We Float On

It’s already mid-November. Winter is coming to Cali. People are starting to prepare for Christmas. Unfortunately, I’m still breaking out into a sweat after ten-minute walks. The temperature has not dropped even a little bit. I’ve gotten used to the heat, but it’s still oppressive. Anyway, for this post, I want to share a hodge-podge of observations, from the mundane and trivial to la Paz.

Salsa

As you may know, Cali is the world capital of salsa. Salsa was actually born in New York, but Cali is the true mecca. Salsa caleña is genre of all its own. For a sense of Cali salsa, check out Grupo Niche, the most iconic group from Cali. Their most famous song, Cali Pachanguero, is basically the official song of the city (the video includes great shots of Cali). When I arrived here, I knew that I had to learn salsa. It’s an integral part of the culture. It blares from car windows, restaurants, bars, and houses. You cannot escape it. During my first few weeks here, my inability to dance was a source of stress. I actively feared being invited to go to a salsa bar. Thinking back, I really had no clue about what salsa even sounded like before I came to Colombia. Maybe I had heard it before, but I certainly couldn’t have identified it as salsa. Consequently, my ear for the music was truly abysmal. When I heard salsa music for the first month, I heard complete chaos. I’ve improved in my ability to pick out the rhythm, but only marginally. I really do like salsa, but there are just so many instruments and rhythms being played at once. A cacophony.

During my second week here, I decided to go all in. I was going to learn to dance salsa no matter how long it took. I enrolled at a salsa school called Swinglatino. Caleños think it’s absurd that I go to classes. For them, I should be able to just naturally understand the rhythm and pick everything up quickly (ridiculous). I started going to classes about twice a week. My instructor, a young guy named Javier, started teaching me the basics. For the first month, we spent each class just reviewing the basic moves. Javier is a very nice guy. He plays Beyoncé when we stretch to begin and end class, which I love. We dance side by side, in front of a mirror. Any moves he does, I’m supposed to copy.

But I really test Javier’s patience. For the first month, any switch from one move to another was a true disaster. My legs would go in all directions, and I’d stumble and come close to actually hitting the floor. Other times, Javier would stop dancing to see how I would do without him. I’d quickly lose a hold of the rhythm so badly that I was dancing almost as off-beat as humanly possible. Javier would stoically let me continue until the song stopped, but he practically couldn’t even look me in the eyes afterward. I was just so atrocious. Javier is a pretty soft-spoken, terse dude. Compliments from Javier don’t come easily. When I finally land a move that I’ve previously failed, he always just says, “Eso es” (”that’s it”). No exclamation. I’ve learned to interpret eso es as terrific praise.

There’s one response to my ineptitude that Javier often employs that I dread above all: the training tape. If I’m off-beat even by my standards, he cuts off the normal music mid-song and switches to this brutal track that counts the beat for you. Uno dos tres, cinco seis siete. Uno dos tres, cinco seis siete. The second Javier abruptly shuts off the music, I know what’s coming. I know I’m in the doghouse. This song is maddening.

As I’ve written before, there are some things I can say here in Cali that get a laugh no matter what. I break these out whenever I’m caught in an awkward situation, which is often. One of my secret weapons is to bring up salsa and tell people, “I have absolutely no sense of the rhythm.” I tell them about how Colombians often have to tell me “tranquilo” and “slow down” when I’m dancing, because I’m dancing about five times faster than I should be. I tell them I’m improving little by little. For some reason, they think this is all hilarious. One guy who works at the bakery near my apartment asks me how my salsa is coming along literally every time I see him. He wants to know which clubs I’ve been to, and how my classes are going. He is endlessly amused by my attempts to pick it up.

I really have improved, though. I definitely have a better sense of the rhythm than before. When Javier makes me go solo, I only somewhat lose the rhythm. I’ve gone out several times to salsa clubs with university students, and I’ve never really embarrassed myself! At this point, I can proudly say that my salsa is passable. Javier still thinks my name is spelled Flecherth, but that’s OK.

La Paz

On October 3rd, Colombians rejected the peace agreement that would have ended their 52-year war. It truly was a shocking moment. As I wrote leading up to the plebiscite, the polls uniformly predicted the peace would pass by a fairly large margin. So, when the No came in, it was the equivalent of a Brexit or a Trump victory for Colombia. On Facebook, all the Colombians I know posted long, devastated responses. They were genuinely apocalyptic. I saw one person write that this No showed how Colombians are stupid. Another said that the No vote would forever condemn Colombia to violence and to a bad reputation worldwide.

The most painful thing for these supporters of the deal was that people in the areas most affected by violence overwhelmingly voted Yes, while the wealthier populations in less affected cities voted No. The second most painful thing was that only 36% of Colombians voted. Most plebiscites require that 50% of the population vote for the result to count. Santos did not require this minimum (nor did David Cameron for Brexit). To my Colombian Facebook friends, this turnout was a sad reflection of political apathy.

Of course, the next day, people headed to work as normal. There was a bit of a hush around campus, but not dramatically so. The signs and banners promoting the peace were taken down, and people got over it. Originally, President Juan Manuel Santos told voters that there would absolutely be no renegotiation; this was the one and only chance for peace. People generally resented this as an empty threat to pressure people to vote Yes. It appears they were right. The FARC rebels still want to be integrated into society, and FARC’s leaders remain open to negotiation. Ultimately, it came down to the fact that most people don’t want to let FARC off the hook. The peace agreement essentially pardoned them of everything. Now, it seems people successfully called Santos’s bluff. Negotiations will start back up at some point. Nobody knows when a new peace deal may arrive, but within a few years Colombia could be looking at another plebiscite. While the No vote was depressing in the moment, it seems like it was not nearly as devastating and confusing as initially thought.

Final Thoughts

- Lots of people love to go the movies here. The same movies come out here as in the U.S., at the same time. During my first month, when I knew no one here, I often went to the theater alone to practice my Spanish and pass the time (it sounds like a low point, but I actually found it quite relaxing). Some movies here have subtitles, while others have voice-overs. The theaters are fantastic. They have comfy seats and sushi bars (no good, I would imagine). They sell hotdogs, hamburgers, popcorn, and kettle corn. People eat full meals during the movies. They take movie-going quite seriously.

- Lots of people in Colombia wear Crocs.

- Lots of adults in Colombia have braces.

- Colombia leads almost the entire world in national holidays. We have two this month. I’m writing this on the Monday afternoon of a holiday, and it feels so good.

To finish, here’s an awesome piece of graffiti I found here in Cali. As our tour guide during the Bogota graffiti tour told us, this is an example of “environmental graffiti,” where the artist incorporates the architectural features of the building into the art. Here, the gutter acts as a spear.

Another month, another epic trip! A few weeks ago, I headed north to the coffee region, or “el eje cafetero.” The region is known for its stunning natural beauty, and for gringos who come to check it out. The best part? It’s only a few hours north of Cali. I hopped on a bus with another Fulbrighter at the Cali bus terminal (one of the less fun places on Earth), and we headed out. Of course, when the ticket salesman tells you it’ll be a three hour trip with no-stops, he really means a six hour trip with lots of stops. Having left at 3pm, we finally made it to our first stop of the weekend at 9pm: the little town of Salento.

Of all the places en el cafetero, Salento is probably the most touristy and well-known. I’ve spoken with plenty of students at my university in Cali about where I should visit in Colombia. Without hesitation, they all gush about Salento as a must-see. The town itself is very pretty, with stout buildings painted with vibrant colors and a cute little plaza at its heart. Because of the tourism, the tiny village is actually quite humming. At night, the streets light up with parties and music blares at every bar. The streets are fairly crowded.

Salento is famous for its proximity to el Valle de Cocora. The gorgeous valley, just twenty minutes away, features a long hike and some of the best views you’ll find in Colombia. Americans who visit agree that the valley is straight out of Dr. Seuss’s The Lorax. You’ll see what I mean in the pictures. The absurdly tall, spindly palm trees and the rolling hills have an uncanny resemblance to the Truffula Trees in the Dr. Seuss classic.

One of the benefits of the Fulbright program is that we live all over the country (there are almost 60 of us), so housing is free in almost every city with some couch-surfing. Plus, people are always organizing trips. On this trip to Salento, we had a massive group of ten gringos descending on this little town. When I arrived at our beautiful hostel in Salento on that Friday night, I was greeted by eight rambunctious Americans. I can’t understate how comforting that felt. We spent the rest of the night hanging out in the hostel, resting up for our big hike in the valley in the next day. We played games, chatted, and drank Poker (unequivocally Colombia’s cheapest beer, it tastes like metal).

We had a great time that night, but one thing that I couldn’t relax about... we Americans are so loud. Embarrassingly so. Just hanging out on the front porch that night, our group was incapable of speaking at anything less than a shout. This is no novel gripe against Americans; it’s well documented. Plus, my stay in Colombia has instilled in me a bit more pride for the U.S. and for Americans. Americans have a lot of great qualities, but our inability to be considerate about our volume made me uncomfortable that night. Just food for thought for anyone planning to travel abroad soon.

On Saturday, we woke up early and had fantastic egg-and-cheese sandwiches (hostels in Salento are clearly geared toward Americans; these were certainly not a part of Colombia’s culinary tradition). We headed to the main plaza, which is lined with shops and features friendly stray dogs and food vendors (Salento is known for its trout, or trucha, usually fried). The main mode of transportation to the Valle de Cocora is Jeep. They’re parked at the center of the square, whisking tourists to the valley for a few thousand pesos per person. The jeep ride itself turned out to be quite memorable. We crammed into the back, and a few of us got to stand on the back and hang on. As we descended into the valley on wind-y roads, we were treated to gorgeous views and a refreshing breeze. Below is a picture of me looking dumbly content.

Our driver dropped us off and we began our hike, which is about a five-hour loop. Many people do it on horseback, but we had no interest. For one, it sounds uncomfortable. Second, the horse is one of the few animals that kind of freaks me out, because of their raw power. Plus, I like cows - the opposite of horses and a known rival – and you can really only choose one. Our hike started in the most-known part of the valley: the area with the trees. These palms are outrageous. They look to be at least sixty feet tall, but the width of their trunk can’t be more than a foot and a half. They’re pencils, sticking straight up into the sky with no need for branches or bells-and-whistles. Actually, they’re the national tree of Colombia (the technical name is the Quindio Wax Palm). Walking among those trees will remain a highlight of my time in Colombia.

Then, the ascent began. The hike turned into an uphill struggle for an hour-and-a-half straight. As we climbed up and up, the weather and the nature changed completely. The epic palms turned to pine trees, and the sticky humidity was replaced by a cool, damp breeze. Soon, we were at the same height as the low-hanging clouds, which passed quickly right over our heads. We didn’t get to see any, but this coniferous forest is actually home to bears!

We finally made it to the top of the loop and began our descent, which was probably more tiring, actually. My legs were shaking with exhaustion afterwards. We had heard that la Casa de los Colibrís, or the Hummingbird House, was about thirty minutes off the main loop. The promise of hummingbirds was too much to pass up. A part of our group was feeling tired and kept on the loop, but three of us branched off in search of the house. Sure enough, after half-an-hour of following signs, crossing streams and hiking uphill through deep mud, we arrived.

The effort was totally justified. The house, a wooden cabin, doubles as a feeding station for hummingbirds and for people. For a few pesos, we ate sausage and drank hot chocolate - much needed nourishment for the second half of the loop. The best part, though, was the hummingbird feeders. At least two dozen hummingbirds – of all different colors and sizes – zoomed around our heads, landing to feed on the nectar set out for them. Some of them were a fluorescent blue color, with long tail feathers that were at least twice as long as their actual bodies. Others looked similar to the Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds we have in the U.S.

While hummingbirds are known for their toughness, these guys were particularly fearless. Accustomed to humans, they let you get as close as you want. A man with a fancy point-and-shoot camera shot pictures of one from about two centimeters away. The bird sat unflinchingly even though the lens was practically touching its face. As they feed, you can see their long, skinny tongues flitting in and out, sucking in the juice. This was easily the closest I’ve ever been to a hummingbird. I left with a much greater appreciation for them. Their wings flap so fast that even from close range they’re just a blur. You can hear and feel their powerful vibration. Colombia has the greatest diversity of birds in the world – a growing source of tourism – and this experience proved how stunning that diversity can be.

The second half of our hike didn’t have as many palms but was equally enjoyable. A river snakes in and out of the path throughout, so there are at least four wooden bridges. They’re not regular bridges, though. They’re those rope bridges with big gaps in between each plank that swing if you make any sudden movements. While the river is only about ten feet below, it’s still exciting because these bridges are genuinely wobbly. They’re straight out of Indiana Jones, but much, much smaller. Some of the bridges, like the one pictured below, are just big logs laid across the river. In all, the hike took us about six hours. Between the birds, palm trees, bridges, and hot chocolate, it was one of the better hikes I’ve ever taken.

Back in Salento, we went to a much-hyped restaurant called Brunch, which serves American-style breakfast, lunch and dinner. It unapologetically caters to tourists, its menu designed to resemble that of a diner in the U.S. It was exactly what I needed for my homesickness. I ordered two banana pancakes and chocolate milk. The waitress tried to convince me that two pancakes would be way too much, but she was highly underestimating my family’s inherent ability to pound mass amounts of breakfast food. Those pancakes restored me in mind, body and spirit.

The next day we took yet another jeep to a nearby coffee plantation; taking a coffee tour is a must-do if you’re in the region. This particular plantation was called Ocaso. To start our tour (in English), our guide, Carlos, took us to a patch of coffee plants, which were generally about six or seven feet tall but can grow to be fifteen or more. This patch was planted solely for the purpose of conducting tours, so none of the coffee beans picked from them get used by the plantation. Our guide gave each of us a basket to tie around our waists and let us loose to pick coffee “cherries” off the trees. Each cherry is about the size of a small grape, but much firmer. They’re not juicy inside at all; each contains two coffee beans which take up most of the space. Carlos encouraged us to bite into them to see what the little juice they do contain tastes like. It tastes nothing like coffee; the juice is sweet like a cherry. The two beans, meanwhile, resemble standard coffee beans except for their color and consistency. They are grey or tan – they look kind of like peanuts – and are rock hard. The coffee beans we see in the U.S. are brown because they’ve been roasted. It’s astonishing how little I knew about coffee.

There are three types of coffee in the world: Arabica, Robusta, and Liberica. In this tourist garden at the Ocaso plantation, there were all three types of plant for the purpose of showing visitors. Only Arabica and Robusta actually can grow in the region. The Arabica beans are sweeter and their cherries are yellow, while the Robusta cherries are a vibrant red. Coffee only can grow at an altitude range of 1,800 to 3,600 feet. Salento, at 1,900 feet, is ideal.

After partially-filling our baskets, we headed to the next phase: removing the beans from the cherry and discarding the skin. Of course, there’s a machine for this. We poured our beans into the top of a wheel-operating grinding machine, which spit out the skins and dropped the beans into a bucket of water. Any beans that have been eaten by worms or are not yet ripe float to the top; these are the B-grade beans that don’t get exported. The A-grade beans sink to the bottom of the bucket. While Colombia is known for its coffee, Carlos explained, the coffee that people drink in Colombia is not always as great as the exported stuff. Because it’s cheaper, many Colombians just drink coffee made from the B-grade beans.

