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.