: human connection.

When was the last time you said hello to your neighbor? And I'm not talking about a quick "hey" before you close the elevator in front of them... I'm talking about a heartfelt "Hi! How are you?" in a way that someone would actually believe it. When did you look into a stranger's eyes and genuinely wonder what they were feeling? Do you even have time for that? My advice is that you make time because time is all we have.

Let me tell you about the time I consciously started this practice. I've loved deeply in my life, don't get me wrong. My friends and family are firmly rooted in my heart. But actively choosing to practice, especially when I had other things on my mind (deadlines, money, travel restrictions in my chosen country) - that was something different.

So, I'll tell you a story. 

About two months ago, I was rehearsing with a man who had hired me to sing in his band. It was extremely complicated music and I was struggling to learn my part. Not to mention, there was something between us that was distracting me even though we held our professional demeanor quite well. I was getting frustrated as he played my notes because I just couldn't repeat them correctly. It was embarrassing. My timing was off. This was new, and I was fumbling. He kept saying "It's ok! We'll just try again," but I was not so calm.

Suddenly, he stopped playing and put up one finger. "Sorry, just a moment," he said, leaving the piano and turning the corner of the room. I heard some scurrying sounds, and a sharp "shh!".

He returned holding something very small. His hands gently covered a bird's body. A long, thin beak and a frightened eye were all I could see. He explained that the cat had caught the hummingbird when it flew into a spiderweb through the window and fell. Together, we gently removed the web from his tiny wings and released him back into the morning sky. I'd never seen a hummingbird so close. It was brilliantly covered with gold and green specks, and so delicate to touch.

As I walked back towards the piano, the man with the music pulled me close and kissed me as gently as he'd held that tiny bird. I pulled back and said, "But we're not practicing music! We should be practicing!"

He smiled, pulled me close once more and said "Practice love".

And that, ladies and gentleman, is when I started listening.

So your assignment is simple: Say hello to your neighbor and mean it. Replace the rambling insecurities of your mind with something more positive, like a "you can do it!" or my mom's favorite, "You GO girl!". Love yourself. Love others. Love your enemies as well as your mother. Love the crisp morning air, and the sparkle of the snow. And, most importantly, practice every day.

Practice love. 

Chaos and Calm

I recently watched a documentary that invigorated me. It gave me chills and made me think. It forced me to come to terms with some deeper issues in my own life while also examining the lives of others. I Am examines the idea of interconnectedness. That every action, thought and emotion affects those around us. It affects people, plants, water, and even planetary motion. Mind. Blown. So what am I giving to the world? What have I given in the past?

My life has been a constant evolution. I changed families before I was a month old and was a much-anticipated arrival for my mother who's only curse was wanting children and not being able to produce them. The energy on that day (I'm told) was celebratory. My brother was the first to hold me and, as far as I know, he didn't even attempt to drop me. A success story from the beginning!

This was only the first of many drastic changes I would experience in the coming years. We all change every day. Change is natural. Change is good. It makes us stronger, and it makes us grow. How boring would life be without it? But I would be remiss if I were to say that change comes without consequence, and a certain amount of chaos.

Shortly after my adoption, my chaos manifested in Febrile Seizures, a kind of electrical storm in the brain. My poor parents had chosen a blue newborn with a frothy mouth. Well... I always did like being the center of attention. After the hospital came the calm. I was prescribed Phenobarbital, a long-acting barbiturate, and for the next five years could be found sleeping under tables at school and at home. The side-effects caused drowsiness, depression, and a strange disconnectedness. As if I was always on a low-flying cloud. Recent research has shown that the drug may have been more harmful than helpful as it reduces brain activity in children and can even affect nerve stimulation. But I turned out all right. I adapted.

My family moved four times in a four-year span starting when I was seven. I made friends quickly and wrote in my diary or painted whenever I felt lonely. My father worked out-of-state from the time I was fourteen until well after I graduated college, and my mother essentially raised us on her own. I was all right. I adapted. My brother had a harder time.

When the moves started, I was seven, but my brother was fourteen. He'd also moved when he was 7 (I was a baby) and he was also adopted as a child. These moves had more of an impact as he was older and social dynamics were more important and less easy to find in new situations. He started his teenage rebellion with more fire than most, and soon he took my chaos medal for his own.

Drugs, petty theft, and teenage pregnancy became much more exciting than my "but I just want to fit in" problems. My brother stole my mom's jewelry (she got it back), some alcohol, and my chaos. My precious, precious treasure. That thing that made me special. I vowed to get it back.

My brother's deep rebellion leveled out around the time I went to college and for a while... we were both calm. His family bonded as they overcame struggles uncommon for most teenagers. They fell in love raising their child, went back to school, and became role models. I became proud of who they'd become.

But chaos was gnawing at me like a bad addiction. Its electricity brings drama, passion, and excitement. It draws people in and makes them listen, but it doesn't make them stay.

I moved to New York City after college, leaving my first love with the house he was building for us. I broke up the dogs, said goodbye to the family, and moved to a roach-infested 2-bedroom on St. Marks and 2nd Avenue. The next couple years were just the excitement I had been craving. They were filled with danger, stupidity, and they were completely necessary. My beloved friends shared my turbulent struggle and somehow, I think we made it out alive. Perhaps even stronger.

At times it seemed like the storm was receding. It lay dormant and let me play out a "normal" life for a couple weeks; I had days that were filled with routine and structure. But that never lasted long.

My move to Colombia was the most extreme decision I'd made thus far. The news rippled through my family and friends like a Febrile Seizure. They were rocked. I moved with nothing; no job, no friends, minimal clothing and even less money. I had no expectations, just a blind hope that this would finally be the right decision.

The culture was strange to me, the language still difficult, and everything felt different. What shocked me, however, wasn't the turmoil I'd come to expect.

It was the calm.

For the first time in my life I actually took things in stride. I appreciated the incredible nature around me and I felt sincerely gracious for the life I'd been given. I felt so gracious, I wanted to give back to whoever would take it. I felt so loved, I wanted to love. I was so content, I wanted to stay.

So now, there is no longer a need for the chaos I've struggled to claim for so many years. It has no place here in Manizales, Colombia.

Let the light I've been given radiate through everything around me. Let me share my smile with someone who needs it more. Let me live in tandem with the plants that share my breath. Let me love. Let me love you. 