The Ocaso plantation is certified by many several watchdog organizations as being environmentally-friendly and ethical with working conditions. Carlos was totally transparent about the fact that the workers work long hours and get paid little. He had us each weigh our baskets. In twenty minutes, I had picked about a quarter-kilo of coffee. He told us a good coffee picker can pick about 40 kilos of coffee in a 10 hour day. If I’m remembering correctly, workers at Ocaso get paid a thousand pesos for kilo. So, an average works makes about 40,000 pesos in a day. 40,000 pesos converts to about twelve or thirteen dollars. However, while the pay at Ocaso is bad, this isn’t as bad as it sounds because everything costs much less in Colombia. If I had to try to put it in perspective, 40,000 pesos probably goes as far as forty or fifty dollars. At the very least, it can certainly pay for three meals a day. Still, coffee picking is exhausting and very low-pay, and I was glad the plantation was open about that. It made me feel weird about enjoying twenty minutes of picking; it’s a slavish job for others.

Next, the beans have to be dried out. They’re slimy when they come out of the skin, and they get wet during the skinning process. There are two drying processes: air-drying, and the use of a furnace. The plantation doesn’t waste anything. What doesn’t get composted gets used, so they use the dried out remains of the coffee to fuel the furnace.

Lastly, the dried coffee beans get checked once more for quality and shipped to a massive Colombian coffee holding company. The beans get shipped abroad un-roasted in their grayish/tan state, because every country and company has different roasting standards and preferences. The way Germans like to roast their coffee, for instance, might differ from how the French like it. The Ocaso plantation does sell small batches of its own roasted beans, but most of the beans are sent away. Once the beans leave the plantation, Ocaso has no idea where they go (I found this weird and somehow upsetting). Carlos was also not shy about the fact that Ocaso sells its beans at a low price to the holding company, which was designed to fight for the interests of Colombian plantations and workers. This company turns around and sells the beans at a very high price to foreign companies. Some money is disappearing in this overall transaction. Somewhere, Ocaso is getting screwed over. They can’t do anything about it, though, because they couldn’t exist without the corporation.

The tour finished with a tasting. Carlos operated the coffee-grinder, swiftly moving the handle around and around. He invited a few guests to come up and try. They could barely turn the handle. After showing us various methods of brewing coffee, he settled on the colador, the preferred method in Colombia. It’s a little canvas sack with a handle; you put the coffee in the bag, and then pour boiling water through it. The coffee was excellent. However, Colombians almost exclusively drink their coffee black. Black coffee is too strong for me, so while I could appreciate the flavor, I would never make it for myself.

That afternoon, we headed for Filandia, another quaint town just forty minutes from Salento. It’s hard to move ten gringos from one place to another, so we paid a Jeep driver to take us. Filandia - the name cracks me up, especially because another city nearby is called Armenia – is quite similar to Salento, with its beautiful plaza and vibrantly painted architecture. We hung out in the hostel and went for a stroll around the plaza for dinner and beer. Shockingly, I bumped into a student from my university. In that moment, I felt quite legit; I’m so established here in Colombia that I run into people I know in other cities! It was actually just total luck.

Colombia has more national holidays than any other country. The vast majority of them are placed on Fridays and Mondays to create the universally-beloved three day weekend. Here, these are known as “puentes,” or bridges, because of the way they carry you into the next week or into the weekend. Finally, we had reached the end of our puente. I took the bus home on Monday morning. While the ticket salesman promised a three-hour trip, it only ended up being four; that estimation-to-reality ratio is actually pretty good!

This past week I spent five days in Bogotá for a Fulbright seminar and a few days off. I had seen Bogotá once before, when I first arrived in Colombia for my orientation. Although our first stay in the city was also a full five days, we didn’t really get to see the city much. We spent most of the time in the hotel listening to lectures. However, toward the end of the orientation week, we finally got to see the city on a Fulbright-led tour. During my recent trip, I was again cooped up in a hotel, but I had the weekend free to explore. I’m writing this post to give a recap of my experiences in Bogotá, from my first tour back in July to my recent trip in October. First, I’ll rewind to July, when I knew nothing about where I was or what I was getting into.

Our tour included the most tourist-y parts of Bogotá: la Plaza de Simon Bolivar and la Casa de Nariño. La Plaza de Bolivar is a giant square in the middle of Bogotá’s oldest neighborhood, la Candelaria. One side of the plaza features el Palacio de Justicia (Palace of Justice). It’s known, above all, for a famous attack. In 1985, the notorious Marxist guerilla group known as M-19 stormed the Palace, setting large sections on fire. In addition to burning any documents that incriminated them, they burned all of the incriminating documents against Pablo Escobar. While it has never been officially proven, it’s basically known that Escobar paid M-19 for the siege. After a long confrontation between M-19 and the police, 98 people were left dead and the Palace was largely destroyed. The Palace we see now is significantly renovated after the attack just over 30 years ago (pictured below). On the other side of the Plaza de Bolivar is Colombia’s Congress. It’s a massive, sand-colored building with beautiful columns. Just a few blocks away is la Casa de Nariño, which is Colombia’s White House. President Juan Manuel Santos lives and works there.

In most of Colombia, there are no seasons. In Cali, it’s summer all year long. Medellín is known as the City of the Eternal Spring for its consistently temperate climate. Bogotá, then, is like an eternal fall. Walking around the Plaza de Bolivar, everyone was in peacoats and fall garb. It felt like a mid-November day in Central Park, filled with pigeons and stylish scarves and children playing. I was freezing in my t-shirt.

Next, we walked around la Candelaria. It’s a very hip, young neighborhood. Placed on a hill, it features narrow, cobblestone streets and one-story colonial buildings. It feels touristy, but also quaint and full of stories. You get the sense that the place has seen a lot. A few years ago, the Rolling Stones took a tour of la Candelaria. Now, there are at least three food vendors named after the Stones. One of them was selling obleas, which are like communion-wafer sandwiches with jelly and other sweet ingredients inside like cheese and arequipe (Colombia’s alternative to caramel, if I had to describe it). Mick Jagger has this vendor’s business absolutely humming.

After the afternoon tour, I returned to la Candelaria at night with some friends. Our aim was to find chicha, an indigenous drink made from fermented corn. Chicha is made by germinating corn, extracting the sugar, and fermenting what’s left. Some indigenous groups, though, use an alternate technique. Instead of germinating the corn, they mix it with their saliva, which naturally breaks it down. They tell you not to drink too much, not because it’s alcoholic, but because it gives you a stomach ache. I’d guess this is why. I didn’t know this when I drank it, but I might’ve been drinking something that had previously been in someone else’s mouth. Oh well.

For years, as the government wanted to marginalize Colombia’s indigenous population, the drink was outlawed. Now, there are bars that serve chicha all over la Candelaria. We found one, and were quickly served a giant bowl with a ladle. It is...delicious. It kind of tasted like hard apple cider, but much pulpier. It had a vinegary smell but was sweet to the taste. I would definitely go back, even knowing what I know now. It’s a part of Colombia’s indigenous culture, and it felt great to be sharing it with Fulbrighters who I had just met. I liked them already. We were so far from home, sharing something that was so foreign to us, united by the same desire to explore and learn about new places and people.

This great moment aside, I have to offer my true first impression: Bogotá seemed to be a run-of-the-mill big, dirty city. Of course, I hadn’t seen much of the city, but I was not favorably impressed by what I saw. In one neighborhood, called Zona Rosa, I saw over-the-top commercialism. American chains for blocks on end: Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, you name it. There was even a Chuck-E-Cheese. My takeaway? Bogotá is like any metropolis, its culture diluted by foreigners. English, of course, is clearly much more common in Bogotá. Back in July, I was glad to be leaving for a smaller, (hopefully) cleaner, less watered-down Colombian city.

In the months since, I have heard nothing good about Bogotá here in Cali. Caleños have told me, over-and-over, that the rolos (a term used for people from the Bogotá area) are incredibly unfriendly, cold people. They really mean it… rolos are the worst. On top of that, when you ask anyone about Bogotá, their immediate reaction is, “AY DIOS DON’T GO IT’S ABSOLUTELY FREEZING.” As if I had just proposed we visit Antarctica. Their faces contort with fear, and their voices rise a few octaves (maybe not, but something approaching this). They are absurdly-opposed to the city.

Naturally, headed back to Bogotá to for a second trip, I had my doubts about the city. I was excited because it would be a much-needed change of pace from Cali, but not because it particularly intrigued me. I’m happy to say that the second time around, Bogotá pleasantly surprised me. After another five days there, I can honestly say that I really like the city!

Although I was again stuck in the hotel for three days listening to lectures, the weekend came and I had the chance to really explore the city. My first stop was the famous Monserrate, a small mountain that overlooks all of Bogotá. Normally you can hike up in about 45 minutes, but the trails are under construction right now. So, we had two options: the funicular (a train of sorts that goes straight up hill), or a gondola. We opted to take the funicular on the way up and the gondola on the way down, and both are quite fun. Below is a shot of the tunnel you go through on the funicular.

At the top of Monserrate is an absolutely stunning view. Like Cristo Rey in Cali, you can see everything in crisp detail: the parks, the government buildings, the suburbs. Better yet, the park maintenance people keep the greenery in front of the view looking impeccable. You look out onto the city over gorgeous flower gardens, pine trees, and shrubbery. Monserrate also includes a nice church and an incredibly calming cafe with a terrace. I went down to the cafe to check it out, and everybody sitting outside having coffee was absolutely silent, looking out onto the city. The view had totally quieted them.

After Monserrate, we went to a book fair at a small park. As always, it was a misty, cool, overcast day in Bogotá. As the day passed by, I really came to appreciate this. The damp weather is both eerie and calming. It made me feel very reflective and thoughtful. Actually, one caleño even told me that people from Bogotá are more intellectual. In Cali, he said, nobody wants to be inside studying during the warm, sunny weather, so the culture is much more party-oriented. It’s true that Cali is known for salsa clubs and Bogotá for its universities. Weather definitely seems to affect how you perceive a city, and I think I agree that it influences people’s personalities. Rolos may seem unfriendly, but they also might be pensive in a way that people in Cali aren’t. I don’t think it’s crazy to say that weather might have something to do with that.

We sat in the park on bean-bag chairs for a few hours, just taking it all in. I bought a book by Mario Vargas Llosa, La ciudad y los perros, which I certainly will never finish. I bought the Spanish version, even though reading in Spanish is slow and tedious and pains me. I keep buying Spanish versions of books, I think out of some absurd optimism. After delicious Mexican food, I walked back alone to the apartment where I was staying. Exploring a park along the way, I felt at peace in a way that I don’t often feel in Cali. I think it’s important for me to escape sometimes. Even though I love Cali, I need to break the monotony and keep my mind fresh.

On my last day in Bogotá, I went with a few other Fulbrighters to a graffiti tour! Our tour guide was a guy named Jeff: an Anthropology professor at a university in Bogotá… and a graffiti artist on the side. In baggy pants and some Vans, he was definitely one of the more interesting guys I’ve met, incredibly intellectual but totally for the people. The tour was a blast. He took us around la Candelaria to see some of the neighborhood’s most impressive murals. Because he knows all of the graffiti artists personally, he explained who painted each piece, and described the distinctive styles and themes of each artist.

Jeff also talked a lot about street art culture in Bogotá. One particularly interesting piece is the difference between graffiti laws in the U.S. and Colombia. In the U.S., you can serve serious jail time. In Colombia, there are a few possible scenarios. First, the police might give you a fine, but nothing on your criminal record. Second, you can try to pay off the police, and for a small sum they’ll let you go on your way. Third, if you get written permission from the building owner - many restaurant owners actually commission graffiti artists - it’s totally legal. So, graffiti is lower-stakes in Colombia.

Consequently, the street art is far superior. In the U.S., you usually just see “tags” - names and words written in the classic graffiti font. In Bogotá, you get massive murals that span entire blocks. The paintings have strong political and social messages, and the colors are absolutely beautiful. One common theme was Colombia’s indigenous population. Because street artists are subversive and kind of counter-cultural, they make a point of standing up for marginalized populations like indigenous tribes and the homeless. There are 87 recognized indigenous tribes In Colombia, with 65 different indigenous languages.

Another great tidbit came when Jeff explained the mutual respect that street artists show each other. When someone paints an incredible mural, you would certainly hope that people wouldn’t damage it. Still, I wouldn’t assume that people are that respectful; it’s not in our nature. As Jeff pointed out, though, street artists really are quite considerate! As we walked around, most of the murals were almost completely untouched. People simply wait until the painting fades before re-claiming the wall. These artists really form a community (in fact, there are collectives even within the community), and take delight in each other’s work. This realization made me happy; people can be really cool.

I realize that half of this post has turned into talk about graffiti, but it really was a highlight! In Cali, too, there are some really powerful pieces. Much of it is done extremely artfully and intentionally. It’s not just hooliganism; it’s real expression. Enjoy some of the photos - I took the one below, and the rest I stole from the internet (but I saw all of these in person). From now on, I’ll make a point of posting pictures of some of the best graffiti I find in Cali.

Since I got my own trad rack three months ago, I haven’t really climbed anything harder than 5.7 and I’m not upset at all.

(Photo courtesy of Barrett Redmond)

Everything I’ve done in my short climbing life so far seems to have built perfectly to this point. Like most people (I assume), I started out with indoor bouldering. Requiring only shoes and a chalk bag, bouldering is the most accessible form of climbing. The perfect learning grounds. Starting at zero climbing strength and thus tiring out quickly, bouldering is ideal since it allows you to build the necessary muscles in short sessions instead of more time-consuming trips outside. (A caveat: I had incredible access to a mediocre bouldering gym five minutes from my apartment during this time, so my experience may have been unique). Over this time, I built up strength and technique and was regularly spending two-hour sessions in the gym after a few months.

After about 6 months I was introduced to outdoor sport climbing on a school trip and with friends made on that trip, got into it on our own. Borrowing gear sucks though. I mean it’s great, but it sucks. I felt like a mooch every time I wanted to go climbing. Eventually, I finally bit the bullet and bought draws and a rope: only about $250 but still a lot of money to a college student. This opened up my world! Now, instead of being the guy that was always asking to borrow gear and climb, I was the guy offering gear to go climbing (in return for a belay). I was climbing three times a week outside and the other days, inside. At that time I just wanted to climb sport. Bouldering and Top Rope just weren’t doing it for me anymore.

Then I got my rack.

(Photo courtesy of Barrett Redmond)

Since I got my own trad rack three months ago, I haven’t really climbed anything harder than 5.7 and I’m not upset at all. Now, my sole focus in terms of climbing is fun, cruiser, tall, multi-pitch, trad routes. It’s just so damn fun! Putting what I’ve learned from bouldering and sport climbing together, it seems like a perfect culmination in terms of climbing while also bringing out the adventure and expedition side of me that previously had only been released through watching videos. It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted.

This is not to say, however, that I’m complacent in climbing 5.7 all the time. Having only four multi-pitch leads under my belt, I’m still getting the hang of things and will push my trad grade in due time.

I know it’s cliché, but it’s really not about the grade for me. I just love the feeling of diving into the woods with a buddy, finding the (right or wrong) route, and fumbling my way up it. If it happens to be hard, that’s cool, if not, that’s cool too. Sharing the sentiment of one of my good climbing partners and friends, I know in my heart that multi-pitch climbing is really the best way to enjoy a mountain.

I’m sure this phase of my climbing will pass just like each has in the past. Just like everything, this, too, shall pass. We Float On. I’ll want to send hard sport soon enough.

