His AmbiTION

There is nothing that can quite awaken the senses on a relaxing Tuesday afternoon like getting your legs waxed. Hot hot hot wax spooned onto the leg and then ripped off with hopes of taking all hair with it. Really, I voluntarily made this happen. I even was willing to pay for it! A whole $25,000 pesos. Although this is a start to a great story, this isn't the point. The highlight was talking to the main man in charge of the salon I went to.

Alright, us native English speakers like to make English words Spanish by adding an "o" to the end of our words. Come on, I know you've all done it. It's after dinner and we want to relax...let's go sit on the couch-o. Yeah and we can have some dessert-o to accompany our coffee-o. Just stick on an "o" and it's automatically Spanish, right? Well sure, to us it makes sense but it may make a Spanish-speaker cringe.

Little did I know, Spanish speakers like to do something like this to make their words "english-ized" too. Certainly they don't add an "o". The suffix of choice? -tion. I recall hearing this at some point but I thought it was nonsense. Well today, this myth became a reality. The man at the salon quickly realized I was American and so began his attempt to speak English with me. Not English-English, but rather his Spanish-ized version.

"Señorita, quisiera un aguitation" ....Miss, would you like some "water" ....agua + ita +TION

"I speakey poquito inglestion" ....I speak a little "english" ....ingles + TION

"Mucho gustation" ...."happy to assist you" ...gusta + TION

On and on it went. The entire conversation was like speaking Spanish is piglatin. In my head I had to chop off the "-tion" and figure out what Spanish word he was trying to say. It took everything in me not to giggle as the man was talking. I know he was just trying to accommodate me and I appreciate his ambiTION.

Shocked

Sometimes things at work go really well. Sometimes things at work go really poorly. I've found a comfortable roller-coaster (like the oxymoron??) of emotions in my job. Being a first year teacher is quite the challenge.

So one of these days when work hadn't been going well I thought of one of my teacher friends. His advice to me was that when things were spinning down the drain in class, just repeat this one phrase over and over and over, "3:00 will come." I struggled through each period. 3:00 will come. 3:00 will come. 3:00 will come. In actuality, I only had to make it to 1:15 when lunch started. After lunch I would stake my claim as a survivor of the day. Guess what, I made it! The bell rang for lunch and I sank into my chair for a few minutes before heading to lunch. Here we go Leanne, you've made it!

Lunchtime is always nice and I savor the adult conversation. I'm uncertain my co-workers realize the oasis they are on a teaching day in the desert. Well this day I didn't quite make it to the oasis in time. As I cruised through the line with my tray I heard the voice of my principal, "Leanne, when you set do your tray can you come talk to me?" Oh great. How did he sense my awful day. Did he figure it out when he stopped by my room earlier? My mind was racing. What could James need to tell me or ask me. The majority of time, things like this don't make me nervous. That's probably because the majority of the time when this happens a bad teaching day isn't lingering. Think Leanne. Think. What was he going to tell me.

After setting down my lunch I strolled over to where James was camped. Here goes nothing. The following coversation ensued.

"Leanne, do you know how the 10th grade takes a trip to the Amazon every year?'

"Yeah, I've heard a bit about it through the grapevine. The kids seem pretty excited."

"Well, we are looking for a female chaperone and I'm wondering if you would like to go. The school pays for everything."

My eyebrows shot up, my eyes got real big, and I did what any logical person would do: Say yes to your boss, "Yeah, sure! I'd love to go."

The remaining conversation was just small talk and I don't remember much.I was consumed with thoughts of the amazon.

Consumed: Rainforest. Rivers. Swimming. Pink dolphins. Manatees. Peru. Brazil. Amazon river. Hiking. Yellow fever. Culture. Indigenous villages. Mosquitoes. Galoshes. Canoeing. Crocodiles.  Hammocks. Dancing. Huts.  Fishing. Cooking over fires.  Bonding with students. Speaking Spanish. Adventure. 

...I think I'll have a little fun...

