I live for the funk, I die for the funk

Showers are highly recommended for humans equipped with unparalyzed hands and arms, all travelers included, your hippie-factor not being a factor. Because, yes, I find it highly offensive when we rub shoulders and, bam, suddenly showering me smells like I've neglected the hygiene of an entire half of my body for a month, such that I'm washing the sleeve of an otherwise clean shirt at 3am in the hostel sink. While pretty damn drunk on guaro.

Seriously, how do you neglect such simple practices as bathing, deodorizing and clothes washing to the extent that the lightest contact with you transfers stink? There's a reason every time you step toward me I keep backing away. The stench emanating from your body forms a stink force-field that wards off humans as effectively as a poison-tipped sword. Your scent: puro campesino. But you're not an impoverished latino laboring 18 hours a day in sun-smothered fields to provide the bare minimum for your family. You're on an extended vacation. You have the time and resources to shower. And apply soap. Daily.

Hot water showering is one of the activities I indulged in during my stay in Medellín. La Feria de las Flores continued with various expositions and concerts and processions daily, including the highlight flower parade, in which everyone from just-walking children to just-walking ancianos bore huge and elaborate wood-mounted flower arrangements on their weight-bowed backs, walking miles and miles over hot concrete through the gauntlet of thousands upon thousands of drinking, whistling revelers. A half-gallon of aguardiente made its way into our hands too many times, thanks to a group of underage Colombianos excited by the sight of gringos. How did we know they were excited? The giggle-infused shrieks, "¡Miren, gringos!" Five or six separate groups of Colombians throughout the day requested photos of the gringos, sometimes posing themselves in the picture.

Likewise, a few days ago, running shirtless through El Poblado, a tiny kid spotted me and diverted his attention from the ice cream man. (And you know diverting the attention of any four-year-old from the ice cream man requires something equally incredible as would have been required to divert the attention of Michael Jackson from, well, that same four-year-old.) Kid cocked his head at me, pointed, and started yelling for his distracted dad, "¡Mira, MIRA!" Now to transfer that reaction to of-age women.


During my 9 days in Medellín some friends and I caught a Medellín vs. Nacional futbol match, which was quite the rowdy spectacle. The profanity laced songs and choruses -- many of which suggested various sexual favors team Nacional could perform upon the Medellín crowd -- rarely paused, the whole Medellín section of the stadium constantly jumping, waving flags and banners and pumping their fists, hurtling invectives without discrimination, be it a maricón Nacional or hijo de puta hometown player who misdribbled or held the ball too long.

A daytrip to Sante Fe de Antioquia proved an unforgettable excursion too, another beautiful Colombian colonial town, this one located a few hours bus-ride outside of Medellín. The main draw is the historic Puente de Occidente (right), a wooden suspension bridge and one of the first constructed in South America. Of course we ended up stepping down from the bus kilometers before town, in front of an entirely normal bridge (left...still set against beautiful scenery, eh?) that both a bus employee and a local insisted was the monument we'd come to see, instead of just admitting they weren't sure. AKA Classic Latin American style. (Paul has coined as the new default evasive response, "My father's name is Daniel.") But for that mishap we met and chatted up two cheery, gun-toting military teens, one of whom is also performs as a clown for children. (Can you guess which one?)


Somewhere in there was crammed a noteworthy pastry binge. Astounded by the variety and quality of cheap pastries available at the neighborhood Exito, a Colombian Wal-Mart, I at one point consumed consecutively dinner and breakfast of puro pastel. (As has been noted by many traveling friends, I'm weird. Especially in my singular-in-focus food binges. Beans or peanut butter & banana sandwiches for days on end. My daily vitamin-cramming sessions, consuming pounds of mangos or sapotes, sometimes a whole pineapple, in one session. Chugging liters of milk every few days.)


A simple man with simple tastes, I guess.

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More from SANTA FE DE ANTIOQUIA:












More from LA FERIA DE LAS FLORES:
(Clockwise from top left: An outlet in the sidewalk, beside a wall, defining random; many plantains stoking my hunger for tajadas con carne molida; a man arranging and painting a many-times oversized flower display for the Pilsen beer company; normal police for a flower parade)

God in the Building

Medellín, "la ciudad de la eterna primavera," is probably what would happen if I were God and commanded with designing the proverbial 'heaven on earth'. Second to Playboy, the valley-bound metropolis has the most beautiful women per capita in the world. And maybe with a higher occurrence of plastic surgery. I can't even confirm that the women here have faces.