Of all my challenges here in Cali, Spanish has been the most persistent and frustrating. Having studied Spanish since high school and spent five months abroad in Salamanca, Spain, my Spanish is certainly solid. But it is far from perfect. The people in Cali have been extremely gracious and helpful, but every day I find myself in an embarrassing situation, having either said or heard something wrong. I mess up even the most basic of phrases when I get nervous or if someone addresses me unexpectedly. On a daily basis, I find myself moving between extremes. Sometimes I really enjoy this challenge. Others, I feel inadequate and self-loathing.

One surprise has been just how different Colombian Spanish is from Spanish in Spain. The accent, to start, is much less pronounced. In Salamanca, it was incredibly easy to lightheartedly tease people. Salamantinos can be so easy to imitate. They make guttural, exaggerated noises. And, of course, they speak with the universally-known zeta (pronounced “theta”), which sounds like a lisp even if some insist that it doesn’t. Here in Cali, the Spanish sounds much more like what we’re used to hearing in classrooms in the U.S. It’s a bit more subtle. Unfortunately, because the accent isn’t as strong, I find it harder to imitate them!

Colombians are very proud of their Spanish. Whenever I speak with them about it, they tell me that Colombia is one of the best places to learn because they speak very pure, crisp Spanish. For the record, the Spaniards told me the same. Caleños love to talk about the different accents around Colombia, and a few people have told me the most pure Spanish is spoken in Pasto (with a thick accent).

This is not to mention the differences in vocabulary between Spain and Colombia. This has been both infuriating and comical for me. One time, at dinner with my roommate and his friends, I ordered agua del grifo (tapwater). In Spain, this is totally normal. Here, the whole table burst out laughing; it’s agua de la llave. I think I sounded extremely formal and robotic. It would be like if someone in the U.S. asked for “water from the faucet” instead of just tapwater. Later on in the dinner, I used the word cieno for “mud.” They had no idea what I was talking about. One guy proclaimed, “cieno is definitely not a word in Spanish.” To prove it, he pulled out his phone and went to a Spanish-English dictionary. He read through the first few definitions of mud: barro, lodo, mugre. Then, everybody erupted as he paused and read with a smirk on his face...cieno. They made fun of me for the rest of the night, which I took in stride as best as I could.

You might think these confusing moments only happen for obscure words like tap water and mud. But Colombians and Spaniards use different words even for some basic stuff! “Calcetines,” for example, are “socks” in Spain. In the U.S., this is the standard word we’re taught. Talking with my roommate, though, I mentioned that I have the same calcetines that he was wearing. He looked at me as if I were an alien. I pointed down at my feet and repeated. He still looked perplexed. Finally, I grabbed my socks and asked him what they were called? “Ooohhh! They’re medias,” he told me. When I asked him if he had ever heard the word calcetines, he replied, “Of course.” Then why on earth did he treat me as if I were speaking in tongues? This happens all the time. Colombians insist they know the Spanish version of the word, but look at me like I’ve lost my mind when I use it. Two other cases I’ve learned the hard way: for “peach,” they use durazno instead of melocotón, and for “popcorn” they say crispetas instead of palomitas.

The main lesson here is that dictionaries are largely useless. I’ve learned about half of the words I know from Wordreference.com, and it fails me all the time. There are two main problems. One, dictionaries don’t specify for all words which forms are used in which countries. This is a bigger deal than I realized. Secondly, they give you really academic, formal, or outdated words that nobody uses. My Spanish is very technically-sound, and my vocabulary is good...but I sound like a weirdo.

There is a bright side to this, though. Although this new vocabulary is a challenge, I can use it for comedic purposes. When I express to people how hard it is to learn a new set of words, they die of laughter. They think that’s the funniest thing. I’ve also figured out one joke that I use all the time. It has never not gotten a huge laugh out of someone. When people here ask me how my Spanish is coming along, I always say, “Well, it depends on the day!” The first time that I told someone depende del día, I didn’t mean to be funny. The quality of my Spanish really does depend on the day. Sometimes that part of my brain feels sharp, other days not at all. I got such a good response, though, that it has become my tagline, a go-to if I need to lighten the mood.

My biggest issue is listening. When I have conversations with people, I understand much of what they say. But when I have quick exchanges - at the cash register, on the bus, on the phone - people tend to speak much more quickly. Likewise when caleños speak amongst themselves. They think this is hilarious, too, when I tell them that I don’t understand anything when they talk to each other. As a result, I often cannot participate in conversations and connect with people as I would like to. In big groups, my inability to speak quickly and fluidly leaves me silent. Some people at the university think I’m a very serious, quiet, shy person. This is totally untrue normally, but here I definitely seem that way. I can’t always make my voice heard, because I’m easily embarrassed or overpowered. One-on-one, I fare much better, as the lack of pressure and urgency allows me to relax and speak my mind. I do think that the language barrier has kind of made it more difficult to make friends here. 

None of this is for a lack of effort, though. I try extremely hard to improve. I study for several hours every week, reviewing grammar and vocabulary. I bought flashcards, and currently have several hundreds of words written down, which I review weekly. I’m re-reading 100 Years of Solitude in Spanish (Cien Años de Soledad). I’m slowly chugging my way through it, but I’m doing it. I also read bits of the local newspaper every day. Above all, I know that the best practice is chatting with real people. And I do! I go out of my way to talk to people, even when I feel exhausted and frustrated. Luckily, caleños are more ready and willing to chat with me than the people in Salamanca were.

At this point, I speak advanced Spanish. However, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been at the same level of Spanish for the past several years. Once you get good at something, there are diminishing returns on your improvement. I have definitely plateaued, and that’s hard to break through. One piece of advice that I’ve always received - which I still don’t quite understand or agree with - is “Don’t translate in your head.” I guess I understand the premise. As you speak, don’t think of the English words and just translate word-for-word what you’re thinking into Spanish. You’ll sound clunky, slow, and your sentence structure will be weird.

However, I think that unless you are 100% fluent, having lived in a country for years, we are all doing a form of translation in our heads. As we improve, that translation obviously becomes more fluid, automatic, and thoughtless. While the translation might be abstracted a little (or a lot), becoming increasingly hard to notice, I still think most people translate. If we didn’t, I think that would mean our thoughts would have to be in Spanish, which would mean our subconscious was in Spanish. I can speak for myself when I say that when I’m thinking so deeply that I don’t realize I’m thinking - totally absorbed in myself - it’s not in Spanish. So, I’ve come to kind of resent the “Don’t translate” advice. Maybe I just am misinterpreting it, or don’t fully understand it…maybe this is what’s holding me back!

While my use of weird, foreign, and formal vocabulary can be hilarious, I can’t lie: it’s hard not to take it personally when people laugh. People totally don’t mean any harm by it. I just don’t think they realize how much time and effort I put into it. It can be crushing to spend three hours studying, and then get (even playfully) teased for speaking incorrectly.

I also sometimes feel like a burden. People have to politely wait for me to spit out my words, even if they already can predict what I’m going to say. They have to explain things over and over again. One time, I had to call the phone company, Claro, to buy a plan. I told the man at the other end that he would need to speak a bit more slowly for me. He agreed, and then proceeded to not speak slowly at all. He used words that I had absolutely never heard before. Pretty quickly (and understandably) he started losing his patience. I could hear him getting angry. When he snapped and told me that I would have to go to the Claro store because this was simply never going to work, I was on the verge of tears. It’s hard not to feel like a helpless charity case.

This has been a great lesson I’ll bring back to the U.S. Whenever I see foreigners from now on, I will truly understand their struggle. I will go out of my way to help them, befriend them, and compliment their speaking skills. It means so much to me when people compliment my Spanish, or slow down their speech just a little bit for me. I want to make people feel comfortable in the U.S., and a huge part of that inclusion involves being patient and helpful when it comes to the language barrier. I knew this before, but not like I do now. People should not be excluded from anything on the basis of language.

I’m writing this post as much for myself as for everyone else, to remind myself of a few things. First, I have to lighten up. My Spanish can be painfully mechanical sometimes, but sometimes I sound really good. I can say that I speak much better than a lot foreigners. I need to remind myself that speaking a foreign language is hard. Each day, I use phrases I’ve never used before, or I perfect phrases and words that I’ve totally botched in the past. Progress comes slowly and painfully. Although I may not be improving as quickly as I’d like, I am definitely improving every day.

Soccer is, without a doubt, the national sport of Colombia. You see it everywhere – on the TVs, on people’s jerseys, in the front pages of newspapers. The national pride is James Rodríguez (known simply as James), who currently plays for Real Madrid but also plays on Colombia’s national team. The best Colombian soccer team, meanwhile, is Atlético Nacional, which is based in Medellin and recently won the Libertadores tournament (played by all of South América).

Outside of James, the national team, and Nacional, every city has its own regional teams. While small and often poor, these teams are widely beloved. Cali, for example, has two prominent teams: Deportivo Cali and América de Cali. Cali, in the A-league, wears green and is objectively the more talented of the two teams. América is in the B league, wears red, and attracts a large fan base despite being fairly bad at soccer. Apparently, during the years of terrible drug violence, it was an incredible team because it was funded by some of Colombia’s most notorious drug lords. Since the drug money left, the team has struggled.

A few times each season, Cali and América face off in what is known as el Clásico. Fortunately, el Clásico was scheduled to be played at América’s stadium just a week or two after I arrived here in Cali. I immediately wanted to go, so I started asking around about prices and recommendations.

To my surprise, everyone told me not to go! It is very dangerous, they told me. There are fights everywhere and you will definitely be in danger. Even normal caleños don’t go to those games, they said. I weighed these strangely serious warnings against two things I know. First, caleños - especially the wealthier ones that I work with - are cautious and sheltered to an extreme. I would think that it would be the opposite. That because they have seen it all, they are desensitized and very nonchalant about any potential dangers in Cali. Instead, it seems they have taken any stories about danger in Cali and over-corrected. I talked with one guy who recognized this as a problem. “Tourists come to Cali and we tell them not to do anything. Most of these places are totally fine and we end up scaring people off,” he said. I can testify to this, as I’ve been told not to do just about everything. When I have to do when I’m told not to, though, I find that the warnings were a bit dramatic.

Second, on the contrary to the warnings about the soccer game I heard, other people told me that it was totally fine to go. Just don’t wear the away team’s colors and don’t sit in the south side of the stadium, and you’ll be absolutely fine. Long story short, I ended up going to the game with another Fulbright friend. One key was that this friend - in both appearance and grasp of the Spanish language - can pass for a native caleño. With him, any potential dangers of being outed as a naive, vulnerable tourist were greatly reduced. As an aside: I cannot - absolutely cannot - blend in here in Cali. I had one guy tell me that he knew I was foreign from a mile away because of the light color of my hair and eyes. I’m sure my clothes didn’t help. Above all, my pale white skin is the dead giveaway. In a half-funny, half-embarrassing moment, I had one girl tell me that my skin resembles cheese (“tienes la piel como queso”). I don’t even know what I said to provoke that comment.

Anyway, on the night of the game, I was set to meet my friend at the bus station closest to the stadium. I was wearing a plain white undershirt - neither the home team’s red nor Cali’s green - so even if I looked like a total idiot, at least I was very clearly a neutral party. I got out of the bus and found total chaos. There were hordes of people moving in all directions. Because the game was starting in 15 minutes, people were sprinting in all directions trying to get into the stadium. It was as if a bomb had gone off and people were running for cover. I looked across the street, and I saw a guy in red absolutely pummeling a guy in green. The Cali fan was on the ground, fighting back as he got bludgeoned by punches and kicks (the police did come running to break it up). This was when I realized the wisdom of not wearing any colors.

Amidst the chaos, I managed to find my friend and we entered the stadium just in time for kickoff. Immediately, my focus was less on the game and more on the south side of the stadium, where the crazy fans are. This fan section was probably the rowdiest, most spirited group I have ever seen. They were ridiculous. Everyone was up on their feet the entire game, chanting songs without stop. The most impressive part is that they do everything in total unison. They sway from side to side together like one giant organism. They jump up and down for minutes on end. They harmonize on their songs to the point that it sounds like the voice of God. They had drum sections, with men in the center wearing massive bass drums on their chests. People even had flare guns, and every once in awhile I saw a flare go up and out of the stadium from the middle of this fan section.  I thought that as the game went on they would eventually settle down, stop chanting, maybe even sit. But they didn’t lose any energy; it was superhuman. Below is a mediocre-to-poor picture of this fan section, which absolutely blew my mind with its raucousness. I wish I had taken more pictures, but I didn’t feel comfortable taking my phone out (which is the case in general here).

My section was very tame. Every once in a while, everyone would stand up to watch a fight happening in another part of the stadium. At one point, a Cali fan in green popped out of the stands, and ended up on the level of the field. The police escorted him out, and he continued to shout and taunt the América fans on his way out. They responded by throwing bottles, food, and trash at him.

The game itself was fairly entertaining, though I’m not a huge soccer fan. Cali got off to a quick 1-0 lead. It didn’t look like América had any chance of competing, as they looked weaker and far less skilled. Early in the second half, though, they scored on a corner kick and the stadium lit up in celebration. I may not love soccer, but I definitely could appreciate this moment; everyone around me was ecstatic. The game ended 1-1, which América fans were quite angry about. I think América was lucky to have tied, so I couldn’t really sympathize with their indignation.

Among the most interesting parts about being at the soccer game is the social dynamic. In some profound ways, these soccer games reflect Cali, and all of Colombia. Someone explained to me that Deportivo Cali tends to have the wealthy fans, whereas América attracts people from a wide array of social backgrounds: wealthy university students, but also people from poorer neighborhoods. (Adrian and I discovered this same phenomenon in Chicago, where the Cubs tend to attract a wealthier, less diverse crowd than the White Sox). In fact, América’s motto is “Para todos” (“for everyone”).

Part of América’s attraction of poorer fans comes from the fact that its stadium is located relatively near one of Cali’s most dangerous neighborhoods, Siloe. Siloe is built on the side of a one of Cali’s mountains, and you can only really access it using a chairlift system built by the city. For the soccer games, from what I was told, tons of people come down from Siloe. When all of the wealthier fans told me not to go to the game, they often warned me about the people from Siloe; there was certainly no small amount of classism at play.

Unfortunately, this seems to be a norm here. There are two neighborhoods that are notorious for poverty and crime in Cali. The first is Siloe, which looks like a Brazilian favela: its ramshackle houses are stacked on the side of the mountain at precarious angles, with just about zero distance between each house. The neighborhood really looks small, but I imagine the population density is extremely high. If you’re riding the bus along Cali’s main road, you can see Siloe from most places. It’s off in the distance, which is just one reason why it’s so marginalized. It’s not accessible by bus because of its distance and position on the hill (and very likely because the city and its people don’t want public transport to go out there).

Siloe is what caleños refer to as an “invasion.” It’s an ugly, jarring term for communities that were not established by the city; people “invaded” these areas and built their houses by hand using any materials they could gather. As a result of not being completely recognized by the city of Cali, people in Siloe don’t receive the same amount of public services like electricity and water. Apparently they don’t pay the same taxes (or any at all). Siloe is just one of many “invasions” built on the slope of the mountains surrounding Cali - they stretch up and down the city’s west coast, and the conditions are all alike. Siloe is simply the most extreme, rife with gang wars. Its population is primarily composed of people who have been displaced by Colombia’s ongoing war - from the Amazon and other departments to the south and east of Cali (like Huila and Cauca).

