Notes on the Colombian capital
When you go from New York to Bogotá, you fly for about five and a half hours and don’t change time zones. I’m not used to this. I guess I don’t fly north-south, or south-north, all that often. I sort of like it.
‐While in Bogotá, I will hear the phrase “up in Miami.” I’m not used to it. Again, I like it.
‐Filling out the Colombian customs form – is that the right term? – you are asked for your first last name and your second last name. This is natural, of course, in a Spanish-speaking country: your father’s last name and your mother’s maiden name. I would be Jay Nordlinger Gray.
Actually, I’m sort of sorry I didn’t fill that in.
‐At the airport, a big sign promises that Bogotá will give you “una fusión de los mejores sabores del mundo” – a fusion of the best flavors in the world. I have a feeling this is not a boast (or merely one).
‐From what I can tell, the customs police seems to be dominated by pretty young women in fetching uniforms, wearing makeup and perfume. One can live with that.
‐You might feel rich in Bogotá – because you’re carrying around tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands … Five dollars, for example, equals about 15,000 pesos. I’m reminded of my college days, in Italy.
When the euro came in, I was sad: because I loved the diversity of money in Europe, and the images on the bills and so on. Their different sizes. The very variety. Vive la différence, you know?
But one quickly got used to the euro, and it was, I must admit, convenient.
‐For many years, Colombia has been locked in struggle against the FARC, those Communists and narco-terrorists. There has been a peace process. And a referendum on that process. And a Nobel Peace Prize to the country’s president. I am here to report on all that.
But, for now, I’m just scribbling breezy little notes …
‐What is this marvelous brown butter? It is arequipe, a.k.a. dulce de leche. I’m used to dulce de leche ice cream. (Frankly, it’s not one of my favorite flavors.) But spreading the stuff, on a roll or something? Oh, my.
‐Also, let me put in a word for feijoa juice – a green, refreshing drink.
‐Across the street from me is a bust of an august personality – Miguel Grau Seminario, El Gran Almirante del Perú, the Great Admiral of Peru. He lived from 1834 to 1879 and was a hero of the Pacific War. I’d like to know more about him.
About many personalities, that’s true.
‐Bogotá has a reputation for street crime (and other crime), and bogotanos will tell you that this reputation is badly outdated. Still, it is reassuring to see guards in those little bank lobbies where ATMs sit.
‐The Spanish in this city, they say, is a neutral Spanish. I think of my old friend Hazen Schumacher, a radio pro in my hometown of Ann Arbor (Michigan). He was from Detroit. And we were talking about distinctions in Michigan speech.
He said, “You know, I always heard that our English was the standard American English. The accentless English.”
When I myself got out and about, I realized that there are some very distinctive markings in our English!
No one has an accent where he lives, does he?
‐Today is a holiday, All Saints Day. The atmosphere is festive – relaxed festive. I see a billboard that says, “Keep Walking, Colombia” (in English). Yet most people, it seems, are riding – riding bicycles. They are riding bikes on broad avenues, which are closed to other traffic.
There is a term here: ciclovía, or cycleway. This is one of those days.
Everyone is wearing a helmet, which surprises me. I don’t know whether they do this out of habit – prudence, wisdom – or in conformity with the law.
The streets, and the parks, are full of families. Some of them look right out of Norman Rockwell, Colombian version.
Down one avenue, a couple is pushing their handicapped adult daughter, in a wheelchair. Alongside them walks another daughter.
Or so I surmise. I don’t know. Anyway, this scene is affecting.
In one of the larger parks, my mind goes to a song: “Saturday in the park, I think it was the Fourth of July.” Today is a Monday, but the feeling is similar.
I actually hear another song, playing from somewhere: “What a beautiful world this will be. What a glorious time to be free.”
Speaking of music, there is a saxophonist, on the street. He is playing “In the Mood,” badly. But he is trying.
Back to the park: Children are selling fresh-squeezed juice, as their parents look on. Who can resist buying? Dogs are everywhere, with their owners. On the evidence of this day, and this area, bogotanos are a dog-loving people.
A man takes a boxing lesson. Some other men play volleyball. A lone older man is practicing tai chi, or some other form of slow East Asian exercise. That kind of thing has traveled, hasn’t it?
Muscle guys work out with other muscle guys, and one or two muscle girls. Most of this group are standing around, talking, and sort of modeling. Muscly people like to hang out with other muscly people, I think.
There are some rollerbladers. And, amid hundreds, one kid – just one – bouncing a basketball.
#share#
‐This city is full of blooms – rare blooms, at least to me. They are everywhere, in every color, and high and low. What I mean is, some of the blooms are along the ground, and some are high up in trees.
All over, I see a tree, or bush, with spiky red flowers. What is it? Turns out to be Calliandra carbonaria. (My thanks to tweeters, for the answer.) Check out this floral loveliness, when you can.
‐Every time I come to Latin America – which is not often – I am struck by the presence of Indianness. In the United States, you can go for weeks and months and years without seeing anything Indian. Indians exist in pockets, in the U.S. Very small pockets.
Here, Indianness is written on face after face. Why? Why this difference between the United States and other Americas?
A friend of mine gives me an explanation I have heard before, and which I repeat now: To the country that became the United States, families came. Settler families came. There was a pool of people – settler sons and daughters – to marry.
To the other Americas, Spanish men came, on military and commercial expeditions. Not families – men. And they did what people do. Hence, a mixing, such as you do not see in the U.S.
Well, that is simple, but not untrue, I gather.
‐Back to music: I see a restaurant called Lalo, which advertises traditional cuisine. The Symphonie espagnole starts to run through my head. (This is the violin-and-orchestra piece by Edouard Lalo, the 19th-century French composer.)
‐Appearing side by side are Baskin-Robbins and Dunkin’ Donuts. This is the same (killer) combo we have near the office, I think. (I mean National Review’s offices, in New York.)
I further see a Mail Boxes Etc. Mail Boxes Etc.! There used to be one near my building. I miss it sorely. I guess it takes being in Bogotá to have the conveniences.
‐Outside a mall are Christmas decorations – a little early, maybe, but there they are. I always think that Christmas decorations in such locales, such climates, look a little cheesy. In Florida, for example. But that may have something to do with my upbringing in Michigan.
Here in Bogotá, a little girl leaps up toward some decorations, which she cannot even begin to touch. “Navidad!” she cries, “Navidad!” I don’t think I have ever seen a happier being.
I had better knock off, for one day. See you tomorrow for Part II – which’ll be a wrap. Hasta luego.