When I saw there were volcanoes near Granada, I knew I wanted to hike one. It would be my inaugural hike after the spectacular fall in September of last year that resulted in torn ankle ligaments, surgery, and a cast for a couple of months.
Our first stop on the guided hike of Mombacho was through a “tunnel” – two rock faces fairly close together that opened up to a breathtaking view of Granada and the coastline. Up and down, up and down through the forest with beautiful flowers, dense foliage, monkey and sloth sightings, and stunning views. And, best of all – no falls or injuries!
We asked a hotel owner where we should eat. Without hesitation, he said, “Oh, Espressonista. It’s the best restaurant in the city.”
We arrived to a beautiful old building on the outskirts of the tourist area, across from a magnificent old church in front of a plaza with bougainvillea vines lazily hanging from a pergola. We walked in to a large room (perhaps a former ballroom) with dizzyingly high ceilings adorned by decorative tin panels. The tables were far enough away from each other that each party could enjoy an intimate dinner with dining companions, and couldn’t overhear others’ conversations or be heard. Our table had a huge open window at our backs (ah, the breeze) and had a view of the open kitchen at the other end of the building.
Andreas, the owner, brought tiny chalkboards with lovely handwriting to our table. First, he invited us to choose a drink – local German crafted beer, a French wine, or freshly brewed minty Lady Grey tea. Next, he shared the three appetizer selections and four mains. We started with baby asparagus with Hollandaise sauce and herbed goat cheese, a chilled soup made from ground almonds, garlic, and watermelon chunks (amazingly delicious and complex), and a local cheese plate with fresh baked breads. For our mains we had vegetable “lasagna” (sans noodles) and a fish soup with vermicelli noodles. Each bite was exquisite. Andreas shared several dessert choices with us, but the only one I remember (and we chose) was rum raisin ice cream, with a splash of Flor de Caña rum over top. Heaven!
Throughout the evening, Andreas regularly stopped by our table to chat with us about where the ingredients were sourced, how the dish was prepared, where he finds inspiration. We left, feeling as though we had dined in a friend’s lovely home rather than in a restaurant.
A morning walk on an almost deserted beach; a swim in the not too cold, but brisk enough to be refreshing, ocean water; lounging on the balcony reading for hours (and possibly a nap or two), surrounded by fierce howling winds; dinner al fresco in the old town, watching tourists and locals leisurely stroll by. I wouldn’t change a thing.
Thursday
We were sitting by the fire, discussing restaurant options for Friday night in Bogota, then a road trip to Villa de Leyva on Saturday morning. The phone rang, and even though my Spanish is limited, and even though I was hearing only one side of the conversation, I could tell something bad had happened. He hung up. A friend’s mother had passed away unexpectedly and the funeral would be either Friday or Saturday. We immediately changed our plans to drive to San Martin the next day.
Friday
As we drove, the buildings morphed from high-rise apartments to one and two story buildings, lots of stores and service shops lining the highway. After more than an hour, I asked where we were. Laughingly, they said still in Bogota. I took notice when we finally made our way out of the traffic and out of the city. The landscape opened up to grassy fields and craggy ridges. We descended down curvy roads, stopping at roadside arepa vendors for nourishment.
After many hours of more traffic than expected, we arrived at the funeral parlor, located just beside the main church in town. We paid our respects, gave hugs, offered words of condolence, then walked across the street and sat across from the main plaza, slowly sipping Poker beers in chilled steins. Young people on scooters cruised around the plaza, occasionally yelling to each other, flirting, laughing, posturing.
Saturday
Surprisingly, I awoke before the others. I dressed and headed poolside, taking advantage of the calm of the morning to relax, sip a cup of tea, and read several chapters of my book before the others joined. After breakfast, we relaxed by the pool for a few hours before preparing for the funeral.