The other deeply impoverished neighborhood in Cali, Aguablanca, is on the east side. Aguablanca’s population, meanwhile, is almost entirely Afro-Colombian - people who have been displaced from the Pacific department of Choco (to the northwest of Cali). Compared to Siloe, Aguablanca is massive. The neighborhood is like a city within a city, with a population of over 700,000. Like Siloe, the neighborhood is far from Cali’s main thoroughfare, and as a result marginalized and ignored. At the very least, the bus system goes to Aguablanca.

I’ve found that wealthy caleños are quite uninterested in helping or engaging with Siloe or Aguablanca. I had thought that because of these areas’ terrible poverty, maybe people would be enthusiastic about lending a hand. But I see very little activism, whether in the form of social work, political campaigning, or even just public dialogue. Everyone knows about these neighborhoods, but no one seems interested in talking about them or thinking about how to help them. They are regarded as facts of life that we simply have to put up with and evade, rather than engage. Of course, neither Cali nor Colombia is alone in this stance; I feel like I could be writing about almost any big city in the world. This apathy is probably universal, I just have especially noticed it in Cali.

So, back to the soccer. Of course, not all América fans come from poor backgrounds and not all Cali fans come from rich ones. But if this tends to be the case, then those fights take on a harsh new light. Cali has some serious social and racial divisions, and they manifest themselves in soccer. 

On the other hand, aside from the couple of fights I saw, the game really was an incredibly joyful, vibrant environment. The fans really have incredible fun, and it was obvious how much the game meant to them. Especially for those fans from Siloe, I can imagine how cathartic the games are. No matter how much money you have, you can come to the game and go crazy: beat drums, scream your head off, sing with your friends, and yes, fire off some flares.

As you may know, Colombia is in the midst of a peace-process. Over the past four years, Colombia’s government and FARC – the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, the guerrilla group – have held negotiations in Havana, Cuba. It has been a long, difficult process, and at times I’m sure people here felt like an agreement would never happen. On August 24th, the agreement was completed! The ceasefire officially went into action a few days later, as FARC laid down its weapons (sometime soon, it will actually have to deliver these weapons to the U.N).

I came to Colombia – in part – because I felt like it was a nation on the upswing: a place defined by progress. I wanted to be a part of these major improvements, and Colombia’s peace process is certainly exciting to witness. After 52 years of war – over 200,000 deaths (mostly civilian) and six million displaced people – the prospect of peace and a safer Colombia is thrilling. However, the process isn’t nearly over. First, on October 2nd, the citizens of Colombia have to vote in a plebiscite on the agreement between the government and FARC. If it passes – which is certainly not a guarantee – the implementation of said compromise will be equally daunting.

Over the past month, I have heard a lot of opinions. I’ve heard lectures about the peace process (la Paz) from Political Science professors. I’ve talked to taxi drivers. I’ve talked to students and my Colombian roommate. I had one man in the conversation club that I lead who was actually kidnapped as a young adult and forced to move abroad for twenty years.

Now, I’m writing this post to shed some light on how Colombians feel about la Paz. People are deeply ambivalent about the compromise and the country’s way forward. People are angry, and some polls say that the country is split 50-50 in regards to the plebiscite. It sounds crazy to a foreigner who might see la Paz in black-and-white, as an obviously great thing that will undoubtedly benefit Colombia. The truth is that this agreement is widely hated!

I want to explain people’s ambivalence. Why wouldn’t you want peace? Well, that’s part of the problem. To everyone’s chagrin, President Juan Manuel Santos has framed the debate in such binaries: you either support la Paz, or you are a terrible person who prefers death and destruction to peace and harmony. Contrary to his with-us-or-against-us notion, though, everyone supports the end of the bloodshed. Everyone supports the notion of peace in general…they just don’t support this Peace.

Here lies a major problem: people resent Santos for giving them a guilt-trip. For making them feel like if they vote “No,” that they implicitly support the death of more child-soldiers and innocent people, and that they perpetuate a war that has felt interminable. As the country heads into the plebiscite, people don’t even feel like they can vote with their heart. The debate has been so simplified that anything other than a “Yes” has been made to feel barbaric.

Why do some people – deep down in the hearts – feel the urge to vote No? Well, even those who completely support the agreement will admit that it has some major drawbacks. The first: the government of Colombia had to make some major concessions to FARC. After years of killing, most FARC guerrillas are getting off almost completely scot-free.

Indeed, almost all Colombians can agree: they want these guys locked-up for years and years. They want some of them to receive the death penalty. On the contrary, they will receive slaps on the wrist. For many, their only punishment is that they won’t be able to vote in elections for the time being. In fact, many guerrillas are getting off better than scot-free; they’re receiving benefits packages! As part of its reintegration program for guerrillas, the government is going to give each guerrilla a monthly stipend-of-sorts to support him or herself for a year or two while they find jobs and settle into cities. These stipends, according to some, add up to more than some people make in the 9-to-5 job. This issue, too, has become a victim of simplification: the guerrillas kill innumerable people, and now you pay them generously?

The FARC will also become a legitimate political party under the agreement. In a few years, they will be automatically guaranteed five or so seats in Congress every election. For people that view that FARC as radical Communists, these five seats are unacceptable – these guys should have no political power at all. Actually, though, there are 300 some-odd seats in Colombia’s congress; five is almost nothing. One Political Science professor in Bogotá told us, “For la Paz to pass, people need to accept the FARC as a real political force. I don’t just see them as common criminals; they represent the needs of our country’s rural population.”

Resentment over the lack of punishment for the FARC forms the basis for opposition to la Paz. Colombia’s former president, Álvaro Uribe (2002 - 2010), is touring the country (in what some deem a publicity stunt), speaking out against it for these exact reasons (he came to my university this week). President Santos’s government, meanwhile, claims that it will only pardon the members of FARC who committed small or mid-level crimes: children who were forced to join the war, people who were mere foot-soldiers that followed orders. The heavy-hitters, supposedly, will still be punished fairly. The government also notes that the financial support it is giving to FARC guerrillas for reintegration adds up to about 40% of what it would cost to jail them.

There is another, less obvious reason people oppose the compromise, though. My roommate, politically active and opinionated, told me unequivocally that he plans to vote “No.” His problem, though, is less about how the compromise fails to punish FARC guerrillas and more about how it fails to help them. He told me, “I want peace, but Colombia is not ready for this agreement from an social or economic standpoint, at all.” I asked him what he meant. Well, as I’ve previously noted, people still widely despise FARC guerrillas. As a result, reintegration will be highly difficult. People don’t want former guerrillas as their neighbors. People won’t want to give jobs to them, either. 

People will ostracize these ex-guerrillas completely. If people don’t welcome them back with relatively open arms, reintegration will not work, some say. These ex-guerrillas will remain as marginalized as they always have been. All around Cali, I’ve found graffiti that addresses la Paz. Below is one particularly striking example that echoes my roommate’s belief: “No health, no job, no home - what peace?” Living as itinerant soldiers in the jungle, the guerrillas – while affected by violence and removed from society – may have some semblance of happiness and sense of place. Integrating them only imposes widespread hatred and hard living. They’ll be happier in the mountains, he claims.

Economically, reintegration will be tough, too. On top of the monthly payments that ex-guerrillas will receive, the country will have to mobilize to provide them with basic necessities. As guerrillas, for example, they essentially had no homes. They lived in the jungles, apart from any real towns. Now that they’ll be coming into Colombia’s cities, they’ll need homes. Who will build these homes? Who will pay for these housing complexes and apartment units? If the answer is the government, my roommate says, then taxes will go through the roof. The same goes for schools. Ex-guerrillas are required by the agreement to enroll in some form of education. But who will build the schools? Who will teach at these schools? Innumerable other questions arise. The answers all sound expensive.

Of course, there are many other arguments against la Paz that I haven’t heard in full. According to my roommate, the majority of those who oppose it are young voters. The arguments for la Paz tend to be less specific. People who support la Paz don’t even feel the need to argue with the opposition. They see it as a common-sense agreement. Their stance is easy to understand: “After years and years of violence, we need to do something different.” The agreement with FARC is far from perfect, but it’s better than doing nothing. It’s a landmark agreement, a totally different approach to resolving the conflict. Maybe it won’t work, but it’s worth a try. One girl told me, “For me, I can understand the arguments against la Paz, but I see people who oppose it as just to radical. However, I have not been affected personally by the violence, so maybe if I had been than it would matter to me more that the FARC is barely being punished.” An Economics professor I talked to, meanwhile, totally dismissed opposition to the agreement, which he sees as “totally sensible.”

As an outsider, all I can do is sit and watch these fascinating conversations. I ask questions whenever I find someone willing to talk about it all with me (which is, surprisingly, most people). I certainly don’t understand the issue enough to take a side. If I’ve taken one thing from all of this, it’s that this is all so much more complicated than it seems from the outside. It’s not a matter of supporting peace or violence, but of doing the peace process right. President Juan Manuel Santos, meanwhile, is not regarded as a hero, as I might have expected. Colombians say he just wants to hastily pass la Paz because it will cement his legacy as the President who Brought Peace to Colombia.

On Saturday, August 20th, I went on a short tour of Cali led by the university where I work. Even though I’ve seen much of the city on my own, I thought it might be interesting to have a guide. One quick note: Colombians are notorious for showing up late to everything. They’ll even admit it. At the university, kids are still filing into the classroom ten minutes after the class is supposed to start. The teacher doesn’t care - he is usually still setting up his materials anyway! So, this tour was supposed to leave from the university at 12:30 sharp. We’ll leave without you, they warned. The tour ended up leaving at 2:15. I’m going to have to learn not to show up early (or even on time) to anything.

Anyway, the first stop was el Centro, the downtown area home to Cali’s banks, government buildings, (small) skyscrapers, and stores. Mostly, people in Cali tell me not to go to el Centro. It’s known for being seedy, rife with pickpockets and swindlers. At night, it’s definitely a no-go.

Despite these warnings, I actually had gone to el Centro prior to the tour...I had to buy a mattress. The commercial area is bustling: stores with people hawking all kinds of cheap merchandise, motorbikes weaving in and out of the crowds, noise coming from all directions. It’s very overwhelming, and you have to keep your wits about you. Asking around for mattress stores, I finally found one selling dirt-cheap, not-very-comfortable beds, which is exactly what I was looking for.

But I had no money. I told the store owner I needed to go the ATM. I can’t tell if he was really kind and compassionate or just desperate to make the sale, but he helped me find the specific ATM I needed. We wandered around the Centro asking for directions. In the end, we walked about ten blocks from his store, and back again. It was another strange experience, meandering through Cali with a mattress-dealer. In the end, we loaded the mattress into the back of a rickety truck, and I sat in the front with the delivery man as he drove to my apartment. That was that - my experience, while hectic, did not reflect the anxiety that el Centro inspires in most people.

Still, el Centro has more to offer than these commercial streets. Actually, some parts of it - which we visited on the tour - are quite beautiful. Iglesia La Merced is beautiful, and we got to see the end of a wedding filing out. Meanwhile, there are beautiful palm trees in the Plaza de Cayzedo. Some of the surrounding buildings, pastel colored with a 1800s colonial style are really quite elegant: La Justicia (Justice building), Teatro Jorge Isaacs, the vacant Edificio Coltabaco, and La Ermita church (below). As can be expected, I’m much more impressed by all of this than natives of Cali. When I tell them about how much I like these buildings, their faces usually wrinkle in disgust, or they just shrug and say, “...es normal”. I’ve found that the difference between my enthusiasm for things her and their apathy manifests itself when it comes to pretty much everything. They love their city... they just love it for reasons other than nice churches and colonial architecture.

From there, we walked across the Puente Ortiz, a bridge that crosses a small river, and arrived at the Plaza del Alcaldia, a little square with food vendors and hundreds of pigeons. Our guide referred to the plaza as Parque de las Palomas (Pigeon Park). Although most people think the plaza is of little note, our stop there was one of my favorite parts of the tour. There are vendors that sell bird food - plastic bags filled with seeds. Our guide bought us bags of seed. Upon taking a handful of seeds in my palm, three pigeons immediately flew up and landed on me. Two on my arm, one sitting on my shoulder...so fun! Holding the pigeons made me appreciate them more. They’re big, warm birds, and they really can be beautiful. I like them a lot. Still, many of the kids on the tour opted to watch from a distance. 

Finally, we headed to Cristo Rey, one of the best attractions in the city. Cali is surrounded by the foothills of the Andes - they’re called los farrallones. Of these farrallones, there are two famous peaks - Cristo Rey (Christ King), and Tres Cruces (Three Crosses). Cristo Rey has a huge monument of Jesus at the peak, while Tres Cruces, naturally, has three crosses. From most places in Cali, you can see these monuments looming above the city. You can hike or drive up both peaks. The hikes are between thirty minutes and an hour, depending on your physical fitness, while the drive is a wind-y 15 minutes or so.

Our bus struggled up the mountain, and we arrived at Cristo Rey. It’s terrific. From the monument, you can see all of Cali below. I didn’t quite understand how gigantic and sprawling the city is until viewing from above. You can see the Centro’s tall business buildings and the soccer stadium Pascual Guerrero (more about that in a later post). In the distance are Cali’s vast sugarcane fields (vital for Cali’s economy, as the city doesn’t rely on oil revenue as many of Colombia’s other cities do). Cali is a city of nearly 3 million, but it doesn’t feel very big. Once I saw it from a bird’s eye view, though, I realized how far its suburbs stretch.

Besides the beautiful view, the Christ monument is formidable. While the Christ the Redeemer monument in Rio de Janeiro is more famous, Wikipedia tells me that it is 30 meters high to Cristo Rey’s 40. There was also comedian in front of the monument! He had many raunchy jokes that were amusing, but he landed his biggest joke when he claimed that Jesus had his left foot forward because he was preparing to dance Salsa, which is Cali’s claim to fame. Along the road behind the monument, there were people flying and selling kites, and some great food venders. 

I plan to return to Cristo Rey soon, next time for a hike. Everyone visiting just seemed really happy to be there. Looking down at Cali, I got a great feeling about everything. I felt very lucky to be there.

It’s August 23rd, and I’ve been in Colombia for a month! I can’t believe it’s been that long – my time here has been a whirlwind. After a week of orientation in Bogotá, I arrived in wonderful Cali to begin my year here. Cali is unlike any place I’ve been. I’m so constantly bombarded by new stimuli that I’m exhausted by 9pm every night. Rather than crafting a massive “welcome to Colombia” post detailing everything I’ve seen, I decided that it would be better for me to just jump into my experience here piece-by-piece, with a few aspects of life here in each post. I want to make it clear that I took all of these photos, not Adrian - important to note because I’m a terrible photographer with a cellphone camera, and he’s the opposite. Anyway, I’ll start with the two aspects of life that had an immediate impact on me upon landing in Cali: the roads, and the people that drive on them.

The Roads

Of all the surprises here, the roads might be the most shocking. They are absolute chaos. Total madness. People drive exactly how they want to, regardless of laws and safety. Red lights are totally optional. Crosswalks are useless. Drivers totally ignore them, so pedestrians absolutely don’t have right-of-way. I often have to scurry back to the sidewalk to avoid getting totally mowed down by guys on their motorcycles. Of course, sidewalks aren’t totally safe either...people drive their motorbikes on the sidewalks. One time, as I walked along the sidewalk, a guy behind me beeped at me to get out of the way, as if I was the person who was doing something illegal and inconsiderate.