I am so happy that my chaos led me to the calm I now have. I embrace them both in a delicate balance. Thank you for your love.

Guilt of the Gutsy Girl

"Every night I ask myself...Am I giving enough? Am I?"

"God, you're brave!"

"I've always wanted to do what you're doing... but I just couldn't."

"You have such an interesting life!"

"Jealous!!"

I hear these phrases over and over again as I explain my experiences abroad, and my new life in Colombia. Because I am unable to fully accept a compliment, my usual reply is "There is a fine line, between bravery and stupidity!" I cut myself down juuuuust a bit by suggesting I may be jumping into something I can't handle. And maybe I can't handle it. I have always fought savagely with debt and loneliness... but that's normal for a single girl in her twenties who foolishly overspent on a couple credit cards, right?

Despite my hesitation in my initial reply, what I actually want to say is "Thank you." I'm flattered to be thought of in this way, and I truly appreciate your kind words. Hopefully my experiences will inspire you to do something you've always been afraid of. Maybe even something crazy like dropping everything you know and moving to a foreign country.

It's clear that fear has never been a factor for me when making big decisions. I Just Do It, Nike-style, and figure the rest out later. Does that make me a grounded, secure, and financially stable individual? Hellllll NO! But it sure does make for a good story. And people love a good story.

I am a self-motivated, go-getter, kickin-ass-and-takin-names-kinda-chick. I have the nickname "Crazy Aunt Jana" for a reason. I do cool things with my life that I've always wanted to do, and I'm inspiring people to do the same!

So... why do I feel guilty?

A couple days ago, my 62-year-old mother was in a terrible car crash. A semi turned on a green light as my mom was driving straight and plowed over her tiny Volvo. The wheel of the semi ended up on her hood, and her airbag deployed, but all safety structures held strong. My mother walked away without a scratch.

This is not the first time I've been away when something bad happened. In fact, I've always been away. When I was in highschool my Grandpa passed away. I was at a showchoir competition for the weekend and only found out after I returned. My Pappaw (grandpa on my dad's side) died while I was in college, but I had just accepted a trip to Stratford-on-Avon in Canada to see Shakespeare with my theatre class and my parents said to go. I didn't attend the funeral. The last time my mother totaled her car was winter 2012. She slid on black ice and flipped her car three times before miraculously walking away. I was in Woodstock, NY with friends enjoying a leisurely weekend in a cabin. As I walked out of work in a small Brooklyn coffeeshop, my brother called me to tell me that my twenty-something Sister-in-Law had cancer.

I am never around. 

My really cool life has me gallivanting all over this beautiful blue Earth, but I sometimes feel I am failing at being a family member. I adore the sense of community in Colombia, but I cannot feel at home in the community where I was raised. I am always drifting, floating, sometimes running in the opposite direction of the Indiana plains, but I know I would be miserable if I stayed in one place. At least for now.

So what's my conclusion?... I'm not sure. I'm still searching. Bad things happen all the time. It is by chance that I've been away for most of them. No one can be there all the time for every person. But am I doing enough?

Look For the Red Door

The wheels stop turning and the dust settles. At first there is panic. Where am I? Is this where I’m supposed to get off? Nothing looks familiar, and I’m the last person on the bus. The driver settles deeper into his chair and moves his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. He doesn’t look at me, but focuses vaguely on something up ahead. The front door snaps open and I gather my bags. My exit is clumsy and my steps are heavy.

As I touch down on this new unsettled ground, I feel something wet slipping around my ankle. It’s cold and grainy and it doesn’t belong. I watch as a strange grey liquid hardens around the empty spaces of my hiking boots. Cement. “How did that get here?” I wonder idly. The cement makes walking difficult, but not impossible. My confusion turns quickly to determination as I seek out the spot I am supposed to find.

I pull out a wrinkled paper from my right pants pocket. The letters are almost illegible, scrawled in a handwriting that is not my own. The paper sticks together from the sweat and humidity of my new environment. Up hill. Turn right at church. Walk 6 minutes until you see a yellow house. Knock on the red door. Ph: +23 945 112 6645.

The walk is longer than I expect it to be, but I eventually arrive at the yellow house. There are three doors in my line of vision. The first is grey and crumbly, sharing a distinct likeness to the material in my shoes. I walk closer to examine the cracks, to feel the rough edge of an old habit. Suddenly,  I feel a looseness in my boots. Small sharp rocks are poking through my socks, but there is space to move my foot. The cement has cracked. I untie my shoes and pour out the remaining gravel bits, dust off my socks, and return my feet to their trusted guardians.

The second door is white and sterile. It reminds me of a horror film wrought with disturbing medical experiments, like making a new body out of old skin. I shiver and try to pass, but before I can reach the third door a voice calls out. “You’re going to the wrong door!” I feel the hair on my arms stand up and take guard as an old man’s voice hisses again, “Don’t go to far. You know you can’t come back if you go too far!”

I can’t see him, but I can feel him. He doesn’t feel right. I turn towards the direction of the place I am supposed to go and smell bread baking. The scent is familiar, delicious and alluring. I follow my nose a few more steps until I reach the red door. I stop to look at a simple design carved into the border. Light curves decorate the frame and are dusted with gold sparkles that shimmer just slightly in the afternoon sun. It’s beautiful, and suddenly I feel like I have been here before. Did I dream this place?

I wrap my hand around the wooden knob and turn slowly until I hear a click. In an instant, all the doors vanish into the same cloud of dust made by the bus. When the dust settles I realize I have returned to my apartment; everything is just as it was, but everything is different.  I recognize the bread smell from the bakery next door, and the sun beams through my open windows feel like a warm embrace from an old friend. My bed is made and my neighbors are listening to music. I take off my boots, and a tiny piece of gravel rolls out reminding me of my voyage. I smile.

I am home. That feels right.



Red Door image found at www.thehomeguru.com

Writer's Block

My writing has been stagnant lately; hard and immovable like dried BBQ sauce on a kitchen countertop. Perhaps it was the vacation I just enjoyed on the Caribbean Coast. Perhaps it's the stress of money troubles (so why was I on vacation?...) or the learning process of my new job. Or perhaps it's just me. My brain sticks to the side of my head like that dried BBQ sauce.