Feast on a Platter

If you come to Colombia, a Colombian might ask you to do a strange thing. Don’t do it. Use your better judgment! Let me lay out a scenario for you.

It’s a Saturday afternoon and I’m walking to my friend’s apartment building to meet up so we can stroll downtown. As I turn up his street, I notice something twitching in the middle of the road 25 yards ahead. I pensively tilt my head and try to make heads or tails of it. Nothing.  Upon approaching I notice it is a bird that is wounded. I don’t know if it was hit, if it ran into a window or if some ninja street cat swiped it out of the air. All I know is that it’s laying there flopping a wing every once in a while. It made me sad.

This Colombia man was standing at his balcony 2 floors up and starts telling me something in Spanish and motioning to the bird. He killed the bird!? Yes. That must be what he is saying. He was trying to tell me he was an airsoft gun extraordinaire with incredible marksmanship. Okay, that’s not what he was saying. But what he was telling me to do was just as bizarre. “Niña, go pick up the bird and get it off the street.”

Really man? Really? Yes. He motioned again and told me it needed to get off the street so it doesn’t get hit by a car. Seriously bro, the birds going to die. But this man was persistent. I couldn’t just walk by him and ignore his request. I had thrown out that option when I had made initial eye contact. Fail. So, what do I do? I inch my way towards the bird and see the blood. How the heck do I explain to this frantic man that I am in no way touching that thing.  I look at him, charading fear the best I could, “There’s a lot of blood. A lot of blood. I can’t touch it” Then, I continued walking.

So, the next passerby came and you’ll never believe it: Balcony Man actually convinced the man walking by to pick up the bird. Yes. The pedestrian walked up to it, took his bare hands, lifted up the limp bird, and placed him on a ledge nearby. Woot woot. Bird saved? I smiled a little on the inside. Because the bird was safe? Naw... Balcony Man just served our street cats a feast on a platter.

The Doctor Comes to Town

It’s one thing to be so nauseous the mere thought of food produces a gag reflex, have diarrhea that demands staying near a bathroom at all times, and a stomach ache that comes in waves like battles in a war fought inside when you are a child at home with someone to care for you. It is an entirely other monster as an adult, living in a foreign place, with absolutely nothing in your brain to sort things out.

Sunday morning it hit; that is, the nausea.  I woke up early, ate a left over scone, decided that was an awful idea and crashed on the couch. Ick. I don’t really feel well. It takes more than feeling a little under the weather to slow me down so I continued the morning as usual by skyping with a friend, hanging laundry, and changing the linens on my bed. Soon I was getting ready for church and making breakfast. I thought trying a new smoothie would be a nice change: avocado and banana. Although my stomach didn’t agree, it wasn’t protesting, so down it went – a wonderful pale green smoothie sliding into my gurgling tummy. Before long the revolt came and my stomach was in knots. Growing up it was always saltine crackers to ease a stomach ache, so I grabbed two as I ran out the door.

Church was painful.  When feeling nauseous it is incredibly difficult to focus on anything except, “okay, don’t vomit. Good, 30 minutes left. Okay, don’t vomit. Man, 29 minutes. Can I make it? Don’t vomit. Focus Leanne, don’t vomit. 20 minutes.” With such mental toughness I finished the service. Although I finished, it left me weak and ready to curl up in bed. The 11 minute walk back to my apartment was laborious. How thankful I was to have my dear friend Debbie walking by me the entire way. We kept up conversation and this allowed my thoughts to wonder away from how sick I felt. I just needed to lie down; certainly I would feel better after a nap.

My nap turned into 4 hours of fitful rolling to ease the pain in my abdomen. I did manage to pass out for a bit though and when I opened my eyes to look at a clock it was already 5:00.  Then the diarrhea hit. I’ll spare the gruesome details and just tell you it was bad. I had a phone date with my mom so I briefly called home. Mom answered and more than ever I just wanted her to be in Colombia with me. She’d know what to do. She’d know what I should take. She’d take care of everything while I centered my attention on feeling better. She wasn’t here though. I was still alone and feeling like death. At least I could tell someone my pain. So, I let it all out; told her everything. My lip was in the full out pout position and I was feeling sorry for myself. Like many moms do, she talked me out of my slump and assured me things would be fine. I believed her….her timeline was just a little different than mine.

