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.
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.
Arepas by the side of the road
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.
Proprietors at Maria Candelaria’s
Courtyard at Maria Candelaria’s
Afterwards, we continued through the narrow cobbled streets, searching for a once visited patisserie. After only a few turns leading us to other destinations, we found it. We leisurely enjoyed cappuccinos and treats.
Afternoon treats
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.
Golden face
More gold
Even more gold
Golden Lady
Golden frog
So much gold
Golden bird
We chose to go to one more museum before heading home, Museo Nacional de Colombia. One room housed Gabriel García Márquez’s iconic white guayabera, next to a video clip of him accepting the Nobel Prize in Literature. Another domed room housed gigantic Botero paintings from all periods. We sat on benches and stared upwards, amazed that so many styles were created by one artist. And then, home. Past men playing chess, vendors selling watermelon, and beautiful brick buildings.
While attempting to detangle my hair after getting out of the shower one morning over Christmas break, I thought, “My hair’s grown really long. Really, really long. I think it’s time for another donation.”
I began browsing magazines and websites, looking for photos of people with short hair. I found a few pictures that I described as “darling pixie cuts” and printed out the images. On my salon’s website, I booked the first available appointment, Tuesday, January 6. And then I waited.
I told a few people what I was planning to do, and was met with responses ranging from, “Have you ever had short hair before?” to “But your hair is so pretty” to “That’ll look adorable!”
I arrived to the salon a few minutes early. When I told Jaimie what I wanted to do, she squealed. I think hairdressers like doing dramatic things.
She carefully sectioned off one, then two, thick pigtails. She cut through the first one and gauged my reaction. “Oh my god!” Now it was my turn to squeal, delighted. I shook my head, amazed at how light it felt with just one pigtail gone. She positioned the scissors next to the second pigtail. “Wait! Let’s get a picture of this!” And then the second pigtail was in her hands.
I loved the slashes of the unexpected asymmetrical bob. “This is great! Can we leave it like this?” She laughed and said no. After a wash and an hour more of cuts and snips and blow drying and more snips and some shaving, I looked into the mirror and barely recognized myself. The smile was the same, as well as the laugh, but no more long locks. I thought I’d mourn the loss of long hair, but instead I felt light. And sassy. I carefully packaged up the 14” of ponytails to send to Children With Hair Loss, an organization that provides hair replacements at no cost to children who lose their hair because of cancer, Alopecia, burns, Trichotillomania and other rare diseases and disorders. And felt great about the first donation of the year.
For the past several years, I’ve attended the Ecology Project International (EPI) fundraiser. It’s a fun evening where you can sample local wines, meet interesting people, and bid on fabulous prizes. At last year’s fundraiser I was lucky enough to bid on and win a trip to the Galapagos!
EPI is a non-profit organization dedicated to developing place-based, ecological education partnerships between local experts and high school students to address critical conservation issues. If you’re free this Thursday evening, Nov 13, please head to SOMA to attend an evening filled with fun.
When: Thursday, Nov 13, 6: 30 – 9:00 pm Where: Gallery 16, 501 3rd Street (Corner of Bryant Street), San Francisco, CA How much: FREE! More info here
Today marks the beginning of November, as well as the beginning of Movember. While at our annual company meetup a month or so ago, several co-workers talked about forming a team. I listened. The premise behind Movember is that on November 1, you shave your face, then throughout the month, you grow only a mustache. You raise money for your efforts, and the money funds men’s health initiatives. I’m very thankful to be supported by so many amazing men in my life, and being/keeping healthy (physically and mentally) is of utmost importance to me. I listened to the conversation around me then said, “I’m in. I’ll do it, too.” I got a few surprised looks and a chuckle or two. I continued, “I’m not a man, but I do have a mustache (a faint one, but it’s there), so I’ll refrain from waxing for the month.” And then there were high fives all around. So, if you’d like to learn more about men’s health, head over here and if you’d like to make a donation, please do so here. Thanks!
This weekend I volunteered at WordCamp San Francisco and joined over a thousand folks who use WordPress, listening to great talks and meeting fabulous people from all over the world. In Matt Mullenweg’s “State of the Word” he included this slide to thank WordPress contributors. It’s pretty amazing to see how many people contribute to the open source project.
LoriLoo 