Justin, my best friend and co-protagonist in my article "A Long Goodbye", is also having trouble as of late. Perhaps he too has been enjoying too much sun. Perhaps he's overwhelmed with the duties of a seemingly meaningless temp job in the Hollywood Hills. Maybe the plastic people are suffocating his true creative soul. Maybe he's just drained. 

When one has writer's block the only solution is to keep writing, no matter how dry and sticky one's mind has become. We started writing five sentences twice a week based on a topic of the partner's choice. I've decided to share our meaningless jumbles as a way to distract from the fact that I've got nothing else.

These stories are very real and very much made up. For extra fun, I will not tell you the author of each paragraph. Read on, reader.

POWDER
I'd forgotten I'd put powder in my shoes until I saw the traces of my bare feet on the wooden paneling. I knelt and looked at the blank space between my toes and the sole, the curve to the heel, there on the floor. Just ahead, another foot, and then another - pale, vague reminders that I'd already been through here. Unmoving, I followed one print to the next, across the room, through the balconied daylight, until they disappeared down the shadowed middle hall.

FEAR
I wake promptly at 6:28am, just before my alarm is set to desecrate the early morning silence. My lids flutter to cloudy alertness and I inhale; the breath stretches vertically from my chest to my back. There is no heaviness of commitment, no panic of promise. The fear that once controlled me has been left in the dry, unyeilding soil of The States. There is just me now.

WEATHER
They say people who live here get tired of the sun, grow weary from the brightness, ask for clouds, pray for rain. I haven't found myself doing any of that - but the HEAT; my god, the heat. "At least it's not humid," my mom says, but when it's 105 degrees for a week straight humidity's about as consequential as a bible at a gay bar. I want the sun, but can leave the heat; I may have backed myself into a corner.

BOWL
He insists on ordering our drinks in Spanish but butchers each word, the sounds splattering like a dirty chop job, despite his Colombian background. He thinks louder is better and tries to hold my hand. My cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment as he stares expectantly, smiling proudly. I avert his gaze and instead turn my focus to the stale popcorn in the center of the table. "Anywhere is better than here with him," I think as I submerge my hand into the bowl of cardboard corn.

LOCK
I left him, unslaked and naked, and walked to the door. I threw the top dead bolt back, made for the next one. "...that one's not locked," he said from the bed, and I glanced at him, hardly able to. I opened the door, took four steps outside, and lifted my face to the Yucca Valley sun - hot and dry at 9am; it alone in the sky, me alone in the hotel parking lot - and breathed, and breathed.

Go It Alone

A brave new world presents itself every day. I rise with the sun. The light shines brightly through my new blue blinds and my eyelids flutter to consciousness. My roommate, The Basil Plant, wakes beside me and we both stretch towards the morning glow.

I make my bed (a new habit) and stumble into the kitchen where I cut fresh fruits and vegetables that I use for my breakfast. I slowly open the cabinet where my coffee lives. I am ashamed that it is instant, but have no appliance with which to otherwise make a fresh cup. Two small spoonfuls and a frying pan of boiling water give me the boost I need to start the day.

I gently fry plantains, onions, cilantro and tomatoes in a different pan. Once the plants are malleable, I add one brown-shelled egg to the mix and wait for it to change from clear to white. I scoop the fresh food from the pan to the plate being careful not to break the jiggly yoke.

My masterpiece is complete and ready to be consumed until there is nothing left but the sheen of cooking oil glistening in the morning light. I treasure each delectable morsel. The salt sticks to the roof of my mouth on the way down to my stomach where it is churned into nourishment and released. I reach a comfortable level of satisfaction before 9am.

The shower sputters as steam rises in the small glass cave. Water leaks from the corner, but my new white towel catches any droplets that try to claim space on the grey tile. I keep to my routine; shampoo first, rinse, wash the body, rinse again, condition, shave, and a final rinse. My hair dries with the chill of morning air as I have yet to purchase a hair dryer.

Jewel sings to me as I open my door.

"I break the yokes and make a smiley face

I kinda like it in my brand new place

Wipe the spots up off the mirror

Don't leave the keys in the door

I never put wet towels on the floor anymore cuz

Dreams last for so long..."

 

A Funeral for Jorge

I have been delaying this post for fear of belittling the situation. I am sorry if you were expecting to hear from me sooner, but I have been trying to figure out how to put this into words while at the same time showing my utmost respect.

The death of Jorge Ivan Cruz Gonzalez evoked something of a trauma in everyone around him. There was no time to prepare, and only two days to say goodbye. Jorge was the Philosophy Professor at Universidad de Caldas in Manizales, Colombia. He had a following of adoring students and forward-thinkers. He had a family that doted on every quiet word he spoke. And he had the right to be heard, however quiet and slurred, because he was brilliant.

I met Jorge on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in August. He had taught in the morning and promptly purchased a bottle of Aguardiente to celebrate the hours after twelve. I had just finished Spanish lessons with his daughter Paula, my now friend and roommate. We were drinking wine and whiskey "porque es martes!" and decided to meet at his favorite tienda near Santander and Carerra 23.

The first time I saw Jorge, I wanted to hug him. He was so incredibly sweet. So honest. He reminded me of my grandpa. I imagined myself sitting on his lap while he told me stories of heartache and horror and that massive fish he caught in '68. I imagined we'd been friends forever and, luckily, was immediately accepted into his community. The "boys" at the store (all over sixty) listened attentively as I regaled on stories of days gone by in the Big City. They wanted to know the ultimate question... Why Manizales?

"La gente!" I replied. "Como tu!" I spoke the truth. These were the moments I treasured most! Shooting the shit with real Colombians in a small store in Manizales. I felt like I was part of something. Laughter erupted and then was silenced by a crumpled recording of "Nathalie". They stopped everything and listened to this sad, and beautiful song. Jorge cried and took my hand while singing the lyrics. Then, they laughed and squeezed my shoulder while they poured me another plastic shot glass 

of Aguardiente.

Jorge talked with his hands, his wrists making a dance while he explained whatever grand philosophy he was enthralled with at the moment. Unfortunately, my limited Spanish prevented me from fully understanding these beautiful ideas. I wanted desperately to understand. He's written books! I want to read them! But I can't. Perhaps someday...