After ending the Skype call I hunched on my little love seat in a fetal position.  “No Amiguita, I don’t want to play. Leave me here to die.”  I whimpered once or twice and again slipped out of sickness and into nothingness. An hour later I woke up and knew there was no way I could make it to school Monday morning. Picking up the phone, I gave Luisa Super Woman a call. I told her my symptoms and she said she’d send a doctor to my house right away. If I needed anything I was to call back. Within the half-hour (it’s about 7:30 by now) my portero called and ushered the doctors in. In my best Spanish I tried to explain what was going on. They probed and prodded and found nothing out of normal except my stomach making a lot of noise. I assume it was the battle cries of whatever was at war.  They decided it was probably a parasite, wrote down 4 medicines, explained how to take each one, and then asked if I wanted the injection.

The injection? They explained that it would be a shot that would make me feel better. My friend had warned me about this. It must be their drug of choice. So the doctor led me my bedroom and had me lie on my stomach on my bed. He pulled my shorts band down, exposing my rear end, and planted the needle right in there. Ow, owe, oweeyyy. It did not feel good. “Does it hurt?” he inquired. Really? Are you asking me if sinking a needle into a strong muscle (ha! Who am I kidding?) and leaving it there for 10 seconds while you take your sweet old time getting the medicine out of the syringe hurts? Yes. It hurts. Satisfied? Sheesh.

So I received the infamous shot in the butt (3 days later and my limp is finally receding) and the doctors left me with wishes of better health. I could see a brighter future. The sermon from earlier was about joy. I wasn’t quite to leaping through fields and singing in a loud voice, but I returned to my bed with a smile. Again, my imagined timeline of getting well was shorter than would actually be, but I didn’t know that then.

 The next time I woke up it was 9:00. I knew I had to send substitute teacher notes to my secretary at school, so I took care of that and went back to bed. Once again I returned to a dreamless state with interrupted changes of position to ease my stomach. The next time I looked at the clock it was 5:30 Monday morning. I had survived the night.  I hadn’t eaten anything since my Sunday smoothie, and decided I should try to eat something. The doctors had given me a list of foods to try. The only thing I had on hand was an apple and saltine crackers. 2 more crackers and an apple later and I was done. The nausea had returned and I was stifling the urge to vomit. Back to bed. Must go back to bed.  At this point I had slept 20 of the past 24 hours, but I just needed more.

When I woke up around noon, I knew that I had to go get my medicine. It was possibly the only thing between being sick and being healthy again. I recently found out I could have ordered my drugs and had them delivered, but my Gringa self didn’t know this at the time. So I got dressed, hauled myself in the sun to the pharmacy, paid the $45 and turtled my way back. I thought the fresh air might do me good – who was I kidding.

1 medicine was liquid and grape. Not bad. The next was powder that I dissolved in water and taste like some bacteria broth I would make in bio lab. Sick. The next was a pill. Normal. The final was another powder to be dissolved in water and drank. Luckily this was orange flavored. Not so bad. Upon taking the medicine, the next 24 hours ensued: sleeping, bathroom, reading, bathroom, sleep, bathroom, planning, bathroom, skype call, bathroom…etc. Eating was nowhere in my routine as the nausea was lingering. When will this ever end? Tuesday? Not quite. Back to school, but not back up to speed. At least the diarrhea wasn’t urgent and the nausea was subsiding. The only thing left to kick was the pains in my stomach. Owey. I ate my first meal Tuesday at lunch , made it through the entire day, walked home, and crashed. Wow, that was exhausting. Relaxing the rest of the evening and taking meds did me a whole world of good. I was on the final stretch – this is what my mom was talking about: I would get better.