We arrived to the plaza and slowly walked around. Tony pointed out a tree to me. “One day a year, all the flowers fall. Today’s the day.” We stood, looking upwards as pink blossoms slowly floated down, creating a pastel carpet around us. On the twelfth toll of the church bell, we walked across the street.
The vaulted ceilings of the church provided a perch for several birds who quietly flapped during the service. I listened to the cadence of the Spanish, following the lead of the others: stand, sit, kneel, stand. A bead of sweat trickled down the nape of my neck, continuing down my back. The coffin was brought to the rear of the church, out the doors, then into the coffin, which slowly drove to the graveside, followed by a multitude on foot brandishing parasols to shade them from the hot sun, families on mopeds, and a few slow moving cars.
We gathered around the graveside. The coffin was lowered. The priest said a few words; we heard choked sobs. The heat of the sun drove several people to the shade of the cemetery wall as the coffin was covered with shovelfuls of fresh dirt. More hugs, more remembrances.
We stopped for lunch before leaving town; the menu consisted of carne asada or soup. Three of us ordered carne asada, which came with generous portions of yucca and potatoes. One ordered soup, then envious as our plates arrived, ordered carne asada as well. The meat was cooked to perfection. Crispy charred edges enveloped juicy tender strips of meat. Dogs circled our picnic table, hoping for a scrap to fall. None did.
On the way to Villavicencio, we stopped at roadside fruit vendors. Pineapples, oranges, mandarins, bananas, watermelons, coconuts, mangoes, apples, papaya, and more beckoned us. The vendor offered us teeny tiny bananas to sample as we decided what to buy. We left with bags of incredibly sweet pineapples, watermelon, and baby bananas.
“It’s on this street. Or maybe the next.” I wasn’t sure where we were going, just that we were trying to find a restaurant that Tony had had a good meal at previously and had been hard to find.
We rounded a corner and hidden among the brightly colored buildings was Maria Candelaria’s. We rang the buzzer and waited as a short, white haired woman in faded blue jeans (perhaps Maria?) shuffled to unlock the glass doors. She ushered us to a table on the patio where an elderly man explained the house specialties. As soon as I heard “albóndigas” I knew that was what I had been craving. Enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sunshine and the brilliance of the flowering blooms on the patio, we noticed a sign above us that read “No servimos comida rápida.” We laughed and settled into casual conversation, watching the elderly couple shuffle back and forth between customers, the locked front door to let guests both in and out, the kitchen. Sooner than we expected, our lunches arrived in individual cast iron pans, piping hot. I oohed and ahhed with each bite – stringy, melty cheese. chunky, fresh tomato-y ragu. tender, savory meatballs.
We made our way across the plaza and entered El Museo del Oro. Four floors showcasing pre-Hispanic gold in Colombia – dark halls with subdued spotlights highlighting the richest of the treasures. I couldn’t quite reconcile the opulence with the antiquity; the pieces looked as though they could be on display in a modern jewelry shop.
Timmy, a co-worker (and excellent fisherman), organized a fly fishing trip at our all company meetup in Utah last week. I had never been fly fishing. I like rivers. I like fish. I signed up.
The Trout Tales guides picked us up at the hotel on Friday morning. We climbed into their rugged vehicles, ready for adventure. Timmy, who I just met that morning, and I were with our guide Walter. We stopped at a dusty parking lot, donned waders (basically a waterproof overalls/rain boots contraption), and were on our way to another parking lot, even further out. We parked, grabbed our rods, and walked into the brush along the river for about 10 – 15 minutes. We were headed towards a favorite spot of Walter’s. When we got there, we heard him groan. Between the time we parked, and the time we arrived, someone had claimed the spot we were eying. “Wait here,” and he ran ahead.
He came back. “It’s all good. He’s fine with us fishing next to him.”