Cheap Japanese motorcycles are the preferred mode of transportation here. They drive very fast, and it’s not uncommon to see little kids riding in the back, or a baby wedged in between mom and dad...illegal, but still commonplace. To add to that, the signs that tell pedestrians when it’s safe to walk are almost all broken. Cross at your own risk. Make it quick.

The public transit system, unfortunately, has been an adventure of almost equal proportions! The public bus system, known as MIO, features glossy, modern blue buses. At rush hour, these buses feel like New York City’s subway system - they heat up like ovens. You don’t have enough space to move, rotate, or even put your hands down. 

One day, caught in this situation, I actually started giggling to myself. It was so uncomfortable and miserable that I could only laugh it off. A few years ago, never would I have been able to imagine that at the age of 22 I would be sweating profusely on a rush hour bus in Cali, Colombia. It was more surreal than anything, and I must admit that it felt good to struggle along with everyone. For a few minutes there, I felt like a real caleño (the term for someone from Cali). It remains one of my more memorable moments in these past few weeks.

People in Cali hate MIO...with a passion. MIO is only about five years old. As an outsider, I see it as a true sign of Cali’s progress, as every large city needs a legitimate public transit system. Some caleños I’ve talked to, meanwhile, see it as a reflection of Cali’s struggle to move into the 21st century and keep up with more modern cities like Medellin. Others don’t care to explain why they hate it - they just do. I must say that I don’t mind the MIO, in general. Sure, it’s slow, and sometimes packed, but it gets you where you need to go, and the buses are spacious and sometimes air-conditioned.

The alternatives to MIO are small, rickety buses of various names. One of the more prominent companies is called “La Ermita” (pictured below). A lot of people here prefer la Ermita to MIO, which confuses me very much. Actually, La Ermita amuses me more than anything. The company has about six different routes. Except, the routes aren’t fixed routes - they’re more like suggestions. First, you find a bus with the number route that you need, the number posted on a piece of paper in the windshield. It can be hard to find one, because they have no official stops; you just have to see one and wave it down (in fairness, they’re pretty omnipresent). When you board the bus, you tell the driver where you want to go. He knows which neighborhoods he’s supposed to drive through, and with every person’s destination in mind, he meanders around his general route. He stops suddenly whenever someone asks. It’s total chaos - he just tries his best to remember where people want to go and to put the stops into a sensible order.

This system, although haphazard, isn’t a problem for me. The buses themselves, though, are the worst. The ceiling is about five feet tall. If you don’t get a seat - which you probably won’t, because there aren’t many - you have to stand. At six feet tall, I end up having to bend my neck and knees just to fit. If you do get to sit, though, the seats can’t appropriately be called seats. They’re about six inches deep, like they were built for toddlers. They’re more like ledges, and when the driver makes his signature lane changes or whips the bus into a turn, you go flying off the seat. Meanwhile, these buses roast. MIO buses can be hot, but at least they have air-conditioning. La Ermita buses are an inferno.

Lastly, there are even smaller buses that - as far as I can tell - are more like carpool pick-up trucks. They don’t belong to any real company; they just pick up anyone who wants a ride for a few bucks. The best part is that people pile in and when space runs out, they just hang off the back of the truck. I just think this is awesome. Well done, guys. You talk about people that know how to get where they need to go...

The People

Now, I want to touch on the people who ride these buses, who complain about MIO, who are less shocked by the system in general. Because these people are great. I always try to avoid making blanket statements – positive and negative – about groups of people. Obviously, in every country, there are friendly people, mean people, angry people, happy people – you name it. But…the people of Colombia have been extraordinarily kind. In some places I visited in Europe, I must admit that the people were hesitant to open up to me. Here, people go out of their way to be friendly with me. A few anecdotes should show you what I mean.

I have to constantly ask people for directions. Rather than shrug me off or give me a grumpy reply, everyone here stops what they’re doing and gives me thorough directions. In fact, some people have simply taken it upon themselves to walk me all the way to my destination! This has happened more than a few times.

On my first afternoon here, the woman who received me into her apartment for a temporary stay took me out to eat, took me to her mom’s house, and took me on a long, hot walk to a shopping mall in search of the WiFi I needed to contact my family. Her patience and toughness, despite it being a total death march with someone she barely knew, was truly endearing. On the way, we met a man who was selling cell-phone plans. After realizing that I was not from Cali, he asked me a few questions about where I’m from. Then, very timidly, he asked: “Would you mind if I gave you a ‘welcome to Colombia’ hug?” Yes, I hugged a random man selling Claro data plans, after knowing him for all of 20 seconds. He, too, was exceptionally endearing.

In general, people have been so excited to hear about my life at home, and why I came to Colombia. When they discover that I’m here to teach English, they are so grateful and eager: “Thank you so, so much for choosing to come to Colombia! It’s a beautiful country and it’s not what people think. We promise that it’s safe, and thank you again for coming!”  They’re so touched that I’m here, and launch into descriptions of all the places I should visit and activities I should do.

Some of my best interactions have been with taxi drivers. They tend to be extremely sociable, chatty people, and they’re the perfect, non-judgmental audience for me to practice my Spanish. Topics of conversation with them have ranged from the best places to dance in Cali, to Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen, to why people from the United States always slam the taxi doors shut (I don’t know). Unfortunately, one question they’re all itching to ask is, “What do you think of Donald Trump?” Donald Trump is the most notorious figure in all of America - Colombia included! - and they hate him with a passion down here. Of course, I quickly assure them, that no, I do not like Donald Trump. We usually fall into a few minutes of vilifying the man - quite a good way to bond.

Actually, the people here are so friendly that it has become a bit of a problem for me - everyone I meet wants my phone number so they can text me! One of my more prominent, well-known flaws is that I can’t say no to anyone. So, I’ve ended up giving my phone number to taxi drivers, security guards, and acquaintances from the university. They text me, hoping to have long conversations via text. I have to find a way to stave them off...

On the morning of Monday, June 27th, we jumped in the car and made a beeline toward St. Louis. Considering that we were headed to Denver via the Badlands of South Dakota, we could have taken a more efficient route through Wisconsin and Minnesota. But the St. Louis Arch is the St. Louis Arch, so we took a detour. After some leftover deep-dish pizza and Strawberry YooHoo (what a find!) at a gas station, we came upon St. Louis. You can see the Gateway Arch, shining majestically, from miles away.

We parked next to Busch Stadium, the home field of the storied St. Louis Cardinals. As we walked down to the Arch - which sits along the ancient, filthy Mississippi River – it became clear to me than the structure is far bigger than I realized. I had pictured a 200-foot tall, tinny thing that gives off a metallic ring when you knock on it. I severely underestimated one of America’s foremost landmarks. The Arch is 630 feet tall and solid as a rock. As you walk around it, you’re forced to crane you neck back and squint; it seems as though the arch might actually rise straight into the sun. The Arch plays with your mind a bit, too; even though it’s very simple architecture, it seems to contort and twist in certain places. We speculated about how they actually installed the Arch. I like the idea of it being built off-site, than just airlifted straight into its current position by a thousand helicopters. Actually, it was built segment by segment, up toward the pinnacle of the arch. Makes more sense.

Also, that was the hottest day in human history. We were sweating just from sitting. Instead of opting for the Arch tour, which takes you to the top in a dark, claustrophobic trolley with strangers for a steep price, we went down to the Mississippi River. On a dare, Adrian took a sip. I haven’t checked in with him in a while, but I hope he’s still amoeba-free.

Back in the car, we headed to a coffee shop to form a game plan. The idea had been to stay in Columbia, Missouri (home of the University of Missouri), and see Kansas City in the morning. But it was far too hot to even talk, really, so we called an audible. I contacted my mom, who got in touch with some great family friends who live in Omaha, Nebraska. Luckily, they were glad to have us for the night. We decided to skip Kansas City, the Outback gathering a yellowish paste of bugs on the windshield as we zipped through Missouri. With a beautiful sunset in front of us, we straddled the Iowa border and made it to our gracious hosts in Omaha by 10:30 at night. We were greeted with a Hall of Fame-worthy yellow lab and some cold beers. Glorious.

In the morning, after some eggs and toast, we made a game-plan with our hosts, who know every single thing about Nebraska. Don’t go through South Dakota they said. Head toward Alliance, Nebraska, then up through the famous Sandhills. They gave us some notes about key stops along the way, and we said farewell. A note about road trips: they are far, far better when you reach out to family and friends along the way. In Chicago, we stayed with a college friend of my dad. He and his family were fantastic; they gave us maps, food, and general friendliness. Same in Omaha. The value of staying with people we know - rather than at a spirit-robbing, $40 highway motel - was a true life-saver. We can’t thank them enough for their hospitality. Call your friends when you road-trip.

The first stop in Nebraska was Alliance, a western town known for an awesome landmark. Carhenge is exactly what it sounds like. A guy had an idea to make a replica of Stonehenge out of old cars, and so he did it. It’s genuinely cool! The creator really nailed it. It looks exactly like Stonehenge, and to visit costs nothing. Those kinds of stops are very necessary. Five hours in the car, no matter how much you like your company, is tough. On the way to Alliance, for example, we stopped at a Burger King for its widely-discussed, highly-touted new product: Mac N’ Cheetos. They’re basically Mac and Cheese, formed into a ball, then fried. Then, those balls are dusted with Cheeto cheese. I’ll tell you what… they’re almost perfect. We just had one critique: more Cheeto dust would have been nice. That day was actually the debut of the product, though, so I wouldn’t be surprised if the chefs were still perfecting the recipe. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt.

From Carhenge, we started up the famous Sandhills of Nebraska. The Sandhills are known for the magnificent Sandhill Crane, which breed in the area every spring. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to see them. The Sandhills cover over ¼ of Nebraska, an area of almost 20,000 square miles. Our hosts in Omaha claimed that they’re unlike anything we had ever seen, and they were totally right. We turned onto Route 250, a small county road with one lane going each way. We were completely alone. The Sandhills – these furry, craggy hills – sprawled out on either side of our car as far as the eye could see, for almost an hour of driving. Strangely, the hills seem completely dry, but are interspersed with small, naturally forming ponds. Apparently, the Sandhills sit on a huge, very important aquifer. When the Keystone XL pipeline – which was supposed to run through this area – was being proposed, Nebraskan farmers protested it passionately because of the importance of this aquifer to their farms. 

At the end of our journey through the endless hills, we arrived in Rushville, Nebraska. At that very moment, a torrential storm with gale-force winds and massive hailstones arrived. Unable to see the road, we ducked into a local gas station, where we chatted with locals and were heckled by a rambunctious lady who worked the cash register. “Are ya gonna buy anything? This ain’t a sanctuary ya know. What are you guys gonna buy? Where are you two even from?” When she tried to guess where we were from, she started, “Well, there’s no way you’re from the east coast.” I don’t know how she decided that. Adrian in particular enjoyed toying with her, heckling her back. When the storm passed, though, she wished us well on our journey, and we got back on the road. She was a particularly memorable character.

Pine Ridge Reservation

Here, things got interesting. When we left Omaha, our hosts told us, “You’re going to drive through an Indian reservation, and this spooky town called Whiteclay. You’ll see some poverty like you’ve never seen before.” Upon arriving in Whiteclay, Nebraska their words immediately rang true. The town is notorious. It’s been the subject of articles by the New York Times and NPR. Whiteclay consists of one intersection, with four buildings (one on each corner of the intersection). All four of them are liquor stores.

The Pine Ridge Indian Reservation covers nearly 3,500 square miles and has a population approaching 30,000. The reservation surrounds much of the Badlands, and stretches all the way down to the border of South Dakota and Nebraska. For various reasons, the reservation is dry (kind of). Years ago, some enterprising (presumably white) men decided to cash in on the prohibition of alcohol in the reservation. They established these liquor stores right over the South Dakota border in Whiteclay. These stores have come to reflect the alcoholism and the subsequent exploitation that plagues reservations. Outside each liquor store are large groups of men. These men, by most measures, are struggling. Some are lying on the ground, seemingly asleep. Others stand in the decrepit doorways and front porches. When we passed through, there were at least a dozen impoverished men in front of each store. From what I understand, these men basically live outside the liquor stores. They rarely (if ever) return to the reservation. This intersection has become a battleground. A few years ago, Native American protesters temporarily prevented Anheuser-Busch trucks from delivering their beer.

To pass through this eerie intersection, with dozens of men watching us out-of-towners go by, was somewhat shocking  for me. I felt lots of different things: sadness, confusion, and certainly some discomfort. We might as well have been arriving from Mars. We were aliens. Crossing the border into South Dakota, we saw the true extent of this poverty in the town of Pine Ridge. We stopped for gas. Stray dogs roamed the parking lot, while several homeless men tried to sell us “bead work.”

Staying on the reservation was one of the most memorable parts of the trip for me. Outside of Whiteclay and Pine Ridge, we didn’t see any visually-dramatic poverty, but the small, solitary ranch houses were certainly far from what we grew up in. The unemployment rate in the reservation ranges between 85 and 95 percent, and 97% of the reservation population lives below the poverty line. I read that high school dropout rate in some schools is close to 70%. Read some crazy statistics here and here.

Of course, we have only good things to say about the people we met. In a moment that I found quite enjoyable our credit cards did not work on the gas pumps – you have to have a Sioux Nation card. When I went inside to pay, the people behind the register joked with us – the only white people we would see until Badlands National Park – and gave us directions to the best, closest hotel to the national park. That night, we stayed at the quaint Pine Ridge Ranch. There too, the people there were extremely friendly, and we got great, cheap meals at their restaurant.

Badlands National Park

The next day, we spent nearly the entire day at the Badlands National Park. Driving into the park, we took a back road with just some empty fields on either side of us. We thought we were in the wrong place. Where are the rock formations? Where are the buffalo we’ve been hearing about? We dragged through a gravel road for what felt like hours. Then, we saw big, brown lumps in the distance. Immediately, I perked up, positive they were buffalo. All of a sudden, we came upon it: a lone buffalo, sitting about twenty feet off the road.

Giddy, jumping in our seats like little kids, we pulled the car over. Crossing the road, we found this buffalo just sitting there. Mesmerizing. These animals are a true wonder. Maybe three times the size of a cow (to my eye, at least), he had this beautiful thick coat up near his neck, with a classic goatee on his chin. Having only seen buffalo in picture, I was awed by his size and simple beauty. He rolled around in the dirt (apparently, it’s a symbiotic relationship; he rolls for whatever reason, which kicks up the old dust, allowing the fresher dirt beneath to rise to the top and provide nutrients). Then, he stood up. He was at least seven feet tall. He stomped once or twice. We quickly got back in the car.

About a hundred yards down the road, we came to the herd. There must have been about 300 buffalo there. Most grazed, others sat and rolled. But there were just so many! I was overjoyed to see such a spectacle. Further down the road, we found hundreds of prairie dogs, living in innumerable holes along the road. Those guys are some of the more entertaining creatures you’ll find. They poke their heads out of the road curiously, watching you pass. Others scavenge, running from hole to hole. They interact with each other like humans. They squeak and make weird noises. They’re just great. Burrowing owls also poked around. There were lots of families in RVs and SUVs along the main road of the park – family road-trips are definitely still alive.