And better is where I find myself writing this today. It’s Wednesday and I’m finishing up the last hour of the day. My stomach is still a little upset, but not enough to prevent me from eating or force me into a fetal position. I’m writing from a thankful standpoint of overcoming a sickness. Who knows what it was, but I’m joyous knowing that it’s almost gone! Thank you God. Yes, thank you God.

One more thought about being sick: It overwhelms me how many people inquired after me while I was sick. Several (I mean more than 5) of my Colombian/America friends reached out with sympathetic hands and offered help if I needed anything. It warms my heart knowing that I have caring people concerned for me in this strange place. With friends sickness is overcome and joy is replenished.

French?

When I sit down to think about it, I don't really like to go grocery shopping anymore. Sure, I like to have food, but when you have no one to go with, you know you have to carry whatever bags back with you at least 1/2 a mile (okay, I could take a taxi...but I am anit-taxi unless necessary), and you never know exactly what you are going to find - it's not so much fun. Okay, now that I've said that. I halfway take it back. Ha! It is fun meandering the aisles and browsing. I've found some pretty neat stuff. Today I saw a whole pigs leg. Kind of gross but kind of cool. There are also endless fruits. Yummm!!! So I guess it's not THAT bad to go to the grocery store. (Thanks for baring with me on that talk through of grocery shopping. Ha! Pointless.)

The point of this story lies in the check-out counter. As I walk up to check out, the clerk always asks if I have a "tarjeta de puntos". This is my points card. Whenever I buy things I accumulate points to use on merchandise. What exactly? I have no idea. Ha! I just know that whenever I buy something I'm racking up the points. Sweet. Makes me feel good! Well, most Colombians, when asked for their tarjeta de puntos, just give the number of their cedula (identification card). This 6 digit number is their code into the computer system so they don't have to carry a card around. I tried that once (I have an identification card for foreigners). Told the lady the number to my cedula and 1, 2, 3, fail. She just shook her head. I wasn't about to give up so I handed her my cedula. For about a minute straight she was punching in numbers, canceling, punching in numbers, adding numbers, subtracting numbers but nothing seemed to work. I shrugged and handed her this flimsy piece of paper with a bar code linked to my account. Bleep - and like magic my name appears on the screen and she can proceed to give me my hard earned points.

Here's something that always makes me smile. When the clerk scans the bar code on my card they are supposed to say my name. Like I've mentioned in the past, Leanne is NOT an easy or common name here. So, their first challenge lies in my first name..which usually gets butchered. What's funnier is watching them try and say my last name. VanRemortel. This name is 11 letters long and intimidating. Not that it is difficult to pronounce (just sound it out and your golden) but it just doesn't seem to end. The same thing usually happens at the check-out: the clerk sees my names, nervously glances up at me, grins, and then makes their best attempt to say my name. I always smile back and explain to them that my name is pretty strange for Colombia and that I'm not from here. Two days ago the man looked at me, looked back at my name, looked at me and asked if I was french. Sure, why not, today I'll be French. No, just kidding, I told him that I was from the United States. He smiled.

That was the second time in a week that someone asked me if I was French. A few days before this incident I went to a pizza shop with a friend. We walked in and the owner said Happy New Year in Spanish. I responded with Happy New Year in Spanish and then another worker said with a strong accent in English, "Happy New Year!". I grinned and responded back to him in English, "Happy New Year." Then he asked me (in Spanish) to say Happy New Year in my language. I was confused so I just said Happy New Year in English again. Ha! He was probably confused then too.

 "No, no, no - in french or Italian."

I apologized, "Sorry, I don't speak those languages."

He was shocked, "Really you're not French or Italian??"

"No, I'm from the United States"

"Oh, you appear to be French or Italian."

Interesting. I wonder how he would imagine someone from the United States. We all look pretty different anyway. So yeah, 2 times in one week being told I was French - I'll take it!

Well, my train of thought/writing has brought us from the grocery store to France, how does this happen?