I spent two days with him in total. A measly amount to claim any sort of "mourning", but I did. I cried with my roommate over the injustice of her father's untimely death. I cooked for her family so they wouldn't forget to eat. I went to the viewing, but couldn't bring myself to look at him. He was so light and funny in our interactions, I knew this heavy cold body wouldn't bring justice to his memory.

What struck me most was his family. They were so close, and now one of their favorite members was gone. They consoled each other, cried, laughed, and stared blankly into the abyss of Jorge's image. They cheered to his memory as they filled a plastic shot glass with Aguardiente. They read his words and wept. They felt his presence leave, and respected the sorrow. They allowed time to grieve.

Here in Colombia, most people are Catholic. The tradition for the dead is very different than that of the United States. There is a viewing, an elaborate mass, and a Noventa. I wish I could research more on the subject, but from what I can gather, a Noventa is nine days after cremation that people can attend and pray for the deceased. Jorge has a crowd every night.

At one point, we were all joking in the tienda. We were drinking and our smiles were freer, our voices more loose. I told Jorge I liked his hat. It was a British-inspired "newsies" hat with little patterns. I loved it. In Spanish he said, "You... You can have it when I'm dead!" We all erupted in laughter. What a thought!

Two weeks later, Paula brought home his hat. Her eyes were red with grief, but her voice was determined. "He said 'You can have it when I'm dead'. It is yours." I took the hat with sadness, and a heavy dose of shame. I knew her words were true, but I felt like an imposter.

I will take your hat, Jorge, but I will think of you fondly EVERY time I see it. I will cook for your daughter, your wife, your sister, and anyone else that has felt your presence. I will never pour a shot of Aguardiente without thinking of you. I hope you're making God laugh. And get him drunk, will ya? He's far too serious...

Here's to you, Jorge.

Dancing By Myself

This is my favorite time of day. Today was gray and rainy, but the sun finally shines in all its glory around 4:30pm. It needs to put on quite a show to make up for the dismal day. That is, until night claims its natural ownership. The sun wrestles with cloud cover and changes hue from white to yellow to orange. It makes the streets sparkle as cars start and stop and honk with the familiar melody of rush hour traffic.

I pour myself a glass of wine and turn on the radio - full blast. Disfruta. Enjoy this time, this sun, this music.

Something in the bass line makes me move, and I start to dance. Then I vainly wonder what I look like. Am I too fat to move like this? But the light is so pretty, who cares, right? And doesn't this dress move so beautifully when I turn?  And no one will ever see it! So I do something extreme... I video myself dancing. In the living room of my apartment, alone. I even go so far as to introduce on video what it is I'm doing. A new low? Or a blatant disregard for my insecurities? I'll claim the latter, por favor. 

And just to top it off, it's now going public. Right here, right now. A little entertainment for your friday... I call it Dancing By Myself.

In other news, I am excited that my writing is going somewhere. I am to be published three times this month by two different publications. That's a big step for me seeing as I have only been published one other time in my life (check out the awesome chick who made that possible). I am proud of my accomplishments. These publications, however, are not able to pay for my work. In all honesty, I don't mind. I know the words are good, and the stories are important. I have enough for the moment to live and eat for the rest of this month (at least).

Last night, an article caught my eye on the value of a "Gift Economy". This man made his entire life's work into "pay what you feel the work is worth". There were no donation suggestions, and no salaries. People could have taken advantage of his services easily (read the full story here), but they didn't. In fact, he got paid more for his work than ever before.

Trusting people. Hmm. Valid concept. I am interested to try this idea as an experiment. I have written a total of twelve blog entries in the last two months (thirteen if you add the one you're reading right now). I have almost 1,000 views. I'm slowly getting my "professional writer" feet wet as I happily work for unpaid gigs. 

However, if you would like me to write something for YOU, email me at janadebusk@gmail.com.

Or perhaps you feel the need to compensate an article or two that you've already read? Sure! I have a paypal account payable to  jana_d2004@hotmail.com. These payments are not handouts and will only be accepted for specific cited work that I have already done or will do in the future.

So, today I wrote a couple articles. I heated up some Ajiaco soup for lunch, and looked for apartments in the afternoon. At 4:30... well, you know the rest. Raise a glass, and have a blast dancing by yourself.

Let Them Eat Cake... I'll Have Chorizo

There is no fast food in Manizales. Sure, you can get comidas rapidas and some damn good perros calientes after a night of salsa dancing and rum-drinking, but everything takes time. Even El Corral, a hamburger joint in the mall (and not a side restaurant, but the first real "food court" in sight at the Cable Centro Commercial) gives out a buzzer. Things just aren't fast here. Tranquilo.

I cook for my roommates every night. It has become a convenient diversion to the fact that I have still not found a steady job. But on the other hand... when have I ever had a steady job? My responsibility right now, while paying $100 a month for an apartment in the best neighborhood of Manizales, is to create. During the day, I write. 

At night, I cook. I have realized that I am very much in love with both types of creation. There are two men in "Man"izales that I am absolutely in love with; Mr. Pen and Mr. Spoon. God, are they handsome.

During the day I focus on articles for various travel magazines and blogs. Every couple days, I chug away at a novel collaboration called Letters to the Working Girl. The book is an exquisite idea and I am lucky enough to be working with a dear friend on the project, but it is a long project with no real end in sight. Speaking of long projects, I'm also writing a musical; I've always loved a good challenge. Today, I wrote a glowing review of Colombia, enhanced by my own blatant love for the country, for my local newspaper. It should be published sometime this week.

But at night... I cook.

Thai Shrimp with Sriracha. American Hamburgers with Bleu Cheese and Sauteed onions. Chicken-on-the-Bone Curry with Sprouts, Potatoes, and Yogurt. My own family's recipe of Homemade Beef Spaghetti Sauce over Angel Hair Pasta. Tomorrow I'm planning (I'm PLANNING my meals, people!) to make "Breakfast for Dinner"; egg frittata with veggies, chorizo, and maple syrup pancakes. My friend and roommate, Julia-from-Arkansas, is fond of breakfast and never has time to cook before running out the door for work.

Cooking is an art. It is creation and whimsy. Smells mix with sounds and precision blends with pure emotion. I am in love.

