Whopper Kings, street food, seminaries, William Henry Harrison, and more
Editor’s Note: Jay Nordlinger traveled to Bogotá, the Colombian capital, to report on recent political events there. In a lightish supplement, he is jotting this journal. For Part I, go here. The journal concludes today.
Where was I, when we knocked off? At the mall, I think — the mall with the Christmas decorations outside it (already).
Inside the mall, there is a Whopper King. Not a Burger King, but a Whopper King.
There is also a Juan Valdez Café, as there are all over this city. He gets around, Juan Valdez does.
And don’t ever underestimate the power of Cinnabon. There is one here, in the mall.
‐I’m reminded: Did the Colombian Free Trade Agreement ever pass? (Answer: yes.) (By the way, I’m really going to miss trade. So will America.)
‐Throughout the city, there are Esso stations. I haven’t seen one back home in a long time. And I always think of Mussolini: who hung there, in Milan, at the end of the war …
‐I see a Ritz-Carlton. No, hang on, it’s not: It’s a Hotel Dann Carlton. Yet the script seems the same as the Ritz-Carltons.
Hmmm …
‐It’s easy, I think, to romanticize street food. I remember the supplì I had as a student, on the streets of Rome. In my memory, they were ambrosial, or whatever the right word is.
Here in Bogotá, I have some mediocre street food. And some heavenly.
It simply depends, as indoors, right?
‐Speaking of restaurants: There is a chain here called “Buffalo Wings.” I wonder whether the name gives these restaurants a foreign cachet.
‐Speaking of things foreign: I have an immensely learned friend in the city who studied in America, France, England, and elsewhere. He has a number of languages — including German, because he attended a German-language school here as a boy.
A desirable start.
‐Continuing with things foreign: The French embassy in the Colombian capital? Oogly. Not just ugly but oogly, as an old southern friend of mine would say. It is a bronze chain box, basically. France deserves better.
But hang on: When I look at it again, it is semi-interestingly modern …
‐There is an outfit called “Education First.” That’s its name, in English. I mean, I have not translated: The outfit is called “Education First.”
‐Also catching my eye is a little monument announcing the “Avenida Estado de Israel.” State of Israel Avenue. There must be a story behind that. There are graffiti on the monument, but nothing bad. Nothing Nazi.
‐Speaking of Jews: I see at least two bookstores called Lerner, which is utterly natural. Indeed, it is warmingly stereotypical.
‐On a hill is a lovely old seminary, the Seminario Conciliar de Bogotá. Maybe all lovely old seminaries should be on hills, as in “city on a”?
‐I have an observation more this-worldly: Bogatanas tend to dress chicly. I see a lot of tight pants with boots, for example.
‐Does Bogotá have some wealth? Well, let me put it this way: There is a Maserati dealership.
‐My cabbie does not have a Maserati. We are going down a steep hill, and the road at the end happens to be blocked. So we need to back out of the street. The street is an ancient one, stony. The car cannot handle the backward, steeply uphill journey. So, I get out and push.
Have I ever before gotten out of a cab and pushed? I think so, yes: in the snow and ice.
‐This cabbie — a wonderful gent — talks about the political situation in his country. His assessment includes a denunciation of Álvaro Uribe, the ex-president. Little does he know that he is taking me to see this self-same Uribe …
‐In La Candelaria, the old, historic district, there is a stately school, which I am told is the oldest in the city: the Colegio Salesiano de León XIII, or the Leo XIII Salesian College. (Bear in mind the old sense of “college.”)
This morning, I see 20 or 30 kids, all lined up. They are wearing burgundy sweaters. Girls have plaid skirts and boys blue pants. They are overseen by an elderly, sturdy nun.
It is practically out of Central Casting.
‐You know how graffiti are supposed to be wild and free? Spontaneous and individualistic? I have long wondered: Why is it that graffiti, all over the world, look the same? There is a graffiti style. Graffiti art is essentially one thing, I think.
Don’t these vandals want to be more imaginative?
‐A young woman says to me, “Buenos días,” and then, immediately, “Buenas tardes.” Because now is the switching time. How do you know what the switching time is?
I wondered about “Buon giorno” and “Buona sera” way back, when I was in Italy. There is no hard-and-fast rule about this. Some Italians say “Buona sera” “dopo il pranzo” — after the midday meal, the main meal. Other Italians say “Buon pomeriggio” — “Good afternoon” — before getting to “Buona sera” (“Good evening”).
In large measure, I’m sure, you go by feel …
‐You want some more language? This is political. In most parts of the world, “liberal” means … well, Reaganite, Thatcherite. Howardite. (I’m thinking Australia.) In America it means McGovernite. Or is that term too antique by now?
I am amazed to find out — from a reliable source — that “liberal,” here in Colombia, means what it does in the U.S.: leftist, or at least pink.
Which is a shame. But the rescue of the word “liberal” is an old story, and I have written about it so much, my fingers balk at it now …
‐I spot a big monument. To whom, I don’t know. When in doubt, guess Simón Bolívar.
Around the monument are little plastic trees. Little plastic trees with autumn leaves. Really? In a city bursting with flora? Okay then …
‐I drink pop from a bottle — a real glass bottle. It has been ages since I did that. Plastic has long been king. The glass feels almost alien in my hand. Feels good, too.
‐Bogotá rests at a high altitude, and I think of a song lyric: “up where the air is rare.” I later realize — courtesy Google — that the phrase is “up where the air is clear.” I somehow like “rare,” though …
‐You recall the “squeegee men,” from the bad old days of New York. While you were waiting at a stoplight, in your car, these men would splash dirty water on your windshield. If you paid them, they would clean it off.
In this city, a woman places boxes of candy or something between rearview mirrors and the bodies of cars. If you don’t buy “your” box, she plucks it off, before the light turns green.
That is more civilized, I think.
‐The cabbie is listening to the radio. He likes this singer, but he can’t remember his name. “He was married to J-Lo,” he tells me. So I Google: and find that Jennifer Lopez has three ex-husbands. I call out one of the names. “No, not him,” says the cabbie. I call out another one. “That’s it,” he says.
Marc Anthony (né Marco Antonio Muñiz).
‐Earlier, I mentioned an “immensely learned friend,” here in Bogotá. He teaches me something I never knew — about a U.S. president.
In the 1820s, William Henry Harrison served here, as Minister Plenipotentiary to Gran Colombia. He met Bolívar, and urged him to adopt American-style democracy.
I wonder whether Harrison enjoyed it here. Bet he did. I have. Thanks for joining me, ladies and gentlemen.