With the great luck that has kept me from accumulating felonies and prison terms, I arrived in Medellín at the beginning of La Feria de las Flores, an annual festival that envelops the city, drawing paisanos and foreigners alike for the week-plus duration (of officially or unofficially guaro- and cervecería-sponsored events). Take, for instance, the many-thousands-horses procession, highlighted by drunk men hootin' and hollerin' and staggering into the paths of trotting, frothing behemoths, risking trampling for photos beside mega-busted morena Barbies.

Plush barrio El Poblado, where I'm staying, and the nearby Zona Rosa party district are clean and manicured, frequented by the primped and silicon-pumped and their money-breathing, highest-bidder escorts. A quick Metro jaunt can carry you through city center, past highrises, shopping centers and expansive parks; over grungier avenues teeming with pedestrians navigating the maze of "¿Que busca, amor?"-screaming street-vendors and outlet-hawks; to packed and stacked city sectors where ramshackle configurations of junkyard materials pass for homes.

Besides meeting Kelly, a beautiful and oh-so-fun girl from Cali -- the sole reason I'm not leasing an apartment in Medellín...yet -- and kickin' it with Paul and the chévere crew of chicks and dudes inhabiting our 80-bed hostel, my days have mostly been defined by peanut butter, banana & raisin sandwich breakfasts; bandeja paisa lunches; bean-binge dinners; beer, rum, and guaro hazed nights.


But I've learned to dance electronica -- Maybe you'll sneer, "What's there to learn?" But you've never seen me dance -- and spit Colombian slang thanks to the Kelly and the Cali click, with whom I also hit Medellín sites Pueblita Paisa, a great city mirador, and Parque de Los Pies Descalzos.

Paul and I bussed to La Piedra de Peñol -- a 200m tall black rock oddity exploding skyward amidst an otherwise low-sitting, verdant expanse, the boulder some monstrous deity skipped so expertly across the oceans it hopped to land and lodged on contact. Arresting views of lush greenery dissected by winding blue slivers of lake await atop, after a 649 concrete stair ascent toward the heavens.

(Upon returning to our hostel and awaking my computer from sleep, I found ilovecocks.com prominently displayed in the Safari browser, courtesy of my hooker-loving British friends Craig and Danny, who, after my recent club confusion, have taken to interpreting my every comment as a homosexual Fruedian slip. Though sometimes, as when giving Paul instructions on drinking milk from a plastic bag -- "Just put it in your mouth, then squeeze it or suck it or something." -- I make it waaaay to easy.)

¡Ay parce, que chimba Medellín! Pues, ya me voy a aproximarme a Cali, ¡y con razon!

Dulling the Senses: The Dangers of Aguardiente and Amiableness

I woke up at 2:30pm in my dorm bed with a new number scribbled in my little black pocket notepad, a cute heart appending the information. A business card for the hotel slid out from between the pages. All the markings of success.

My head ached the way it would if I'd decided to play stag with oncoming traffic. And who knows for sure? The string of beers had been repeatedly interrupted and enlivened by bottles passed from strangers hands, rum and aguardiente. A screwdriver poured by some cute Colombianas in a local park was, in my sloppy fervor, mistaken for a large shot and downed in a gulp.

Another image began to coagulate. A cute waitress at Blue, me flailing and failing, speaking Spanish spliced gibberish. Then the Peruvian fashion designer. Wearing a scarf. A nice guy. Man, it was awesome he wanted to buy me beers. Guess we grabbed a cab back to his hotel, where we posted up near the lobby bar for another round.

Hold up.

Fashion designer. Scarf. Getting me drunk. Who was it that appended their name and number with a heart?

Oh. Shit.

It took two sober seconds for the obvious -- that which hours before was obscured behind cans and bottles -- to become clear. Paul was delighted to learn I'd ended up across Medellín, drunk and solo, within an elevator's ride of quite the uncomfortable situation. Engage Mission Impossible: convincing all the pretty girls who observed my exit from the club and cab-dash with scarfed male accompaniment that it was an innocent misunderstanding.