Gatica Bonita = Pretty Kitty

It is a lovely Tuesday morning, the sun is shining, and I've just rolled out of bed. By "just' I mean about 45 minutes ago. Time is a funny thing. I roll out of bed, make some Colombian coffee, put the dishes away. read my bible and before I know it it's already 8:00. Whatever happened to waking up early and being super productive in lesson planning before exploring the city with friends in search of a piano? That was my plan as I slipped into bed at 9:00 last night. It looks like this girl is going to have to put the pedal to the metal in order to sort out all the school stuff before having some fun later.

Sitting down to write a blog entry doesn't exactly follow my pedal to the medal philosophy of getting lesson plans cranked out, but my little kitten (who's not so little anymore) and her sister (whom I am kitty sitting) and pleading with me to be the main characters in a blog. What better way to write about them when one is curled at my feet and the other stretched out along my side. I'd say that's some pretty good inspiration and an excellent sensory writing experience as I stop every few words to pet the length of the long lean cutie pie next to me.

Being back in my apartment had been quite lonely the first 2 days. It was silent. After going 20 days at home with very little alone time, this was torturous. I began contemplating if I could really do this for 2 years. Then the girls were dropped off. They cautiously explored my apartment like police officers in an abandoned criminals home. Carefully stepping over things, sniffing everything, and snapping photos? Okay, no snapping photos but I think you get the picture: They were not to gung-ho about being in a new place. It didn't take them long to adjust though and soon they were prancing around and within 20 minutes both of them were curled up sleeping. Come on kittens. I just brought back a ton of toys from the United States for you to play with and all you want to do is sleep? Well, at least I knew they were comfortable.

Watching my Amiguita sleep flooded me with memories of when she was young (ha! you'd think she was my kid or something.)

When she was a wee little one, Amguita loved to drink water out of the bathroom sink. I don't know what her obsession was, but every time I walked into the bathroom she would hop on the toilet seat, jump to the sink, wait for me to turn on the water, and then stick her head down like she hadn't had water in years. She was a strange little thing. Well one night, I woke up to go the bathroom and forgot to put the seat down. This is a rarity because I have been well trained to put the seat down after using the toilet. This one time I forgot and groggily returned to bed. My alarm sounded bright and early and I crawled out of bed heading for my routine bathroom stop. Amiguita happened to rouse as I got up and decided she was thirsty. She did her usual spring to the sink and "jumped on the toilet..." Oh wait, there is no lid. Bam. She went for a morning swim instead. Poor little thing was so confused. I'm just thankful it was "clean" water.

The next time something like this happened, we weren't so lucky. This time, I went to the bathroom and as I stood up to flush the toilet Amiguita thought it was an opportune time for a drink. Pitter patter. Pitter patter. Pitter patter. SPLASH. Before I even knew what was going on she was flailing in a toilet of urine. Sick. A snatched her up out of the toilet and threw her under the water faucet. She was a very unhappy camper. Claws out and squirming to remover herself from water. Ami. Come on chica, can you be a little more careful for the sake of us both? Ha. Now I can look back and laugh. Then it was an inopportune alertness test at 5:20 AM.

Thinking back on these kinds of things just makes me giggle. Maybe frustrating at times, but it adds some spice to my life! My little gatica (okay, so "cat" in Spanish is "gato" but Ami is a girl so she'd be "gata"...then we have the Colombian influence of adding -ica/-ico at the end of a word to make it "little" ) sure is a joy! I'm glad to have her back safe and sound in my little apartment. She makes everything a lot less lonely.

Cat lady? Perhaps....Smiling? Without a doubt!

To the USA and Back

Whew. It has been an eventful month or so of travel. I left Colombia on December 16th for the USA and safely arrived back here yesterday. Time seemed to fly by in an accelerated fashion. It was only a few days ago I was sitting in an airport writing all the things I planned to do while home. "Only a few days ago"  turned into 3 weeks.

3 weeks without writing in my blog. 3 weeks of snow in Michigan. 3 weeks of speaking the same language as everyone around me. 3 weeks with texting powers. 3 weeks of quality time with family and friends. 3 weeks of magic.

I quite frankly don't feel like recapping my entire time at home, so instead I'll shoot for highlighting some events en route to the USA and back to Colombia.

