I met several wonderful people in Carta, but there are three honorable mentions for my fav Colombos:

Mi hermanita:

A/k/a Erica, the girl I met on the chiva and with whom I’ve been emailing.  To be honest, online translators have become my BFFs. It’s one thing to do the whole “como estas” business or whip out the restaurant Spanish on occasion, but it’s quite another to write in Spanish.  Tonight I had to phone a friend with E’s latest email to make sure I understood it. And other than thinking that she was telling me her favorite holiday was Christmas when in fact she was wishing me a Merry Christmas, I did a pretty good job (sans online translator muchas gracias).

Mi Abuelita:

One night we were at a bar sipping cocktails when passengers from a “Chiva rhumba” stormed the bar (essentially a night time party bus that serves free cuba libres and drops chiva riders off at a bar after it’s done.  My abuelita arrived on the scene, maracas in hand, and she danced the night away.  She was la vida de le fiesta.  We took pictures with her. She gave me here number and was like “llamarme, I’ll take you dancing.”  Who doesn’t love an abuela who invites norte americanas to go dancing? Sadly, an old guy was trying to get abuelita’s attention by dancing behind her, but abuelita got “blocked” by some young puta who made the moves on abuelo. (Please note I am refraining from using my extensive knowledge of Spanish swearwords to call abuelo names).  However, my abuelita was too good for any man that is going to cough up pesos for a common street walker!  Shame on you abuelo!

Mini-Mi:

While waiting for our fantasy island boat to depart to Isla del Rosarios and Playa Blanca, this 7 year old nina captivated us.  She was rocking an all pink outfit complete with sunglasses, hat, and flower earings. My girl knows how to accessorize!  I wish I had video of her striking her vogue poses all over the place and flashing her toothless smile (my guess is that the tooth fairy has made at least two stops at su casa).  She was chatting up everybody and she was also on her mamita’s cell a lot-kid was taking more calls in an hour than I take all week. She’s destined to be class President and Prom queen (but in a good way).

Although her real name is Stefania, we nicknamed her Punky.  H later called her my mini-me.  Two of my favorite things she did was to chat up this cute teenager…she was all over him! My chica was’t giving the little boys her age the time of day!  Atta girl Punky. Punky also sat across the from me and she kept leaning on me to see things and she started talking to me and so I had to give my Spanish disclaimer of “listen kid, I speak English. You know what her reply was? “I know English.”  I said, “you do?”  She said,”si, 5, 6,7,8.”  No clue what happened to 1-4, but maybe she was fielding calls on her cellie when Dora the Explorer was covering 1-4.  I have a picture with Punky. Couldn’t leave Colombo without it.

We took a “chiva” (city tour) with a bus full of 8^th graders.  Truth be told we were kicked off of our first chiva tour after the tour guide freaked when she discovered we were not native speakers (ahem, un poco discrimination against the anglospeakers, perhaps?).  We were then instructed to catch an English speaking chiva.  We were like “great, now we’re going to be on a bus full of Americanos,” (we totally have an aversion to hanging with our paisanos abroad). However, rather than hopping on the gringo bus, we were told to get on a bus full of Colombian tweens.

At some point I became the chiva mascot.  I blame our chiva tour guide, Incarnacion, who was intent on giving the tour only in Spanish and also H. I tried to pay attention while H “phoned it in,” so he focused on me.  One time he asked me if I understood, I was like “si, mas o menos,” but I had zoned out, which of course was when he announced “Ok, I give you a test.” QUE? I’m on vacation and I was told there would be no math.  And P.S. who gives a pop quiz on a tour?  The ninos got a huge kick out of this and started talking to me and evidently about me. At some point H encouraged them to call me a gringa, a term which I was NOT happy about and H and I would hear them start dropping the gringa bomb while looking and smiling at me.  So then Senor Show-Off Incarnacion had to give us a political lesson of the derivation of the term “gringo.”  Great, just what I want a lesson on “green go home.”  Anyway, anytime I tried to wander off, the kids would grab me and point to what I was supposed to be paying attention to, but I had lost interest in (chalk it up to American A.D.D.). At times I felt like the special ed kid who gets all the extra attention.

Despite the ethnic slur by my fellow Yankee (thanks H), one girl in particular, Erica, adopted me.  She plied me with cookies and asked me all types of questions.  At one point I thought she was channeling my parents when she started peppering me with questions like, “are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? Why not?” All excelente questions Erica!  When the chiva was over she hugged me and asked for my email.  She’s already written me.  Adorable!  She’s my Colombian hermanita!

Incidentally, H and I decided to say peace out to the chiva when some Spaniards bought our chiva driver, Carlos, and Incarnaction cervezas while the tour was still going on.  Um, is there no such thing as tort liability in Colombia?  We left and headed straight to the Cafe del Mar for some cocktails of AWESOMENESS!

My Joan Wilder moment happened at Cafe Havana, a Cuban bar, in Cartagena on Thanksgiving.  The role of Jack T. Colton was played by Stefan, a Frenchman from Bordeaux, more on the Frenchman later.

Cafe Havana is an institution in Cartagenan nightlife, popular with locals, tourists, and ladies of la noche.  It’s located in the edgier barrio of Gesemani­, an area that is supposedly being gentrified.  It’s got a long way to go, even if we did start the night off with T-day dinner at a hip French joint that was featured in a NYT review.  For example, when we were on our way to Cafe Havana from “Oh La La! ”(the scene of T-day dinn), I remarked that mi madre would NOT be happy to know that I was walking down that particular Calle due to the lack of lighting, the number of ladies of la noche working the beat, and a hood that appeared to play host to hotels that rented by the hour.  In fact, that area is so popular with the “working girls” that when we got lost we had to ask some ladies who were clearly in industry where Cafe  Havana was. When I mentioned to H that I wasn’t sure if they gave us the right directions she replied, “who cares? We’ll just ask some other whores.”

Although I didn’t meet Stefan shortly after the “chicken bus” I had been traveling on crashed in the jungles of Colombia, I did meet him in a bar full of whores. Take your pick as to which is preferable. P.S. we had to communicate in three languages to understand each other.  I’m proud to say that my Spanish and French were better than his English, so score one for the U.S. education system! I will say this about the Latins (and I’m including my French boyfriend in this category), they know how to romance a girl, which is why I’m drawn more towards Euros and South Americans than my Yankee brethern. The Latins get so caught up in the romance of it all and tell you what they’re feeling rather than American guys who subscribe to the Vince Vaughn Swingers dating strategy of acting like they don’t care and waiting 2-3 days before contacting you, so score one for the Latins.  Who wouldn’t rather hear “tu es belle” all the time rather than “so, I’ll text you and let you know when I’m free.” Um, yeah you do that buddy.

Stefan and I had a brunch date the next day (he was leaving for France that day).  The entire concept of a date on day 2 in Cartagena cracked me up! Evidently it’s easier for me to score a date with a nice boy in Cartagena than it is in Neuva York.  However, what is not easy is thinking in two other languages and having intense conversations in those languages at 10 a.m.  Side note: maybe I should listen to my poppa who says that I’m living in the wrong city.  If this trip has reinforced one thing, it’s that I could easily land a Papi chulo if I moved to a latin country.  Que sera sera!

Nevertheless, despite promises to write each other and see each other again, I think it was best for us to say our au revoirs in Carta.  Although a lovely homme, Stefan is a little too Kerouac for my taste…then again country home in Bordeaux does have a lovely ring to it.