We No Speak Americano

Colombia. That's what the parrot pulled from it's gypsy flavoured pack of cards. That's where the vacation angst ridden took a metal bird to.

Yes, after much racking, and bitching, and whining - for that's how great things come about - we impromptu-ously ran to Colombia. Uncanned. With a lonely planet and a few choicy spanish words. And the backpacking skills of the girl (I'd fall on one knee and propose to her just for that if I hadn't already married her).

We Cartagena-ed, we Cali-ed. Salsa-ed or tried to at least, drank like mad and said hi to a snow covered volcano. Which then proceeded to emit sulphuric fumes, and so our guide made us run. Colombian volcanoes, unlike colombian people are not friendly. The guide said.

In cartagena, the girl went Gabriel Garcia Marquez crazy, re-living every book of his by the streets. Even touched the walls of his house. I tried to speak spanish with hand signals.

Drank so much coffee, but more importantly slept amid coffee greens. In an old plantation house, next to a trail on which had traveled Simon Bolivar. And then drank so much more coffee. Exported some of it over to our apartment as well. Drinking so much coffee.

But then the snow monster fucked us proper. I'm convinced I'm jinxed with air travel. It's out to get me. But no pain no gain. I laugh and wink now, but when we were stranded in Bogota, with no one speaking english, and no planes departing to Neuva York, I was close to crying. The girl almost punched a few airline people in frustration. I probably would have cried for sure then.

But now, laughing and winking, I'm being the saying whew. It's good to be home. Until the next holiday, eh?