Great. Now it's one in the morning, and I'm hungry. Tomorrow. I'll write and cook more tomorrow.  Maybe I'll make a cake?

The Day I Met Jonathan Franzen

October was getting chilly. The sky was grey and the winds seeped slowly through the crevices of my almost perfect apartment. It was exhilarating. This weather made me unstoppable.  My breath matched my pulse which matched the steady hum of the city under my feet. Everything aligned. In the morning, on most mornings, I woke up and turned on "Music for Yoga Meditation". I rolled out a purple mat on my balcony which overlooked the sparkling New York City skyline. Perhaps this deep daily reflection influenced my perception of the world around me, but perhaps the world had just simply gotten better.

On the first day of my twenty-eighth year I met Jonathan Franzen. I was preparing for my private voice students, two girls aged nine and three respectively, and had gotten to the Upper East Side earlier than usual. It was a sunny day. Mild temperatures and blue skies with just a hint of autumn. My mood fit perfectly with the weather. I decided to stop into Oren's Daily Roast, a small coffee shop on 79th and Lexington, to further elevate my already cheery disposition. After a suggestion from the barista, I decided on an iced caramel latte and tucked myself into the corner of a bench (and the only seating) at the front of the shop.

The first thing I heard was a laugh. It was low and soft and legato.  Perhaps it was born in that part of the stomach just below the belly button and had space to grow as it rose in his mild heaving chest. I looked up and my heart caught in my vocal folds, fluttering like a teenager in heat. The blood rushed to my face and I was high. Jonathan Franzen, author of The Corrections and Freedom… the only author, other than Stephen King, to ever grace the cover of Time Magazine… Jonathan Franzen was ordering coffee and I was the only other customer in the shop. “Well, shit.” I thought. “Say something!”

As the blood drained to my fingertips, I started to notice what he was wearing; a button-up shirt tucked into jeans with a belt. His shoes could hike Machu Picchu and his hair was just like every picture I'd ever seen. It was clean and restrained to a single wisp of curl, just at the ends. I imagined it smelled like tea tree oil and possibly vanilla. Maybe musk. I thought to myself that we’d make good love. I shook the thought bubble that had formed above my brain. As he payed for the bulk coffee that he’d placed in his reusable canvas bag, I mustered up every ounce of courage that I may ever have. He walked past me, towards the door when I said, “Mr. Franzen?”

He stopped, surprised. I don’t think he was used to young women recognizing him, though I found that incredulous. He turned to me, so I stood up. I suddenly realized that my hippie skirt with sparkles and my tight brown t-shirt featuring a friend’s indie band looked absolutely juvenile next to his regal intelligence, but it was too late. There was nowhere to go but forward. 

“I just wanted to say I’m a huge fan of your work. You’re incredible. I’m Jana.” He smiled slightly and said, “Jon. Nice to meet you.” I rambled a bit - but not too much - about how I was currently reading his collection of essays, How To Be Alone, and I just… I clutched my chest. He mirrored me, clutching at his own chest. “Thank you,” he said. “No, thank you.” I replied. He smiled a toothy grin and I watched him leave the only space I was ever meant to inhabit. 

The front wall of the coffee shop was made entirely of glass, so I was able to watch as he turned left towards 80th street and disappeared. He was smiling. I was breathless. The coffee shop suddenly seemed dramatically empty. 

A couple years ago, I wrote a song about my favorite Franzen novel, Freedom. I performed it for whoever would listen. I even recorded a performance of the song and posted it on YouTube. In this video, I make a joke about dating Mr. Franzen, calling upon his agent and manager to set us up. I truly believed this tactic might actually work. On the first day of my twenty-eighth year I was as close as I’ll ever be.

Goodbye Jon,

It was an honor to be in your presence for that short and memorable amount of time.  I appreciate your brilliance. Also, I'm free Friday night... and for the rest of my life. Call me.

Sincerely,

Jana DeBusk

Clowns Have More Fun

I don't have many visitors here, so when friends come to town I put my party shoes on. Even if it's a Wednesday.

We arrange to meet at Juan Valdez, near the Cable off the avenue of Santander around noon. We're going to the Natural Hot Springs in Santa Rosa, about an hour and a half away from Manizales by bus. I greet Laurie-from-Canada with open arms. It has been a full month since I've seen her and it feels good to see a familiar face; not to mention English-speakers! She introduces me to her boyfriend, Etienne, a freckled and disheveled young man with assertive energetic eyes. He is a perfect fit for my spunky flaca friend.

Our bus takes us to the center of Santa Rosa, but there is another bus we have to catch in order to arrive at the hot springs. Unfortunately that bus doesn't leave for another hour. Fortunately, however, Santa Rosa is famous for their Chorizo and we are starving. We decide on Portal de los Chorizos and this guy, yeah the one with the hat, serves us the BEST meat I have ever tasted. Perhaps I am more hungry than I think, but en serio. Delicioso.

We finish our incredible meals and cross the street. It is time to hop on our next bus towards our destination, Termales de Santa Rosa. The ride is longer than I had thought it would be, but the winding roads are peaceful and green. I relax into my seat and gaze onto rich pastures. Cows graze lazily and barely lift their heads as our noisy bus rattles past on the twisting gravel road.

I fall asleep and only wake as the bus comes to a halt. Laurie and Etienne gather their packs and exit the bus. I follow. The entrance fee is $17,000 COP per person, about $9 USD. We hike up a steep rocky incline before seeing what we came to see. The hot springs are at the base of a majestic cascading waterfall cut into the side of a jagged green mountain. There are two "pools" to choose from, and beer and snacks are readily available for poolside purchase. We test both waters leisurely. The view is better in the first, but the water is hotter in the second. Hours pass and we realize we have missed the last bus back to town. In my previous life, this would cause a scare or at least mild irritation, but we are tranquilo.

We see a beat up jeep taking passengers. The man tells us to hop on the back and HOLD ON. Bueno! Vamos! The ride is incredible. We agree it's much more fun than a boring old bus. My muscles are tiring as I hold on to a metal bar across the back of the jeep. Night has fallen and fireflies act as field stars, the moon is low and thin. I bend my knees to prevent certain breakage as the car bangs through each divot on the patchy road. Dogs chase us a little too close for comfort. My attire is wildly inappropriate for the ride. I have knee-high boots and a sexy wool dress with no bra. I suppose I didn't plan on attaching myself to the back of a moving vehicle.