(Highlight 1: Matecaña International Airport, Pereira, Colombia): In the past when I have flown, I have also printed off my itinerary from whatever site I booked my ticket with. Its like my security blanket in case anything ever goes awry. Well, I'm not certain I've ever used it once. This time, I made the calculated decision to save some trees and chose not to print off my itinerary. My cab driver dropped me off at the airport and as I walked in, I realized that I had no clue what airline I was flying out on. Hm. Da. Da. Da. Wish I had my itinerary. Avianca. Yeah, I decided to try that airline because it is what I flew out on last time. I walked over to the line and a woman approached me. She asked me something really long in super speed Spanish. I let her know that I didn't speak Spanish well, but she didn't seem to care. Again, a;sldkjfas;ldfkjadskfjdskfjads;lfkjdsfkj. Super fast. I was confused. Once more a;ldskfja;ldfkjadlfkads;fljads;fljads;fjads;lfkj. Sigh. Obviously she has no speed control on her voice. Dang. Wish I had that itinerary with me know. I did manage pick out one word from her line of mumbo jumbo:"passport". I did what any logical person would do and just gave mine to her. She took off like a bullet (walking almost as fast as she talked) and soon hustled back to tell me in 2.2 seconds that I was in the right line and needed to wait for security to check my bags. Yes, that whole sentence took her under 3 seconds. I smiled and went to find security.

(Highlight 2: Matecaña International Airport, Pereira, Colombia): I shuffled over to the area of security and waited. I was told that a gentleman would have to look through all my bags before I checked them in. No big deal, I wasn't smuggling any drugs or anything and I had nothing to hide. What bothered me was the wait. I waited and waited and waited some more. I patted myself on the back for giving myself 3 hours at the airport. As I stood in security I also noticed the check-in line getting longer and longer. I was thankful I wouldn't have to wait in that line. Eventually a young security man came and asked me to put my bags on the table. 21 kg of dead weight is a lot harder to lift than one might imagine. My bag was jam packed with gifts to bring back to the USA. At first it was no big deal. He was just taking things out and sorting things around. Soon he found some presents that I had wrapped to bring home. He looked at me, back at the gift and then back at me. "I'm going to have to open these." Bummer. All that work for nothing. So away he went, opening up gifts and looking at each thing carefully. I bet he felt like it was Christmas - except none of the gifts were his! Then he got to the Colombian soda. I had 2 bottles of unique flavors to bring back to my sister and brother-in-law.  He got really serious and told me that he would have to open one of them. Ugh, they were going to be flat before even leaving the country. So he opened one, sniffed it, put the lid back on and placed it back in my suitcase. Really? You think you're going to detect something by smelling it? The second item he had a problem with was coffee. I had requests from several people to bring back Colombian coffee. This means I had a few bags...okay 15 bags...packed tightly in my bag. He looked at them quizzically and told me that he'd have to open one. He proceeded with a bamboo skewer to poke a hole in one of the bags. Again, he did a sniff check. Yup, smells like coffee bro. The security man then took a piece of packing tape and taped off the hole. Great, now when I get to customs in the United States and they see this they are going to think I'm trying to smuggle something. Sweet. He wasn't finished with my bag or with sniffing my perishable items either. I had several jars of arequipe (like caramel) in my bag and he told me again that he was going to have to open one. Do I even have power to protest? So he opened up a jar, smelled the sweet aroma, taped around the entire thing, and put it back. Well, can't give that one as a gift anymore. As he proceeded to the bottom of my bag, he didn't open anything else. He carefully placed everything in the bag and told me I was clear to go check my bag in. Score. It was about time to get on the plane!

