After my 6:00 a.m. flight to Miami (preceded by a death-level cab ride from a hotel to the airport, courtesy of a woman from Brooklyn who was not entirely sane), I’m waiting at my gate— and looking around realizing that everyone besides me is Colombian. EVERYONE. Which I seriously did not expect. I never thought much about the Colombian population of the US. Everyone with darker skin, everyone speaking in Spanish. Are they coming or going? Were they visiting the US and are now returning home, or do they live in the U.S. now and are going to Colombia to visit their family? I see one other gringa; she is clearly traveling with her Colombian boyfriend.
I get on the plane and am positively delighted by the level of Spanish that surrounds me. The flight attendant greets me with a “buenos dias.” I’m looking at the seat numbers and an old man (unasked) tells me in Spanish how the numbering works. When a man comes through with a cart of drinks, he asks me, “Algo a tomar?” They put on a movie and the airplane radio-thing has a Spanish option, as well as Spanish radio stations.
Walking through the Bogota airport, I continue to soar. The advertisements are in Spanish- "gaseosa fresca" (fresh soft drink), the electronic flight boards are in Spanish ("llegadas y salidas"), and the "Reclama de equipaje" (baggage claim) is straight ahead.
Aaaaand then I realize this could get interesting. The only information I have is to wait outside Door number 5, where supposedly there should be a line of people waiting there with signs with people's names on them, one of them bearing mine. A woman is picking me up and taking me to the volunteer apartment, but I don't know what she looks like. I have her phone number. I don't have a phone.
I find the door and am entirely unsurprised when I am still standing there twenty minutes later. I contemplate finding a pay phone before realizing I only have American money. I find a 100-peso coin on the floor of the bathroom and think SCORE (which is kind of pathetic), but when I waddle on up to the phones the security-police dude standing there shakes his head when I hold up the coin. "No, no es bastante."
I pull out a worried, doe-eyed face. "Es posible que yo pueda usar tu celular?" (Could I possibly use your phone?) I know this is a bit of a stretch: my near-constant reading of travel blogs has told me that Colombians only get a certain amount of minutes per month and are generally stingy with them. Especially because it's cheaper to call between the same providers, and odds are the person I need to call doesn't have the same provider as this guy. But I guess the face works because he literally saves my ass and says I can. My smile takes up my whole face. "Muchas, muchas gracias!"
When I call her, she doesn't know what I'm saying and asks me to speak in Spanish. (Christ.) Which I do, but then have no idea what she says back. All I really hear are the words "Puerta cinco"- not helpful. After yet another episode spent waiting at the friggin door and another laughable conversation from a random borrowed phone, finally a short woman with black hair runs up. "Rachel?!" (She says it like Rah-shul.) "I looking for you everywhere!"
She turns out to be the bubbliest, happiest, most hilariously expressive person I've ever met. In the cab, she laughs nonstop, chattering in interesting English. "So we go now to de home here. We have some rules. Thees week you go tooo de projects, eef you teaching you teach at Hogar San Mauricio, where there are many children. Is beauty." Her voice rises and falls in pitch at random.
I look out the window as the city speeds by and just smile.
SEPT. 14
I get on the plane and am positively delighted by the level of Spanish that surrounds me. The flight attendant greets me with a “buenos dias.” I’m looking at the seat numbers and an old man (unasked) tells me in Spanish how the numbering works. When a man comes through with a cart of drinks, he asks me, “Algo a tomar?” They put on a movie and the airplane radio-thing has a Spanish option, as well as Spanish radio stations.
Walking through the Bogota airport, I continue to soar. The advertisements are in Spanish- "gaseosa fresca" (fresh soft drink), the electronic flight boards are in Spanish ("llegadas y salidas"), and the "Reclama de equipaje" (baggage claim) is straight ahead.
Aaaaand then I realize this could get interesting. The only information I have is to wait outside Door number 5, where supposedly there should be a line of people waiting there with signs with people's names on them, one of them bearing mine. A woman is picking me up and taking me to the volunteer apartment, but I don't know what she looks like. I have her phone number. I don't have a phone.
I find the door and am entirely unsurprised when I am still standing there twenty minutes later. I contemplate finding a pay phone before realizing I only have American money. I find a 100-peso coin on the floor of the bathroom and think SCORE (which is kind of pathetic), but when I waddle on up to the phones the security-police dude standing there shakes his head when I hold up the coin. "No, no es bastante."
I pull out a worried, doe-eyed face. "Es posible que yo pueda usar tu celular?" (Could I possibly use your phone?) I know this is a bit of a stretch: my near-constant reading of travel blogs has told me that Colombians only get a certain amount of minutes per month and are generally stingy with them. Especially because it's cheaper to call between the same providers, and odds are the person I need to call doesn't have the same provider as this guy. But I guess the face works because he literally saves my ass and says I can. My smile takes up my whole face. "Muchas, muchas gracias!"
When I call her, she doesn't know what I'm saying and asks me to speak in Spanish. (Christ.) Which I do, but then have no idea what she says back. All I really hear are the words "Puerta cinco"- not helpful. After yet another episode spent waiting at the friggin door and another laughable conversation from a random borrowed phone, finally a short woman with black hair runs up. "Rachel?!" (She says it like Rah-shul.) "I looking for you everywhere!"
She turns out to be the bubbliest, happiest, most hilariously expressive person I've ever met. In the cab, she laughs nonstop, chattering in interesting English. "So we go now to de home here. We have some rules. Thees week you go tooo de projects, eef you teaching you teach at Hogar San Mauricio, where there are many children. Is beauty." Her voice rises and falls in pitch at random.
I look out the window as the city speeds by and just smile.
SEPT. 14
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