The transportation is always an adventure in Colombia, but we make it back to Manizales in good time. In fact, it's 9PM and we are ready for a drink. We quickly change into more comfortable clothes and hit the town... which is of course EMPTY. We go to three bars before landing at one of my new favorite spots, Mr. Jack. This bar usually features live music and has some incredible artwork strewn across the dark walls. Tonight, however, one wall is blocked entirely by a group of charismatic young Colombians. Students, I wonder? We sip our Club Colombias quietly and watch as the group (perhaps twenty people or so) dances, laughs and drinks. We want to do that.

Laurie voices her plan to integrate. We'll slowly get up, scatter into the group and start dancing. It works! We discover this group is a theatre troupe here for the International Theatre Festival of Manizales. My people! More specifically, they are acrobats and jugglers, street clowns and high-wire performers. We have stumbled upon the circus! We drink and laugh along with our new friends and they invite us to an empty theatre where we will continue our party even after the bar has closed.

Ron is purchased and salsa is the music of choice. A red light illuminates the small room as people dance and flip on scaffolding across the ceiling. An incredibly handsome man with tattoos and a cast on one hand takes me from the couch to the dance floor. His free hand slides up my shirt as his hips guide our dance. He has dimples when he smiles and a confidence that I haven't encountered in quite a while. His body is muscular and his lips are soft when he kisses my neck. Oosh.

He leads me to the hallway, and then a small alleyway outside the theatre. He says "Shhh..." when he pleases me, and whispers "Shut up!" when I really can't control it. His words are only forceful in the way that I like. He is kind and gentle but has a hard edge that's exciting more than it is dangerous. We almost get caught twice, but that just fuels our desire to finish.

When both our passions have come to fruition, he clutches me tightly and holds my head in his hands as if to say thank you, but the feeling is mutual. We walk back into the room, holding hands with smiles on our faces. We won't see each other again, but that's okay.

Yes. I do believe clowns have the best fun.

Stable Heart

Tranquilo. Fresca. Todo Bien. Calma. Relajada.

My pulse stabilizes. My shoulders slide down to their natural position. My eyebrows separate, dissolving the seemingly ever-present crease that has lived between them for the last ten years. My breath is full and rich and when I inhale, I smell the prickly scent of Pine and Eucalyptus. Exhale.

Colombia fascinates me. It wraps me up with the warmth of my favorite childhood blanket. It all seems familiar, it even smells familiar, though I'm living a completely new life in an entirely new world. The people take me in for lunch, then buy me coffee afterwards. At night we dance and discuss music and the intricacies of our idiomas diferentes. The hands of the clock tick slowly, and for the first time I have nowhere to be... Nowhere to be but right here, in this exact moment. What a feeling!

I am not on anyone's payroll. I have no income, and only a hope of a job after three weeks in Manizales. Luckily for me, the cost of living is doable for the recently-unemployed American. I spend very little in my daily life. For example, it is a mere $.50 for a bus ride into town, $3.00 for a 3-course lunch, and $7.00 for two potent afternoon martinis. My meager savings will last me quite a while here, even with a healthy appetite of late nights and 25-minute taxi rides to Malteria (a whopping $5).

I am a musician, a teacher, a writer, and a world-wanderer. Beautiful words, cierto? In reality, they simply mean I lead an unstable life when it comes to money. I more often have short-term "jobs" that suffice until my pocket is full enough to move on to greener pastures. I choose this life freely. Me encanta. I believe this mentality is common for travelers, but for the first time in my wandering life, I want to stay. Here. Right here. In Manizales, Colombia. Yo quiero a quedar.

Colombians have many words that essentially mean "chill-the-fuck-out", and they mean it. In any given conversation you'll hear "Tranquiiiiiilo. Todo Bien!... Si, si, relajada hermosa!" A literal translation would equal to "Calm down, everything is good!... Yeah yeah, relax pretty girl!" It's much more convincing in Spanish though, believe me. Perhaps they know something we don't.

The frequency of suicide in Colombia is less than 2%. In the United States, the percentage climbs to over 10%. One tenth of the population of the United States is lost each year to suicide. Think that through for a moment. What?? The stress of daily life eventually leads to our demise. Instead of enjoying each precious moment on this entirely awesome and majestic earth, we are finding reasons to leave it. How does that make sense? Tranquilo, mi amor. Todo bien. En realidad, todo es perfecto.

Today I saw a motorcycle run into the back of a stopped car at a busy intersection near the Cable Plaza. I gasped as the man flew forward onto the street before him. Cars slowly avoided the man as he stood up, uninjured, and brushed himself off. Three police officers came to the scene immediately (they were also watching from my same corner on the sidewalk) and spoke to both the motorcyclist and the driver of the stopped car. No one rushed, the man was obviously okay, and no one seemed angry at all! The accident was resolved on both ends in under one minute.

Replay this scene on a busy New York City street - perhaps 2nd Avenue and St. Marks in the East Village. Would the end result be the same? Oh no, my friend. I, myself, have been guilty of slapping the hood of a yellow taxi and screaming obscenities simply because the taxi driver had tried to slowly turn on a yellow light at a crossing that I was leisurely (or more likely drunkenly) walking across. Oof. How embarrassing.

I'm not alone here, but I don't have the community of friends and loved ones that I had in New York. I don't have a "job" yet, but I've sent an invoice to the best school in Manizales for September. Money isn't flowing. My future is as unstable as it has always been. But I'm learning new things every day. Perhaps the most important lesson I've learned thus far is - just go with it. Release all inhibitions and accept that nothing is under control. In this way, oddly enough, everything is perfect.

Tranquilo. Fresca. Todo Bien. Calma. Relajada.

Just BREATHE.

No, No, Gringo

Today I saw a chicken cross the road, and I couldn't think of the punch line.  Well, it was a rooster to be exact and the hen was close behind him. Two peas in a pod. Two birds of a feather? Two phrases too cliche.

There is nothing cliche about my current situation. Everything is new and strange and completely unexpected. Simple tasks like getting groceries or opening a can of tomatoes can present extreme challenges when you are a stranger in a foreign land. 