After spending some time at the visitor’s center, we drove back through the park to our ranch. Having enjoyed a few hours of down time, we set back out to see the Badlands at sunset. Beautiful. We set up our car near a ledge, opened up our trunk to tailgate, and it immediately began to pour. The sunset was beautiful, despite the rain and clouds. We stayed for a few hours into dark. The best part: the buffalo going to sleep. They have a moo much like a cow’s, and they mooed for about an hour until they finally settled down to sleep at around 9pm. Hundreds of buffalo were only about 100 yards from us, but you would never have known it once it got dark and they fell asleep. Adrian tried to take some shots of the Milky Way – it was a bit too cloudy to really capture it. Another photographer came by much later; we chatted, then headed home.

The Last Day of Driving

We had just over seven hours of driving until Denver. First, though, we had to stop at Mount Rushmore. It felt obligatory – we were only an hour and a half away, and it’s one of America’s most famous landmarks. Upon arriving at Rushmore, it immediately became clear how touristy it really is. There are tacky signs for miles in advance, and there were hundreds of people at the monument.

The only reaction you really can have to the monument is “Well, that’s definitely what it looks like in the pictures.” I will say, I thought the monument was at the top of a huge mountain – that we would only be able to see them in the distance. It’s really just a rocky hill, though. You could hike up to the monument in twenty minutes; the heads are much closer to the ground than I realized. Here are a few quick facts that we discovered, that tell you pretty much everything you’d want to know about Rushmore. Our Rushmore Rankings:

1. Abraham Lincoln: the detailed work on his facial hair really renders him the only choice for the best Rushmore president.

2.Teddy Roosevelt: His glasses and scowl are cool, but he’s set a little too far back and looks fat.

3. George Washington: He’s the most iconic, but he’s kind of ugly with that nose.

4. Thomas Jefferson: A total architectural afterthought. He’s kind of hidden, and has no facial features of any real note.

Mt. Rushmore is absolutely worth a stop if you’re in the area. It’s a cool thing. You pay for parking, look at the monument for twenty minutes, and get back on the road. We had a lot of Wyoming to get through.

Wyoming was rough. We drove, and drove, and drove. It was just open, empty land that sprawled out on either side of us for miles. Not much to look at, and it was seemingly endless. Plus, day six of the road trip – we were just ready to be there. We whined a lot about soreness and boredom. Music had become annoying. We dreamed of McDonald’s but there were no rest stops for over a hundred miles. To give you a sense for where our heads were at, we were overjoyed to finally arrive at a McDonalds for iced coffee…it was our fourth McDonald’s stop of the trip. Four trips to McDonald’s is too many.

Finally, we made it to Denver. We were to stay there with my girlfriend for a few days; Adrian would head on to a wedding in Salt Lake City, and I would eventually fly home. We explored Boulder, a great town outside Denver. We poked around Denver, too, enjoying Wynkoop Brewery and a few cool bars. Lastly, we took a great hike at St. Mary’s Glacier in Idaho Springs, Colorado. Snow is there year-round, so we hiked up and did some sledding on our raincoats on the way back down.

Besides a few hours here and there, there wasn’t a dull moment on the trip. We saw some cities (Chicago, St. Louis, Omaha, Denver), some landmarks, and some beautiful nature and wildlife. I was reminded that driving across the country – although it takes a few days – is not actually that hard from a driving standpoint. If you have the right friend to travel with, it’s absolutely better than flying. We saw a good deal of our country, much of which most people never get to see. Time with friends on the road is true quality-time, and I can’t wait for our next road-trip.

On Friday, June 24th, Adrian and I set out on another adventure: a cross-country road trip. With our starting point in Warwick, NY, and a destination of Denver, we hopped in Adrian’s brand-new, used Subaru Outback, and took off. Our first CD selection was Maroon 5’s It Won’t Be Soon Before Long, and we felt good about that.

Our first planned stop was Chicago. Ten hours, said Google Maps. We cruised through the lengthy state of Pennsylvania. After a quick stop at Adrian’s late grandmother’s house (“Wow – a lot smaller than I remembered... I thought this hill was steep, but it’s barely even an incline…”), we continued to the small town of DuBois for lunch. Our first option for lunch sounded promising, until we stumbled into an empty warehouse with four people sitting around a bar, smoking pungent cigarettes, guarded by a small, mangy dog. In the politest way possible, we got out of there immediately. A good experience, though; those dive bars need to exist, and they’re everywhere. Finally, we found a quintessential American diner (aptly named the DuBois Diner), complete with the red-leather booth seats and too many carbs. I, for one, ate too much bread. Feeling satiated – if bloated and gluttonous – we got back on the road.

Ohio and Indiana didn’t bring much in the way of sights, although Ohio does have some beautiful cornfields that I don’t think it gets credit for. Unfortunately, we hit traffic. Never ones to let a tough moment get us down, we made use of the back-road traffic to do a little myth-busting. The question: if you really need to get to your (relatively close) destination, and you’re stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, is it ever in your best interest to get out of your car and just walk? 

With Adrian at the wheel, I hopped out of the Outback and starting walking down the road. First of all, a consideration that I hadn’t considered: it’s quite humiliating to walk by each car that’s in front of you. I felt like a jackass. Second, when those cars pass you, it’s both frightening (they move fast), and you look like a jackass for a second time. Anyway, the answer to the question is a resounding NO. I had gotten maybe 100 yards ahead of Adrian until the traffic moved a bit – Adrian flew past me at about 250 miles per hour, and all of a sudden I was totally stranded. No matter how much ground you cover while the cars are stopped, they’ll catch up to you very quickly. Don’t walk it.

Anyway, after an hour of traffic, it quickly became clear that Google Maps’ prediction of 10 hours was going to be very wrong. We boogied through Indiana in the dark, stopping only for gas and Snickers. The big thing: the family that was hosting us in Chicago planned on staying up until we arrived. Initially, we thought, “No problem – we’ll be there by 9:00.” As we inched our way through Indiana, though, it became clear that no, definitely not 9:00. I texted that they don’t stay up for us, but they kindly did. The only thing I remember about the last hour of the trip was Adrian semi-falling asleep at the wheel and me actually falling asleep in the passenger’s seat, despite turning the Red Hot Chili Peppers up to high volume. I remember Adrian kind of wheezing his way into Chicago, his constant groans and sighs of exhaustion nearly impossible to stifle. After thirteen grueling hours of driving, we arrived. Our hosts did not seem pleased to be up at 11:45, and they quickly showed us to our beds…very fair.

Chicago: Day 1 Our first day in Chicago, we wasted no time in getting to know the city. Taking the train into Union Station near the Sears Tower (recently re-named the Willis Tower), we discovered that Chicago actually has a nice river running through it, with motor boats and yachts…who knew? Our first stop, of course, was the famous Bean sculpture. I didn’t know much about it, but was pleasantly surprised to find that you can actually go underneath it; it’s like a giant funhouse mirror underneath.

Next, we went to a bar to escape the scorching heat. I got in an argument with a grumpy guy (actually, he basically was just yelling at me while I kind of cowered in my seat), while Adrian had to chat with a very drunk lady, telling him slurred stories about her daughter and how many “fests” there are in Chicago (she actually got out her phone to look up all the fests; she really wanted us to see the fests). We shimmied out of there, taking a cab uptown toward Wrigley Field to see Chicago’s Pride Parade. 

Although we were a day early for the parade, the trip uptown was great. We ate some doughnuts at Stan’s Donuts, perused inside a used-and-new bookstore, and strolled around the Brooklyn-esque, hipster-ish neighborhood of Lake View. We agreed – it would be a great spot to live. At Wrigley Field, we stumbled into a raucous crowd…waiting for a Phish concert. There were some really dirty hippies outside, ready to rock – kind of cool, but kind of not.

Finally, we took the metro from Wrigley Field down to see Hyde Park, in the south side of the city. A guy tried to light a cigarette on the train, which was funny – he was quite disgruntled when someone told him he was definitely not allowed to do that. He murmured something about Milwaukee, walked to the end of the car, and proceeded to light his cigarette there. The White Sox stadium passed, and we arrived near Washington Park. We walked through a poorer neighborhood, until bumping right into the pristine, insular campus of the University of Chicago (as with many colleges and universities, the contrast between the immaculate school and the surrounding neighborhood was jarring).

Still, the University of Chicago is beautiful. With its quads and ivy-covered buildings, it definitely seemed like a cooler university than the one we attended (just kidding – I like to put our school down, but only in fun and in a grass-is-always-greener way). Having rented the city bikes, we biked around the campus, through the neighborhood of Hyde Park, and arrived at Lake Shore Drive.

Lake Shore Drive was the most memorable part of the trip for me. I hadn’t realized how close Chicago is to Lake Michigan, so to find these beautiful parks, bike lanes, and piers was really special. There were hundreds of people outside, having barbecues with friends and family. It felt like a really nice community place with some genuine camaraderie. The people hanging out on the lake just seemed really happy, and it felt good just to be among them.

Luckily, the back paths extend along the water all the way to downtown Chicago. As the sun set, we made our way all the way back to downtown. It took over an hour (with the city bikes, you have to check in at a new station every half-hour), but we were rewarded with gorgeous views of the skyline, across the water from the Hyde Park waterfronts. The city had finally cooled down, and the bike ride sticks in my mind as the highlight of our stay in Chicago. After a quick stroll around the Navy Pier (a new-ish boardwalk that feels kind of like the Jersey Shore), we headed back to the house to rest up for a second day in the city.

Chicago: Day 2 Our second day in Chicago was a bit more mellow. To start, we headed up to Pride Parade near Wrigley Field, where over a million people were expected to attend. What a parade. There were definitely at least a million people there, and they were going crazy. People were covered in paint, wearing ridiculous, tight-fitting outfits (many of them, scantily-clad). There were all types in the Parade – gay, straight, transgender, old people, young people, cops, motorcycle enthusiasts, you name it. People were covered in paint, throwing bead necklaces everywhere, holding up signs like “Free hugs.” There was definitely lots of love and support, and a sense of total positivity and joy, despite the Orlando shootings having happened just days prior.

Our experience at the parade was weird, though. Adrian and I both consider ourselves to be liberal, accepting people. But at the Parade, we both felt really conservative. We were the only people dressed in khaki shorts and t-shirts – very plainly, like middle-aged men. I, for one, couldn’t erase this expression of confusion, curiosity, and discomfort on my face. I totally support the LGBTQ community, but I fear that I looked wholly unsupportive as I walked along the parade: curmudgeonly, prude, intolerant. It was a good lesson for me: no matter how accepting I try to be, I can always be more so. I may be tolerant, but put me at a Pride Parade and I’m out of my comfort zone – a frown on my face, looking like the old guard. I’ve got a long way to go. Still, I don’t want to send the wrong message: we had a great time at the parade! I don’t think I grasped until that day how gigantic the LGBTQ community really is. It’s a big tent, and I was happy to see so many people just be happy together for a whole day.

Next, we took the train down to Lagunitas Brewing more toward downtown. What a great brewery! It’s got this crazy entrance hallway, with weird lighting, psychedelic paintings on the walls, and the audio from the scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with the boat in the dark tunnel. It felt like the Disney World of beer. After a beer or two with Adrian’s cousin, a graduate student at Northwestern, we headed to another cool bar near his cousin’s apartment, and finally grabbed some deep-dish pizza at Giordano’s (a touristy but good chain serving Chicago–style pizza). Deep-dish pizza is delicious. If we have to compare it to New York-style pizza – we shouldn’t – then New York-style is better. Still, it’s definitely worth a try.

On November 7th, we headed to Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic. It was our last trip as a group, so everyone was excited, ready to make the most of our time together in “Praha,” as the city is called in Czech. About four hours from Vienna, Prague is like Vienna’s more spirited little brother. With a population of about 1.25 million, compared to Vienna’s 1.8 million, Prague felt appreciably smaller than Vienna. We walked around the whole major downtown in one day, and had already found our bearings by the end of the weekend; in Vienna, orienting ourselves took much longer.

Wenceslas Square

Wenceslas Square is a long, centrally located street in Prague with much history. At the top of the square stands a humongous museum dedicated to natural history, art, and Czech history and culture. In the middle of the square in a statue of King Wenceslas on his horse, which is one of the major landmarks of Prague. Apparently, natives casually tell each other, “Let’s meet under the tail,” no explanations needed.

In 1968, the Warsaw Pact armies - namely, the Soviet Union and East Germany -  marched into Prague to prop up the Communist government, which had been struggling to suppress liberal uprisings since it took over in 1948. The students of Prague responded radically. In January of 1969, 21-year-old Jan Palach set himself on fire in protest in the famous Wenceslas Square. Students reacted with greater protest in the wake of this death, and another student (Jan Zajic) committed suicide through self-immolation. The protesting was not fruitless, though. The uprising, which came to be known as the Prague Spring, established a precedent for the famous Velvet Revolution of 1989, when the Czechs achieved a peaceful transition out of Communism and the Soviets left for good.

The square is really a long corridor of a street, perfect for protest because of its size and shape. Look at these pictures of President Vaclav Havel addressing his victorious anti-communist followers following the ousting of the Soviets in 1989... what a crowd! In Wenceslas Square there is now a memorial to Jan Palach and Jan Zajic. You can really feel the weight of the square’s history while standing in it. So much rebellion against tyranny!

The Jewish Quarter

In the years leading up to the Holocaust, Jews were forced into ghettos. These ghettos were basically just Jewish neighborhoods - with their own stores, churches, and everything - except for that they were literally walled in. The Jewish neighborhoods were completely sectioned off; in fact, the term “ghetto” actually comes from the island of Ghetto off of Venice, which was one of the original places persecuted Jews were forced to live.

The Jewish Quarter in Prague is an interesting place. On the one hand, there are the visual remnants of the former ghetto with the synagogues and such. On the other hand, many of the streets have been converted into posh shopping streets that do not reflect the poverty that used to exist. When this change from poverty to glamour began, in fact, many Jewish citizens protested. They hated the ghetto, obviously, but had become attached to it and did not want it demolished. Their wishes went unheeded. Although Hitler eradicated Jewish ghettos by emptying their populations, the ghetto in Prague was left alone. Hitler wanted the ghetto to remain standing as a museum. Appallingly, he stated that he wanted to leave this particular ghetto standing as “A Monument for an Extinct Race.” Quite presumptuous - he was certain he would succeed.

After walking through a beautiful synagogue, we toured a Holocaust museum which features the names of all the victims on the walls in tiny font. The names, bunched together by alphabetical order, filled three big rooms. Like the Book of Names at Mauthausen, these rooms really put the magnitude of the Holocaust in perspective. I come back to the U.S. with a much greater sense of the gravity of the Holocaust.

Outside the museum was the Jewish cemetery. At least back then, the Jewish buried their dead in stacks. Each individual grave was still several feet deep, but each plot of land housed more than just one grave, going deeper than just one layer. In other words, there are perhaps six or seven bodies buried under each other, the lowest casket being about thirty feet underground. This strategy was mainly to save space, but is difficult to realize. The tombstones are bunched together in complete disorder, bending over each other at strange angles and leaning every which way. The cemetery really is spooky to see, with the way all of the crowded graves look and with knowledge of how many bodies are packed into the small space. Quite sobering.

The Clock Tower

Very centrally located is Prague’s clocktower, one of the more touristy sites in the city. Every hour, a giant clock about twenty feet high comes to life. Small sculptures of saints pop out of a window and start circling. A figure of a homeless man begins to shake a bag of money. On the other side of the clock, a sculpture of Death strikes the clock, thus telling the beggar that Death makes no exceptions and that money cannot save him. It’s a fun little coo-coo clock, really, but tourists gather around it in rapture. Really, the best part of the clocktower is going up to the top and seeing the city from above. The clock itself is underwhelming.