(Highlight 3, O'Hare International Airport, Chicago, Illinois): I had 5 hour to pass in O'Hare.  I was by myself, not sleepy nor hungry, and sick of walking. That is when it struck me to search for a prime people-watching place. What better way could I pass some time? As I strolled toward my gate I passed some leather seats facing the busy walkway right after a security point. Perfect.  Here are some things that made me smile: (1) I recognized several people walk back and forth a few times. I wondered if they were busy wasting time like I was or lost. I smiled as I pondered this. (2)I saw a girl walk by wearing sequin boots. She had to be in her 20s.  Sequin boots should be illegal for anyone older than 10. 6 minutes later, another girl in her late teens talked by wearing the same boots. Come on now people. 19 minutes later a little girl around the age of 7 walked by wearing sequin boots. That's more like it! (3) A man marched by with a little boy (maybe around 5 years old) slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. My initial thought was that the boy was in trouble and the dad was on a mission. As the 2 passed by I noticed a big grin on the boys chattering face. If he was in trouble, he certainly didn't make it known. He looked happy as a lark and talkative as a parrot.

The next hour was passed just watching people, making up stories for them, and laughing at ridiculousness. Success.

(Highlight 4, in route between Chicago and Green Bay): This flight was a mere 45 minutes and I think I grinned and sporadically giggled the entire time. I knew that when the plane landed I'd get to see my sister and mom. It just made me giddy and I couldn't wipe the smile from my face. I'm curious if anyone thought I was crazy. Ha!

(Highlight 5 Austin Straubel International Airport, Green Bay, Wisconsin): Going through security with my carry-ons I was asked to step aside because it appeared I had some illegal liquids in my bag. The bag that they decided to check was filled to the brim. I had strategically placed everything to make the most room possible for more things. Well, the lady basically dumped out my bag. I thought to myself, "There is no way she's ever going to get everything back in. Great." After searching through everything she picked up a container of powdered coffee creamer, "That's probably what he saw." Haha. Definitely not something they see every day. She took all the contents of my bag and told me she had to run them through the scanner again. No big deal. She ran them through, carried them over to me, and asked, "Could you please put everything back in your bag?" I kind of wanted to say no, just to see if she could successfully re-pack my bag (not a chance by the way) but graciously accepted and walked off to a table where I could put the puzzle back together. The whole time smiling and shaking my head.

(Highligh 6 El Dorado International Aiport, Bogota, Colombia): This was the last leg of my flight before touching back in Pereira yesterday. I had been traveling 23 hours by this point and was looking forward to just closing my eyes for this last 45 minute stretch. I was the last to climb up the plane and as I made my way to my seat I realized I was seated next to a little girl. She was 7. I placed my carry-on in the overhead bin and sat down. Little girl, "Are you sitting here?" With a little less sleep I may have said something sassy, but I simply replied, "Yes, yes I am." Turns out she is the most spunky, talkative, and patient 7 year old I've met in a long time. She was traveling by herself to meet her mom back at home in Pereira. From the moment I sat down we were talking. I initially explained to her that I don't know Spanish very well because I am from the United States. She told me she would help me with Spanish. Perfect. Nothing humbles you quite like a 7 year old teaching you sweet skills. I loved it. We talked and talked and talked. At one point I looked out the window at and told her I wanted to go for a run on the clouds but that it wasn't possible. Her eyes lit up and she exlaimed, "We could go on them if we had magic skates! Yes, we need magic skates."  She was being quite serious to. I smiled all over. Soon the stewardess came by and offered drinks. Gimela wanted coffee and a mango juice. Really girl? You're like 7 and want coffee. This is a bad idea. The flight attendant filled a cup 3/4 way and handed it over. After 2 creamers and 3 sugars she was ready to taste it, "Yuck. I don't like it...it needs more sugar." I thought to myself, "Girl, you don't need any more sugar in you!" Ha. Well, she really didn't end up needing more sugar because after 4 minutes or so of playing with her coffee she eventually spilled it. All over. Thankfully nothing burned her but there was an awfully large mess. Great! I clicked the button for the stewardess and she was quickly came, looked at the disaster, and dashed off to get some more paper towels. By the time we had it cleaned up we were already starting the decent to the airport. My little friend peaked out the window and squealed, "Periera!!!! My home!! The best city in the world!" ...and that is how I returned to my Colombian home.