And with that we waded into the water. I paused. I felt the sensation of the very cold, not quite icy, water rushing around my ankles, my knees, my thighs, as I waded deeper and deeper into the water. I felt my legs cooling down, even though they continued to stay dry. That surprising feeling of reality not matching expectations. I loved it. To our left were mountains covered with trees just starting to turn color, blotches of red scattered amongst the green and yellow. The sky was a baby blue, with perfect fluffy white clouds. I thought to myself, “Even if we don’t catch any fish, it’s already a perfect day.”
Walter showed me how to cast, let me try, and gave me pointers – not so much wrist, keep my arm straight, aim for a particular spot in the water. He showed me how to watch the little white bobble that would indicate when a fish was nibbling. And how to hook it. Then reel it in.
He turned to talk to Timmy. I saw the bobble dip below the water. I jerked the line and started reeling it in. When I was sure it was a fish and not the current, I hollered, “I think I have a fish.” He came over and coached me on how to reel it in. Elbows up. Let the fish swim and run the line, then reel it in when it’s not struggling. Be patient. Work with the fish.
When the fish was close to us, he scooped it up in a net and gently removed the ittiest, bittiest, tiniest hook from its lip. It was beautiful. A beautiful brown, coppery color, with red dots along its side. I whispered, “Hi, Oscar. Thank you.” Then Walter released it back into the water.
This basically continued the whole day. A few fish got away. Several were large, a few were babies, many were medium sized. All were beautiful. Mostly brown trout, but one glistening whitefish, and one multi-colored, shimmering rainbow trout. Each glimmered in the sun, and stopped struggling as soon as our hands were on them. The goodbyes were my favorite part – putting them back in the river and watching them strongly swim away.
The day ended much too early. I could have stayed out in the river all day, just casting and staring at the mountains, listening to the rush of the water around me. Would I go again? Why, yes. I’m hooked.
I know the fog of sadness will come. The knowing doesn’t make it any easier when it arrives.
It’s happened every year for the past five years. Sometimes it sets in the afternoon I arrive home, like today. Sometimes it sets in after I wake up from the post trip nap (last year’s “nap” was 18 hours long, due to sheer exhaustion from too much fun).
This year our annual all company meetup was held in Park City, Utah, and more than 250 people attended. This is a highlight of the year, because it’s often the only time that I’ll see many of my co-workers. We’re a distributed company, and everyone’s primary workspace is their home office. Oh, did I mention we have folks in thirty-five countries around the world? We’re really spread out. It’s a whirlwind of a week – learning at internally led code academy classes; project teams launching new features or improving on existing ones; dinners with colleagues you haven’t met; catching up with your mentor/mentee; attending (or leading) workshops on design, diversity, and leadership; and, of course, a healthy dose of fun.
I love this week of the year because of the camaraderie and bonding that occurs. I love listening to the discussions among colleagues, and hearing ideas, concerns, and solutions in their own voices. I love discovering who can sing 90’s karaoke without the words on a screen. Or who has a special interest in biology. Or who has a special talent for creating their own personalized lyrics to popular songs. Or what past companies (many outside of technology) my colleagues have worked at. Or who was a former competitive food eater. The variety of my colleague’s experiences and backgrounds awe me.
My favorite memories are the meals, and the moments. Dinners were generally groups of 4 – 6 people. The perfect size for intimate conversation. For learning who someone’s favorite author is, and why. For getting book recommendations. For hearing about people’s travel. For sharing stories from childhood. For hearing about someone’s first trip to Burning Man. For learning what excites them about their job, and what frustrates them.
This morning was filled with so many hugs (and maybe a tear or two). I told myself that I was looking forward to returning home. To my own bed (although the sleep I got in the silence of the Park City night was the best I may have ever experienced). To regular exercise and home cooking. To the routine of my everyday life. And I was looking forward to that. And even though I knew I would miss my colleagues (it’s happened every time I return from a trip), the weight of the fog of sadness still surprises me when it descends.
I read their blogs. I like their Facebook posts. I retweet their Tweets. And I miss them.
LoriLoo 