Woke up with intense anxiety. Tried to clear my head by lingering in bed a bit but to no avail. I began to pace about, nervously waiting for my guide to wake up and take control of the reins that I was letting flap in the breeze. I can't leave them hanging forever. I won't always have someone like Sebastian to latch onto and then avoid taking command of my own trip. Maybe with some more time I'll get comfortable, but I need to keep myself in check before I form any bad habits or let my old ones take hold of me again. Maintaining this journal has helped, time spent reflecting is very therapeutic, but can be a slippery slope...
Sebastian finally woke up, time to snap out of my funk. He was so hungry he skipped a shower and we went straight to another hole in the wall. A dim, crowded joint run by a Chinese family. We took a seat (there's never enough leg room for me, seats here aren't designed with tall folks in mind) and ordered two arroz mixtos and a couple Mountain Dews (I had never had one in a bottle before, so I treated myself a bit). A heaping portion of rice mixed with shrimp, beef, chicken and who knows what else. It came out to about $4 each, and again neither of us could finish. I managed to give the waitress the wrong change two or three times in a row, while Sebastian shook his head and giggled. Paying for something in the thousands is completely new to me, and my rusty math skills are being put to the test. Sebastian boxed up the food with the intention of giving it to someone in the street, but of course our walk back to the hostel was the only time no one came out of the woodwork to beg. Into the fridge it went, which proved to be a wise move later on.
We talked a bit about what to do next, and Sebastian came up with the idea to visit a part of the city he hadn't seen yet, but warned me it was quite a ways away from where we were, a district called Usaquén on the northern end of the town. I, of course, had nothing else in mind, and it was off to the Transmilenio station to catch a bus. I struggled even more with producing the correct change. Sebastian had to step in and count out the amount for me. I was still feeling pretty shaken and had an immense amount of trouble focusing. Still can't decide if it's purely nerves or if the altitude is having a subtle effect on my functionality. Either way, we made it through the gate and asked a few guards which bus to take for Usaquén. They couldn't have been more than 18, and Sebastian explained that due to Colombia's mandatory military service you will often see teenagers in positions like that, opting to be a security guard instead of going out into the mountains with a rifle and a prayer. I felt lucky to be from the states, and pondered what it would be like to be forced into service as we hopped onto the crowded bus, arms pressed to our sides to make it easier to snake between the masses.
I marveled at where I was, tightly gripping a rail in the accordion-like seam of a bus swarming with locals on their way home from work. It was so mundane and yet so surreal all at once. After crossing a good chunk of town, the bus twisting and turning along its special commuter lane, catching the curb only two or three times and pitching me forward at hard stops only five or six, we arrived at what someone had told us was the closest stop to our destination. We were all the way out at Calle 116, over a hundred blocks north of our hostel. Heading east toward la Carrera Séptima, we followed a small canal that ran between upscale apartment complexes. We passed numerous people walking their dogs, children playing on playgrounds, couples on benches. This was the closest thing to suburbia one is likely to find in this city. A familiar setting, but filled with elements that were completely foreign to me. The songs of the birds, the flowers and trees that dotted each bank of the canal, the arches lush with greenery that marked the start and end of a winding path, they all combined again for that perfect mix of mundane and surreal that had struck me on the bus ride in.
After crossing a freeway by way of a narrow pedestrian lane, a motorcycle nearly taking Sebastian's head off as it went whizzing by, we arrived at la Carrera Séptima, one of the city's main arteries. Things moved at a slower pace on this side of town, and the wider, calmer streets were a relief after a few days of having to be on my guard in the narrow, clogged routes of downtown. Pedestrians do not have the right of way, and traffic lights often go ignored, so it's a constant source of stress to get around when you could round a corner and get blindsided by a screeching taxi or worse. But out in this tranquil suburb, things were peaceful and I felt safe moreso than ever before. We crossed la Séptima and headed into La Hacienda Santa Bábara, a historical building whose colonial facade had been reappropriated as the entrance for a large shopping center. It was a mall more or less like any other, with electronics, clothing and restaurants as well as a large, circular food court featuring all kinds of comida rápida. The layout was the strangest aspect to me, corridors twisted at random, a set of stairs would take you down a half level and then back up for no reason. Large sections of storefronts were partitioned off for repairs yet no work was being done. We gave it a short tour before exiting through the back into what we had come for in the first place: El Parque Usaquén. A quaint plaza topped by a colonial era church, carribbean drums pounding from a far corner, a bungee trampoline and a nutty game involving a pool of water and large clear plastic balls that encapsulated children rolling around and laughing on the water's surface, it was quite the scene. Definitely a place to bring one's family for a nice evening out. We walked around the main plaza, and then took a turn down an alley lined with tables where vendors sold artesanal goods. I was tempted a few times to buy souvenirs and gifts, but reminded myself that my journey had only just begun and I didn't need to be carrying anything fragile around with me for several months.
The sun was setting, we had had our fill of quaintness, it was time to head back. Sebastian asked me how I'd like to get back: taxi? Bus? Walk? I think he meant the last option half-jokingly, but for whatever reason it struck me as a good way to go. What better way to get familiar with the city? He gave me a critical looked, asked if I was sure, which I was, and off we went, back down la Séptima as the sun disappeared behind the gorgeous, rugged green hills to the west. The street was desserted when it came to pedestrians and not very well lit, and after a while Sebastian wanted to make sure we weren't heading into a bad situation and asked a passing bicyclist if it was much further before things got a bit more civilized. The man assured us it was only a few more blocks before we were back in the outskirts of downtown, where streetlights and storefronts had a stronger presence and we'd have little reason to worry. He was right, and we were at ease again, joking and laughing as we conquered block after block of Bogotá. We passed the clubs we had been at the night before, dark and solemn as most businesses were closed on Sunday evening.
But as the looming skyscrapers of downtown grew near (one with each side ablaze in LEDs that flashed advertisements and silly cartoons), we came upon a bar that was still open: Bogotá Beer Company, or BBC for short. After miles of walking, we figured it was time for a break, and it turned out to be great timing as the rain picked up just as we entered the bar's warm, wood paneled interior. Modern, clean, pop music playing in the background, this place could have been in any city in the US, or really any country for that matter. I asked for a sampler of the four beers they had on tap, and was immediately taken back to all the time I spent drinking craft beer with my friends in the East Bay. We kicked back on the balcony near a large fire-lit heater and had a few rounds as the rain fell in sheets outside. Tourist prices restricted my intake to two red ales, both of which were full-bodied and flavorful, which I never would have expected to say about any South American beer. I was warm, content, awash in happy nostalgia as I sipped those slices of California.
The bartender let us know they were closing up soon. It was close to midnight. We had been walking longer than I thought. There was still a good distance between us and the hostel, and the rain had lightened but showed no signs of stopping. So we braved the drizzle and kept ourselves occupied discussing films of an actor we both had a deep appreciation for: Gael García Bernal. Great art truly crosses boundaries of culture, and it was plenty enough to carry us along the abandoned streets and back home again.