Walking to De Uno (the cheaper grocery store in town) requires fifteen minutes of relentless trekking. The roads are steep and curvy. I think to myself that a walking stick may actually be appropriate in this situation. My knees are creaky and stiff at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. I am getting lost at each possible turn and end finally decide to ask for help.

I approach a lady who is distinguished, and polished. She is probably around sixty years old with ironed pants and pearl earrings; a safe choice. As I near her, she averts my eyes and picks up her pace. 

"Disculpe me, por favor," I start. She looks at me and looks away, her pace unwaning. Perhaps she didn't hear me, I think.

"Disculpe me," I try again. This time she slows, looks me square in the eyes, pinches her lips together tightly and wags one finger disapprovingly in my direction. She steps widely across the sidewalk to avoid being close as she passes.

I am aghast. My appearance is clean - even conservative - and my question was asked with politeness and respect. I realize... I have just experienced my first Gringo Racist. The air in my lungs is temporarily unavailable. I take it personally. It is similar to the feeling I had three summers ago in a New York Subway train when a group of men surrounded me with insults like "Stupid, white bitch," and "Why you ignoring me, white cunt? You think you're better than me? Is it cuz I'm black?"

Racism is a tricky thing. I understand my experiences with direct racism are limited. I am one of the lucky ones. I grew up in a middle-class community in Middle America as a white girl. I had the whole world in the palm of my hands. I grew up in America, for God's sake: Land of the Free. But for so many people, it isn't free at all. 

Perhaps those men threatened me simply because they had been subject to racism for so long, they thought it natural to lash out at my pale appearance. Perhaps they had been pummeled by white NYPD officers for crossing the street too close to a pretty little white girl who grew up in Middle America. Is that freedom?

To resume my story about finding the grocery store - I quickly recover my shock and approach a young Colombian couple. They are holding hands and walking slowly. They do not avoid me, and smile when I say "Disculpe me, por favor". In my limited Spanish, I explain that I am looking for a grocery store called De Uno. "Conoces?" The girl shakes her head "yes" and then tells me her boyfriend will be glad to accompany me. This young man then proceeds to walk ten more minutes up and down steep mountainside roads in the opposite direction of his house just to show me the location of this grocery store. 

Kindness prevails. I just hope the balance will always stay in the favor of the open-hearted.

No Dar Papaya

I returned to La Playa Blanca last week for the third time in my Colombian experience.

This tropical paradise is a slice of heaven complete with white sand (hence the name), crystal blue Caribbean Sea, delicious Coco Locos and fresh fried fish. I take a motorcycle taxi there from Cartagena with my new friend Laurie-from-Canada.  The trip, combined with the bus to get to the moto-taxis takes around 2 hours and costs about $8 USD.

The motorcycle driver is attractive in a dark and mysterious way that is closer to dangerous than sweet. His voice is soft and suave and he stops more than once to help Laurie and I find our footing on the small bike. We race towards the beach with the wind in our hair, smiling and laughing at the dangerous road rules (or lack thereof) giddy with youth. As we near the beach, the dreaded question arises.

"Tu tienes un novio?"

His voice is so soft, I make him repeat his words. This time, more slowly, he asks me "Tu tienes un novio?" while he covers my hand with his. We are very close to the beach and there are plenty of people around, but I can't help but feel a little threatened.

"Oh! Si. Yo tengo!!" In broken spanish I explain that both Laurie and I have boyfriends waiting for us at the beach. I had previously thought of this excuse as a precaution on the bus ride to the motorcycles - just in case this exact situation arose.

The motorcycle man tries to explain that he'll be better than our boyfriends. He'll be enough for both of us.

"Oh, haha... No gracias!" I make a joke out of the situation and pretend to be at ease, although this man is starting to genuinely get under my skin. He grabs my hand tighter as he slows to a stop at the entrance of the beach. Before he lets me go, he cracks three of my knuckles. It doesn't hurt, but it is a warning. If I stay longer, or speak more to this man, I will be his. I pay him quickly and rush Laurie to the beach before explaining why we ran out so fast.

This was my first uncomfortable experience in the paradise of La Playa Blanca.

The second came that night.

I start drinking (but not too much) with a group of new friends and we decide to make some music. I know Jorge, a musician in the next hostel, from my previous times at this beach. I interrupt him to ask for his guitar and he says, "Ahhh! You are the girl with the beautiful voice!!" I thank him, and he offers to play drums while I play his guitar.

"Por supuesto!" I say.

Jorge and I jam until 11pm before we realize everyone else has gone to bed. We want more beers and more music so we ramble down the beach until we see an open hut. There is music and dancing, and we sit for drinks and conversation.

While we chat of hometowns and jobs with a small group of locals, I start to notice the beauty of this Bogota-born man. He has stunning green-grey eyes and his golden skin stretches sweetly over his active body like caramel sauce on a Golden Delicious. Trouble.

All of a sudden, a hermit crab catches my eye. I squeal with delight and get up from the circle to chase my new friend. I love the funny way they walk, scared and sideways, their eyes bugged out in constant surprise. Jorge picks it up and places it on my arm. I scream, laugh, and ask for it again. I realize, perhaps, I can't handle the crab legs on my arm and return the five paces back to my chair.

My phone, which I had left on my chair in the circle of four new friends, is gone. One of my new friends has acquired a new phone, and I have no one to blame but myself. Pero...una rata!

Luckily, I know Jorge is not a culprit. I would have hated to imagine such a pretty face stealing my phone. But the man who took it (it is very obvious) starts screaming at me when I ask for it back. I decide to let well enough alone and chalk it up to a stupid loss. I have not been physically hurt, but if I pressure the thief much longer, my chances of getting out unscathed lessen.

Jorge takes my hand, apologizes profusely and offers to take me to the police station in the morning. I thank him and tell him I'll figure it out later. In situations like these, I know it is unlikely the police will be of any help, but I keep my mouth shut. It is a beautiful night and I am alive.

"Swim?" Jorge asks.

"Porque no?" I reply.

We undress in the moonlight and leave our clothes on the beach. Together we enter the warm waves of the ocean, the stars our only audience. I look down and see glitter trailing behind the movement of my hands.

"Bioluminescence" Jorge explains. "It happens at night when there is little light from the moon."