The Charles Bridge

The most enchanting part about Prague is the Charles Bridge. With the Vltava River running right through the city, the bridge is only for pedestrians and is almost always crowded. To walk onto the bridge, you have to walk under an arched tower.

At the center of the bridge there is a statue dedicated to John of Nepomuk, a national saint of the Czech Republic who was martyred in the 1300s when he was thrown off the bridge (the bridge is only about 40 feet high, so we all voiced our doubts that he would have even died from the fall). People rub the Nepomuk statue for good luck now, and one part of the statue is gold now from all the rubbing. The bridge itself is cobblestone and black from years of dirt and use. But it’s not the statues, towers or cobblestones that make the bridge special. I don’t know why it feels special; it just is. There is a real magic to it that I can’t quite explain. At night, especially, with the illuminated cathedral reflected on river, the beauty is undeniable.

  There are two Pragues: the east side on one side of the bridge (more commercial) and the west side across the river (more historic). So far, I’ve covered the busier east side that includes Wenceslas Square, the Jewish Quarter, the Clocktower, and the famous Powder Tower (a tower that used to store gunpowder until it exploded because it was, well, filled with gunpowder). Now, we’ll cross the Charles Bridge and visit the quieter, more historical side of Praha.

St. Vitus Cathedral

On the west side of Prague, best viewed from the east side, sits the gigantic St. Vitus Cathedral. In most respects, the cathedral is just a traditional Gothic Church. Impressive for its size and scope, but nothing we hadn’t seen before. There are two aspects, though, that stand out. First, the church is home to some of the most interesting stained glass windows I’ve seen. Made by the famous Czech artist Mucha, the windows are not mosaics made of small pieces of glass. Each piece of glass is relatively huge, yet somehow Mucha managed to blend the colors and create smooth transitions from one color to the next. The other aspect that we all loved was the cathedral’s height. Most cathedrals are similar in size, but at St. Vitus, you can climb to the top. The view from the steeple is stunning. You can see all of Prague glistening in the sun, including the river flowing beneath you and the steady flow of people on Charles Bridge in the distance. Up there I had one of those big moments we all have when I thought to myself, “Wow, you’re in the CZECH REPUBLIC in the top of a cathedral! How lucky you are!”

St. George’s Basilica & The Prague Castle

Adjacent to St. Vitus is St. George’s Basilica, a Romanesque church that dates back to 920. I didn’t think much of it, but some people in our group loved it. St. George’s actually belongs to the Prague Castle, another one of Prague’s most historical landmarks. The battle against Catholicism, like the battle against communism, has always been strong in Prague. Jan Huss, a famous Protestant reformer, was executed in 1415, triggering the Hussite Wars against the Roman Catholic crusades. Two hundred years later, the conflict raged on.

“Defenestration” is an oddly specific word that refers to the act of throwing someone out of a window. In 1618, after a failed meeting between Protestants and Catholics at the Prague Castle, the Protestant representative hurled the Catholics out of the castle’s windows. The Catholics survived for two reasons: 1) the window was only two stories high and 2) they landed in a pile of soft manure. Still, the incident ignited the infamous 30 Years’ War, which lasted from 1618 to 1648. By the way, this defenestration was only the second defenestration of Prague! And, there have been a few more defenestrations since! Clearly the Czechs express their anger in a unique way.

The Lennon Wall

Although opposition was illegal under the rule of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia from 1948 to 1989, there were plenty of people who openly hated the communists. The city was falling into disrepair, and freedom of speech was seriously curtailed through censorship. On one wall on the west side of the Vltava River, citizens started to paint messages of peace and freedom, inspired by John Lennon’s very public promotion of these ideals. The Communist government painted over the graffiti each day. And each night, the citizens returned to the wall and repainted it. The Communist Party eventually gave up repainting it, and the tradition continues even today as a monument to freedom. Much of the recent graffiti on the wall offers prayers for the students in Hong Kong and the conflict between the Israelis and Palestinians.

After seeing the Lennon Wall, we headed to a traditional Czech restaurant for a group meal. With much lower prices than Vienna (using the Czech crown as currency), we ate very well in Prague. The most traditional dish is known as Svíčková, which is a beef sirloin served in a gravy with white bread dumplings, cranberries, and a dollop of whipped cream. It sounds weird, but it’s delicious. Also great is the Trdelnik. With the difficult pronunciation, Adrian dubbed it the “Turd Link,” which immediately diminished its appeal tenfold. Lastly, the Czech Republic is famous for its crepes, which are known as Palatschinken and served with jam, meats, or even Nutella inside. No matter what anyone tells you, crepes are originally a Czech dish, not French!

I can’t help but compare Prague to Vienna. From an aesthetic standpoint, Vienna is nicer than Prague. In Vienna, everything is pristine and tidy and proper. The Ringstrasse holds everything together, and is lined with palatial, imperial buildings. In Prague, not so. The buildings are of the same style as in Vienna (with a larger color palette), but everything is dingier. The giant, royal buildings are fewer and far less conspicuous. Unlike Vienna, Prague was not bombed during WWII. Many of the “old” buildings in Vienna are reconstructions. In Prague, everything is as old as it looks. It may look dirtier as a result, but at least it’s authentic!

Brussels was the most modern of any city we visited on our trip. Having moved from the prehistoric Malta, through the Antiquity of Athens and the Medieval of Bruges, Brussels seemed like a bustling metropolis. Adrian commented that the city felt like a place where “things get done” and business thrives. The cars and people in the streets definitely seemed to move at a more frenetic pace.

Our first stop in Brussels was the jaw-dropping Palais de Justice, the massive justice building inaugurated in 1883. Upon construction, the Palais was the largest building in all of Europe. The building has been under renovation ever since; they’ve even had to renovate the scaffolding! The building is simply the most cavernous I’ve seen - so much concrete, such incredibly wide pillars. The main lobby is known as the Hall of the Lost Steps because the echo of your feet simply gets lost in the space. The firm and formidable building just evokes a feeling of merciless justice. I definitely wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the law in Brussels; they appear to rule with an iron fist.

After walking from the Palais de Justice through a few shopping districts, we made it to Matongé, an African neighborhood that approximates Chinatown in New York. We had African coffee while conversing with a man from the Congo (who had much to say about Americans, especially our lack of knowledge about the outside world and George W. Bush’s inability to locate Belgium on a map). He spoke perfect English, plus French, Flemish, and Congolese. Unsurprisingly, he worked as a translator.

As we strolled through the African neighborhood, we entered what we thought was a small indoor market. Instead, we discovered an extensive barbershop complex! It was bizarre in and of itself. The space was a square lined exclusively with barbershops and salons, each filled to capacity with African-Belgians getting their hair done. There were probably about fifteen different barbershops, packed with barbers, those who needed haircuts, and those who just wanted to hang out and chat. We were the only white people in the complex, but I felt completely welcome.

Adrian said, “Fletch, you absolutely have to get a haircut here.” After hesitating a bit, I realized that I would never get another chance to get a haircut in an African barbershop in Belgium. I sat down, and my barber got to work. We exchanged pleasantries about where we were from, but the language barrier was significant. Then, without warning, he took his razor and trimmed my beard. He made my moustache into a wispy French-style moustache, and made my beard a chinstrap. It all happened so fast, I had no time to stop him! Having worked hard to grow my beard, I was crushed. Still, my barber pushed on and asked if I wanted any designs shaved into my head. I hesitated, and once again used my “when in Rome” logic to convince myself into doing it. I got two long lines shaved into my head but declined more designs after that. Walking out of the barbershop, I was ecstatic - not so much by how I looked (in fact, my beard looked bad), but because I felt immersed in rich culture. My thin moustache was authentic at the very least.

We then headed on to the European Parliament, which serves as the headquarters of the European Union. The building is a huge, garish modern building made of glass and steel. From a technical standpoint, it’s ugly. Still, it’s an impressively large building, fun to visit simply because of its importance. Big meetings with important people making big decisions happen here. In the main square in from of the building, a flash mob-style interpretive dance performance started right in front of us. The dancers looked inexperienced and dorky, so after the show we asked someone about the show. The dancers were actually workers in Parliament! Apparently, there is a disconnect in Brussels between the people who work in public office and the people they govern. This choreographed dance was an attempt to bridge the gap and bring the members of Parliament to the people.

After our visit to the Parliament and the European Council, we headed to a popular bar in Brussels that had been recommended to us. As I’ve mentioned before, Belgium is known for chocolate and beer. We tried a few different kinds of beer - light, amber, and dark (my favorite). The most interesting local delicacy, though, is called Gueuze. Made of bacteria that lives in the Belgian air, it’s sour, then bitter, then sweet - it’s a wave of flavor onslaughts. It doesn’t taste anything like beer.

The next day was the last of our trip, full of sightseeing. We saw the famous Manneken Pis, or “Pissing Boy Statue.” The legend goes that the a boy put out a cannon with his pee and saved Brussels some destruction. Really, though, statues of peeing boys used to indicate to the homeless where they could sell their urine to the leather-makers! These days, they dress up the Manneken Pis every couple weeks according to the latest festivity. A bike club was having a celebration during our visit, so the Pissing Boy was wearing biking attire.

We also visited the Grand Place, or Grote Markt (remember, all signs are in both Flemish and French). The market is full of vendors selling arts and crafts and other keepsakes. There are chocolate shops on every block (samples!), and the market ends at the city’s town hall, which looks more like a huge Gothic cathedral.

Finally, we took a trip to the Arab market on the outskirts of the city, where the population becomes almost entirely Middle Eastern. Just like the African neighborhood, it was neat to see how insular and concentrated the demographic was; we were seeing only white folks, then suddenly only Middle Eastern people. We browsed the food and clothes, and started to walk home. Thinking we knew the way back, we didn’t bother looking at the map, and we quickly became fairly very lost. We trudged through the drizzle (apparently, it is always raining in Brussels). Then, the rain started coming down harder. And harder. We walked for miles, becoming completely soaked. We eventually just submitted to it, though. We were laughing at our plight rather than cursing it. We spent our final few hours in Brussels walking circuitously through the rain, consulting our disintegrating maps.

In all, Brussels in a nice but fairly ordinary city. Of all the stops on our trip, it was the least spectacular. It’s a fairly standard modern city, and the architecture is unspectacular. There’s hustle and bustle, but no distinct style or pizazz. Still, we had a great time wandering the streets, and seeing the European Parliament was definitely a nice experience to add to the checklist.

As the final stop of our Fall break, we headed to Belgium, which happened to be on the exact opposite side of Europe from Athens. Before our trip, we’d told several adults about our intention to visit Brussels, the capital. Without fail, they all frowned, hesitated, and said, “Brussels is OK, but you gotta go to Bruges!”

Bruges is a small medieval city of 110,000 on the Belgian coast. Featured in the movie In Bruges (go see it!), the city is known as the Venice of the North for the small canals that run through the city. Everyone was excited to visit except for me. There was just too much hype; I didn’t want to blindly buy into it. I grumbled about how the city was tiny and therefore didn’t require more than a few hours. Finally, I caved and we booked a hostel for a one-night stay in Bruges.

Upon arriving at the Brussels airport from Athens, we had to take a train to Bruges, which took over an hour. We finally arrived, though, and as we lugged our baggage loudly over the cobblestone streets of Bruges, I realized that my misgivings were unjustified. Bruges is perhaps the loveliest, most quaint city I’ve ever visited.

For one, Bruges is completely self-contained, in a small oval shape. As a result, it feels a bit like a Disney park - the Magic Kingdom, maybe. One local even told us that some tourists ask him, “What time does Bruges close?” The streets are very commercial, lined with posh clothing stores and restaurants. The buildings all feature stepped-gable roofs and are of varied, beautiful colors. Everything is so prim and proper, it’s hard to remind yourself it’s a real city. Apparently, ever since tourism started rising with the release of In Bruges, the locals have started taking even more pride in their city by making sure it is clean and tidy.

First, we took a boat tour of the canal. The man guiding the boat spoke incomprehensible English, but the views of the buildings were absolutely picturesque. We floated by medieval cathedrals (one of which had a hilarious “spy window” the size of a piece of toast) and under low bridges. The boat tour was a blast.

Next, we did some sightseeing. We passed through the Basilica of the Holy Blood, a nice chapel with a vial supposedly containing a bit of Christ’s blood (not on display). We visited the Church of Our Lady, too, which features a Madonna and Child sculpture by Michelangelo (apparently his only work that lives outside of Italy). Finally, we strolled into the central Burg square, which is lined with restaurants, city hall, and the famous 13th century Belfry (clocktower). Strolling through the city, it was impossible not to feel the untouched, untainted medieval quality of Bruges. I kept thinking of Cinderella, imagining the bell of the clock tower ringing at midnight as horse-drawn carriages glided over the cobblestone streets.

Bruges (and Belgium in general) is known for two things: chocolate and beer. First, we stopped in on a few chocolate stores, purchasing some of the rich ganache chocolates and a massive, home-made Mallomar. The chocolate was pricey, but outstanding. I can’t say it wasn’t worth the money.

Next, we headed to a bar which is said to have an inventory of about 270 beers. The bar was small and cozy, and we sampled some light, amber, and dark Belgian beers. The quality was appreciable.

After a dinner of pork ribs, we strolled around the city once more. By night, with the Belfry and cathedrals lit up, the city seems even more enchanted, more Disney-worthy. Finally, we headed to bed, exhausted from yet another day of travel. Although we were so lucky to have ten free days to travel, it was clear that the trip was starting to wear us down.

On our first and only morning in Bruges, we saw the city once more. The truth is that it only takes about four or five hours to see the whole city, so we saw everything several times. Also, we all agreed that there doesn’t seem to be much local culture left in Bruges; it’s all tourists and vacationers. The city is gorgeous, but became boring after a half a day.

That morning, we climbed the Belfry, which was closed the previous afternoon. The winding stairs were incredibly narrow and difficult to navigate, with tourists stepping down them as we tried to climb up them. On the way to the top, we saw a carillon, which looks like a giant music box and allows the bells to be played with just a hand keyboard. At the top of the Belfry, there is a tremendous view of the city from every angle. You can see the canals snaking through the city, and in the morning sun the city looked completely calm and blissful.

At 7 P.M. on Monday, October 6th, we touched down in Athens. After buying train tickets, we packed into the metro, easing our way into on of the most storied cities on Earth. Full of anticipation but tired from the travel, we slogged with our suitcases up and out of the subway into the Athens night. Immediately, though, the city revived us. Upon stepping from the metro, I was hit with an energy, and electricity. Monastiraki Square, one of the city’s prominent centers, was buzzing. Vendors were selling gyros and coconut sticks, African drum circles were pulling tourists in, and teenagers were hanging out. Instantly, I knew I liked Athens. We scurried to our apartment, just a few blocks from Monastiraki, without even noticing the unobscured view of the illuminated Parthenon looming above us. Exhausted, we ate specialty meatballs at the great rock n roll-themed restaurant Rock & Balls, then called it a night.

The next morning, I woke up early for a morning walk around the city. I stopped in several bakeries, sampling all of the delicious pastries on display. Everything in Athens is exquisitely cheap; I was stuffed by the end of my walk, and I’d only spent 3.5 euros. Of course, Greece is known for its Baklava. For me, though, Baklava is too heavy and sticky; the best pastry I had was Galaktoboureko, or Milk Pie. With a crispy, flaky shell and a soft, creamy inside, Milk Pie is truly exceptional.

Mid to late morning, we headed up to the “Acropolis,” the hill which features the Parthenon. The climb takes about twenty minutes, and upon reaching the top, I found myself swimming through a mob of tourists. I knew the Parthenon is a total tourist trap, but in the off-season I had figured it wouldn’t be so bad. Wrong.

We strolled through the Parthenon, read as much as we could manage, and mostly succeeded in not illegally touching the artifacts. To be honest, the buildings themselves are underwhelming. They’re not like Gothic and Baroque cathedrals, which you could look at all day and still notice something new every few minutes. These Athenian temples are exactly as they look in the pictures, and all of the details that they had 2,000 years ago - the colors, the sculptures, the carvings - have been lost through the years. Plus, annoying tourists are everywhere, and it’s safe to assume that everyone except me is filthy.

The experience of walking around the Parthenon, though, is not underwhelming. The age of the buildings made me feel small and insignificant, which is the highest compliment I can pay to anything. These buildings have been around since 400 A.D. They’ve seen all of modern history. I’ve been on Earth for a measly twenty of those years. Even if I’m lucky enough to live to 100, I still will only have been around for an infinitesimal fraction of modern history (not to mention prehistory). We remember a choice few of the ancient Greeks, while the common people have been completely forgotten. Most of us are destined for the same fate.

Athens represents the birthplace of democracy and true civilization - how could I feel anything but humbled as I walk around the city? I found the ruins to be unremarkable, but they inspired real introspection. I was continuously trying to imagine what life was like in Antiquity and how we’ve progressed in the following 2,000 or so years (and question if we’ve truly progressed at all in some areas). Plus, this is a place I’ve been learning and hearing about since I was young. I felt vindicated, privileged, and accomplished. I was seeing something most people only get to see in books.

That night, we headed to Adrianou Street, a boulevard of restaurants and nothing else. Promoters stand outside of each restaurant, hawking meals - “I can give you a free beer, free ice cream, and 10 percent off.” We tested the market, walking down the entirety of the street until we found the best deal. We ate like kings, sharing incredible platters of chicken, beef, lamb, and a few other meats.

The next day, we did more touristing. First, we visited the Ancient Agora of Athens, which served as the center of city life in Antiquity. The Acropolis is in ruins, but the Agora is even more so. The old market place has been reduced to its foundations, and is tough to imagine without the help of computer-generated simulations. Interestingly, however, one of the most intact building we saw in Athens is there, the Temple of Hephaestus.

Next, we went to the famous Monastiraki Flea Market, where we bartered for shoes, browsed vinyl records, and laughed at the goofy products being sold (I met an Athenian rapper and promptly friended him on Facebook). The market was bustling, full of life.

We climbed Mount Lycabettus (thirty minutes) to see Athens from above. Seeing the entirety of Athens was surprising; the city is much larger and sprawling than I imagined. The population of the city is about 5 million, and the city stretches almost out of sight in one direction, and all the way to the Aegean Sea in the other. Also, seeing the Parthenon from above offers a fantastic new perspective of the structure. Which reminds me - the best view of the Parthenon is not from atop the Acropolis, but rather from anywhere in the downtown area. From below, it seems bigger, more formidable. I couldn’t get enough of the temple: so regal, and truly befitting of its glorious reputation.

Finally, we visited the Panathenaic Stadium, which hosted the first modern Olympics in 1896; the building is a massive block of concrete. Apparently, they managed to outfit the stadium enough to host for some track and field during the 2004 Olympics; impressive, considering the age of the stadium.

We didn’t do much in Athens. We saw the famous tourist attractions, and strolled. But to reduce the visit to its events would be selling it short. I had only heard slightly negative things about Athens before visiting: dilapidated, dirty, noisy, hectic. In some areas, these adjectives ring true. But even so, these areas has an unmistakable vibrance and spirit. The people didn’t speak much English, and the signs were unreadable with their wacky Greek letters, but everyone treated us warmly and with respect. Street dogs even showed us love, following us for blocks on end. Also, from a culinary standpoint, Athens is the place to be; we had several great meals - the Moussaka and the gyros stand out - and everything was affordable.

I’ve been asked if one can see the effects of the recession in Athens, and the answer is a definitive no. I didn’t notice any more homeless people or boarded-up stores than in any other big city (if anything, fewer). The store fronts and restaurants were conspicuously clean and tasteful; every establishment I entered was well-maintained, clean and modern. Perhaps the city is putting on a great facade, but it seems to be doing fine to me.

On October 3rd, we departed for Malta, a small island country just south of Sicily. After originally planning a rugged trip through the heart of dreary, grey Eastern Europe, we compromised so that we could travel with more friends.

I did a little research into the history of Malta before the trip. According to Wikipedia, the island has served as a military base for many a tribe through the years: the Phoenicians, Romans, Moorish, Normans, Sicilians, Habsburg Spain, Knights of St. John, French and the British all conquered the islands at one point or another. This constant power struggle for Malta can be largely attributed to its strategic location between Africa and Europe (Malta is just an hour’s flight from Tripoli, Libya!).

The island’s history goes back quite far. Malta is home to the old standing structures in the world. These Megalithic Temples date back to the Neolithic Period, around 3,000 B.C. Malta also serves as a setting in Homer’s Odyssey (about 800 B.C), as the nymph Calypso holds Odysseus hostage on the upper island of Gozo for seven years. Fast forward about 3,000 years, and Malta gains independence from Britain in 1964 (which explains why approximately 90 percent of the population speaks English). In 1989, George H.W. Bush meets with Mikhail Gorbachev on Malta, signaling the end of the Cold War. Finally, Malta becomes a member of the European Union in 2004 (considering the physical condition of the island, which I’ll explain below, I’m still puzzled by how Malta sneaked into the EU).

I had never heard of Malta, and despite my research had the impression that it would be a touristy resort island similar to Ibiza. As our plane touched down in Malta, I was immediately shocked. To start, the island is not a lush, palm-treed oasis. It’s a rocky, raggedy desert sitting in the Mediterranean. Out my plane window, I saw fields of dry, brown grass, each field sectioned off from the others by ancient rock walls, handmade by simply stacking unshapely stones on top of each other.

Having booked an AirBnB apartment on the less inhabited upper island of Gozo, we had to take a bus and a ferry to arrive at our final destination. The bus pulled us into the thick of Malta. My expectations of a pristine tourist trap proved comical; the island is incredibly under-developed. Every single building was either under construction or abandoned. Single walls of homes stood in trash-filled lots, as if the construction workers had built the first wall of the house, then thought better of it and decided not to finish the project at all. Hollowed out apartment buildings loomed like skeletons, missing walls and filled with rubble and garbage; they resembled parking garages more than apartments. Bricks of limestone lay scattered all around, strewn carelessly about. I’ve never visited a third-world country, but while sitting on the bus I imagined that Malta at least approximated one. It looked as though a bomb had dropped recently.

For all of this mess, though, there was no sense of danger or destitution, though – just abandonment. We saw very few people. The garbage and the construction proved that the island did indeed sustain human life, but I spotted almost nobody out of the bus window. There was poverty, but nobody was living in it; the island was like an industrial wasteland, but devoid of suffering.

Additionally, the people that we did meet were very happy, friendly people. The most commonly spoken languages in Malta are English and Maltese, and everyone we met welcomed us warmly. I watched at our apartment as four or five 60 year-old men sat around all day on a bench, watching the ocean and chatting. They seemed to be totally at peace with the world. Malta may not be much, but the Maltese seemed to be content with what they have (which, as I’ll later explain, is an island full of natural beauty in spite of its lack of development and infrastructure).

After our apartment host met us at the ferry and drove us to our destination, our living arrangements proved to be somewhat…troublesome. First of all, the apartment complex, despite its great ocean view, smelled pungently of feces. Lots and lots of manure. Our host seemed not to notice or care. Second of all, we had booked this apartment, inconveniently located on the upper island, largely for the hot tub that it boasted. The host’s main pitch for the apartment had been a picture of the hot tub sitting on an elevated deck, overlooking a deep blue sea. We immediately went upstairs to check out the tub, and found it to be completely empty. Also, full of rust. We asked the host if we could possibly fill it up. Sure, he said, although we won’t be able to heat it. We decided to forgo the enticing offer of a cold, rusted tub. (I realize that not having a hot tub is a whiney, completely first-world complaint, but we were really looking forward to a few days of hot tub. Still, I apologize for sounding like a brat). Lastly, the area we were living in was overrun with stray cats. I’m convinced the island of Gozo has more stray cats than it has people. They were everywhere.

Despite these “rustic” living arrangements, we were all in very high spirits! This was clearly going to be an adventure. It wasn’t going to be a comfortable, relaxing weekend in the Bahamas, but at the very least it was going to be interesting. Nobody visits Malta. When we told our teachers that we’d be visiting Malta in lieu of the more traditional trips to Paris and London, they all replied incredulously, “Why are you going to Malta?!” I actually was happy that Malta was crappy; I felt like a daring adventurer.

At this point, I’ve established Malta as a hellish pit. But it’s not. Because despite the open electrical wires, limestone rubble, and trash, the natural beauty of the island is stunning. At many spots on the coasts of the island, there is no shoreline – just a cliff. All around the island, the sea just crashes into 200-foot precipices. Where there are flat shores, there is no sand, just long slabs of slippery rock. It’s all outrageous – the water is the bluest I’ve ever seen, and often washes into caves and gorges rather than onto shorelines. On the first afternoon in Gozo, we headed down to the beach. We all swam in the salty, crystal clear water, and slipped badly on the slick rock shore. I left the beach bleeding and sore from a particularly theatrical fall, but I was completely content. Malta was not what I expected, in the best way possible (for the reasons stated earlier, though, Malta might have been a dramatic disappointment for many people).

The second day in Malta, we spent our entire day at the so-called Azure Window, one of the more stunning natural wonders I’ve seen (see Adrian’s picture below). It’s hard to say how high the cliff is, but I’d guess it’s around 80 feet. The cliff has become a popular site for illegal cliff jumping, and after watching some Youtube videos of young guys jumping off the window, I headed to the site with a hope that maybe I could jump, too. Upon reaching the window, though, I discovered how high 80 feet really is. There was not a chance I was jumping off of it. Locals also told us horror stories about how many injuries occurred each year, including serious breaks of ribs and backs. Anyway, we spent the entire day at the Azure Window. We rented snorkeling (and in one case, scuba) equipment, and kicked around in the crystal clear water. I spotted tropical fish, swam into grottos, and marveled at the edge of the shelf where the water went from being about ten feet deep to becoming a hundred feet or deeper, the bottom of the sea completely out of sight.

At the end of the day, the man who gave us our snorkeling and scuba equipment offered us a ride home in his pickup truck. A raunchy, potbellied man in his 40s or 50s, Mike was a jolly, harmless guy with a fondness for soft serve ice cream, so we took him up on the offer. Adrian and I (plus two more friends) rode in the bed of the truck, which I had never done before (it’s fun). As a local, Mike knew about interesting sightseeing spots off the beaten track. So, he literally drove off the beaten track and started off-roading. He drove quickly down a rocky, windy hill, sending us in the back bouncing and hanging on for dear life – a thrilling experience that Adrian later called the highlight of his stay in Malta. Mike took us to an impressive limestone quarry, then we headed home exhausted from a day’s worth of terrific swimming.

That night, we decided to cook fish, which our generous host Joseph had gifted to us. We had about fifty large minnow-esque fish to fry; Adrian and I abstained from eating them. The fish fry turned out to be a big mistake. The fish were too small to provide any substantial meat, but the main problem was that the apartment smelled ghastly for the rest of the weekend. I really mean it; I was practically gagging. Foul. Putrid. Vile.

The next day, we headed down to the same beach that we visited on the first afternoon for some light swimming. After twenty minutes or so, though, the clouds started to get darker. Then, we noticed a pitch black cloud in the distance, flying at us with alarming speed. We grabbed our belongings and started our trek up the very steep hill to our apartment. The storm was too fast, though, and crossed the island of Gozo in about two minutes flat. Without warning, hail starting pounding us; I hadn’t even worn a shirt to the beach. But we all submitted to being wet, and the storm was exhilarating. With the cold hail flying at us, a powerful wind holding us back, I felt alive. I can’t explain why this storm affected me so much, but it was one of the highlights of my stay in Gozo. It rained for the rest of the day, so we all got cozy and snoozed for most of the day. (Many native Maltese told us that this was the first rain the island had gotten in eight months, just our luck.)

On our final morning, we climbed down to a special gorge we had discovered the previous afternoon. The gorge is basically a canyon, with ocean water rushing through. We went swimming in the startlingly warm water, which got deeper as we moved toward the ocean. After a few hundred feet of swimming, we realized that we could climb out of the water and up the adjacent cliffs. We climbed about twenty feet up, and jumped off! Cliff-jumping into the gorge was another highlight of the trip; the rush of nerves during the initial moments in the air was a thrill. I jumped twice; first from about twenty feet, next from about 25 feet. That was when I knew that our unconventional fall break was truly different from the standard trips to Paris. Who else goes cliff-jumping in Malta? Very few people have even heard of the island at all.

In the end, the first leg of our fall break was fantastic. Malta was not as we expected – much less developed than I realized. By less developed, I mean it’s not developed at all. The accommodations turned out fine despite our initial trepidation and hot tub disappointment, and we enjoyed some great adventures. We took the ferry to the main island and hopped on a bus, which took an excruciatingly slow two hours to cross a mere 14 miles.

A few weeks ago, we took a trip to Mauthausen, a concentration camp about two hours from Vienna. We thought about just posting Adrian’s pictures without explanation, but I’ve decided a bit of background information is necessary.

Mauthausen was a labor camp open from 1938 to 1945, when it was closed by the U.S. 11th Armored Division (seeing the Mauthausen plaque commemorating the American soldiers for their aid did fill me with pride). The Mauthausen prisoners were political enemies of Hitler’s; actually, the percentage of Jewish prisoners was fairly low. Mauthausen was a Category 3 camp, meaning the prison guards had clear instructions regarding their prisoners: death by labor.

Indeed, Mauthausen was an important rock quarry, the camp’s prisoners its main source of energy. Prisoners, starving to the point of emaciation, were forced to carry heavy boulders up what are known as the Stairs of Death - a long, steep, uneven set of stairs that some of us climbed. Prisoners were worked until they collapsed. Some prisoners were forced to push other prisoners off the top of the quarry to their deaths. Ill patients were not treated, but experimented on. As the prison population grew, though, the Nazi forces decided they needed a quicker method for clearing out the camp for incoming prisoners. They opted for a gas chamber and crematorium, and began terminating prisoners en masse.

About 90,000 prisoners died at Mauthausen, the most of any Nazi labor camp (labor camps being different from extermination camps). But just reading this number cannot convey the size of the number 90,000, especially as it relates to lost human life. We walked through the Room of Names, in which every prisoner’s name was typed in small font on a illuminated table. The names were approximately size 8 font, and the list still filled the entire room. Just look at the Book of Names below; its thickness is staggering.

I’m not going to explain the significance of visiting Mauthausen, because I cannot put to words the weightiness of such an experience. I’ll just say that after three hours at Mauthausen, I was mentally and emotionally drained, feeling fragile and hurt. Stepping into a gas chamber to smell its strange, sour scent, or looking down the length of an oven? That’s tough. Textbooks and statistics can be closed and forgotten; standing in the crematorium, the significance of the Holocaust is inescapable. Reading and learning about the Holocaust is important, but visiting its vestiges in person changes everything.