I have never seen such incredible beauty. I feel like I have magic powers as I kick up specks of shiny green light that glitter in the black sea then fade away.

"Float?" He asks. I say yes and he lifts my seemingly weightless body to the top of a wave. The only sound in my ears is the hum of the current. The only thing I see is an ocean of sparkling stars.

There is a saying in Colombia, "No dar papaya". Literally it means, don't give papaya, but the phrase itself is a warning to take care of your belongings. Don't give a thief easy access. Don't wear expensive jewelry or take photos with a fancy camera in an impoverished neighborhood. And for God's sake... don't leave your iPhone 4 with your shiny pink case on a plastic chair in La Playa Blanca.

But if every victim of petty theft had a night that ended like mine, perhaps papaya would be given more freely.

Mountains, Mariposas, and Manizales

Andres, the owner of El Color De Mis Reves, has arranged to pick me up at the air cable one stop away from the main bus station. I am to stay there for one month teaching music workshops on the weekends and writing during the day. Food and lodging is included. 

After much confusion at the terminal, I finally find my way up the large staircase and onto an air cable towards Manizales. Imagine - four kind and quiet Colombians on their way into town stuffed into the same tiny cable car as one clumsy gringo with way too much baggage. The car is lopsided with my 50lb pack and guitar, but the view is stunning. We are high above the scenic town and I realize I've never seen so many shades of green. Thick masses of Eucalyptus, Palm and Evergreen reach majestically to the clouds that seem just out of their reach. The clouds, like the cable car, move slowly and I relax.

As I leave the car, I spot a tall man waiting by a white Kia. He has dark, curly salt and pepper hair and is very tall. He says "Jana!! I've been waiting, haha!!" I explain my confusion at the terminal and he laughs softly and waves it off. He carries an ease about him that resonates tranquility.

He loads my belongings into the back of his small car and I notice a little girl in a car seat. She is covering both eyes with her hand, her curly black hair cascading over in a playful mess. She is beautiful.

"This is my daughter, Franchesca," Andres explains. "She is three."

"Hi!" I say, somewhat overzealously. I'm surprised when she doesn't respond, then realize this little lady speaks Spanish... not English. Obviously.

"Hola! Como Estas?!" I try. She uncovers one eye and then quickly hides again. I smile and proceed to the front seat. Andres has some errands to run in town and asks if I can stay in the car with Franchesca. "Of course!" I reply.

As soon as Andres leaves, I turn back to Franchesca. "Hola!" Her hands are tight against her eyes. "Yo te veo a ti!..." She removes one hand. "Ah! Aqui!! Franchesca es aqui!" A melodious laughter erupts from her little frame. I've done it!

When I turn around again, her eyes are covered, but her hands can't hide the giant smile taking up the remainder of her face. "Franchesca!... Hola? Franchesca? Donde esta Franchesca??"

"Aqui, aqui!!" She squeals, kicking her feet against my chair.

"Oh! Si! Hola Franchesca!"

This dialogue repeats until her father returns. She resumes silence, but her eyes are no longer hidden and her little mouth has a little smile.

I think we will be the best of friends.

An Airport Ride to Medellin

I start taking pictures of Medellin while still in midair. The mountains soar through thin clouds and drop dramatically to reveal deep valleys, farmlands, and pueblos. None of my pictures quite capture this reverent beauty as the plane lowers to the tarmac. While waiting for my massive moleta to slide by in the baggage claim, I make small talk with an Indian family I'd met in Cartagena. Surprisingly, they hail from the Midwest as well. The mother and father are both surgeons at Riley Hospital in Indianapolis, Indiana - my birthplace - and are taking a leisurely Colombian vacation with their astute ten-year-old-daughter. We say our goodbyes and after some confusion with transportation, I start talking to a young Colombian man with an amicable face and short stature. He speaks no English but we manage to communicate that we should split a taxi for the 45-minute ride into town for economic purposes (though mine, unbeknownst to him, is also for safety). Altogether, the ride costs $60,000 COP or about $31.00 USD. Perfecto.

I realize I've just entrusted two strange men to guide me to my destination, but strange is becoming more and more familiar. I am not at all afraid as I introduce myself to the young man. Andres Fernan is a dance teacher in Cartagena who has lived in Cali (the Salsa capital of the world) for most of his life. He smiles frequently and asks questions I can answer easily in Spanish. The taxi driver is quiet and knowledgeable and converses freely with Andres Fernan about the duration of the trip and the direction of the barrio.

The men's conversation sinks to a peaceful hum as I breathe in the stunning countryside of Medellin. The mountainsides are covered with rich green plant life, the roads are winding and steep, and the windows seem to be rolled down out of necessity for the pure, fresh air. We pass cows grazing, and horses running freely while Reggaeton and Salsa drift in and out of focus.

As we pull up to the Intercontinental Hotel (the location of which I am to meet my host family), both men jump out before me to lift my heavy bag and guitar safely to the sidewalk. Andres Fernan pays the fare and as I reach for my cash he shakes his head.

"No. Es mi placer."

I argue a bit just to make sure. "Seguro? Yo tengo treinte mil... esta bien."

"No, no. Tranquilo. Todo bien."

He smiles again and I say a quick "Gracias" before putting my cash back in my bag.

Thank you, sir. And much thanks to the driver. And the family from Indiana. And the beautiful land and the cloud-covered cielo.

Muchas, muchas gracias para todo.

The Return

The first thing I feel as I return to Cartagena is the heat. I step off the plane and into a balmy greenhouse smell that reminds me of my first trip to Colombia on the twenty-sixth of March earlier this year. The guard at Customs is, once again, completely charming. A sweet, middle-aged man with a leather face and a full head of curly gray hair waves me to the window. He thumbs through my passport and asks me which street my hostel is on. I answer, "Calle Quero. El nombre del hostel es Makako."

"¡Quero! Oh no... No Quero...No Calle Quero!!"

Then a mischievous grin starts to spread from the right corner of his mouth. He looks at my picture, my face, my picture, then back at my face in a quick cartoonish fashion. His eyebrows are twisted in faux confusion. Suddenly a smile as big as the Magdalena River washes over his sweet face as he says, 

"¡Bienvenidos, chica!"

Welcome home, Jana.
Colombia has been waiting.