Altitude sickness reared its ugly head once more today, as Sebastian and I woke up a little earlier than normal (how, I don't know) to chill in the park above our hostel a bit. After chatting for a while (I was mostly listening, Spanish is always more difficult for me in the morning), something grabbed his attention higher up on the hillside. He told me that in the last hostel he was staying, he was able to see an old, colonial style home from his window at night, and he had always wanted to hike up the hill to see the reverse perspective. So let's do it, amigo!
The sun shone on us for our entire hike up hairpin roads where sidewalks came and went, cars whirred by, honking if they were kind enough to give us a warning that we were about to get smashed. Sebastian seemed completely at home, humming a tune and jumping from crack to crack, but my head was on a swivel, eyes wide and breath short (the smallest shift in altitude makes a huge difference here). I found myself thinking of a dear friend on her own journey, assaulted by narrow roads and cars at every turn with her bicycle. It made it difficult to take in the landscape, but in between looking every which way for cars I saw spindly trees that reached higher than should have been possible given their slenderness, a thick matted carpet of grass that devoured any surface that wasn't maintained, rocks and stepping stones alike sunk deeply into the light green coat. We did our best to cross only at safe intersections, where one was able to see enough ahead and behind not to be surprised by a speeding motorcycle or worse: a roaring, packed bus. One bus in particular gave me a bit of a shock. It had blown a tire in the middle of a sharp curve, and the driver simply crouched beside it (the side facing oncoming traffic, of course) and got to work changing the enormous, double tire. A motorcyclist had stopped to give him a hand, or perhaps watch the traffic for him. Either way, cars passed wihtin inches of him, and I marveled at his bravery.
At a particularly gnarly switchback, we were relieved to see a set of staircases heading up the face of the hill. They were narrow and steep, as all stairs I have encountered in the city are, framed by hedges that must be frequently maintained not to grow wild like all the other plants seem to. At the top of the stairs, huffing and puffing, I spied a group of power company workers on their break. Hardhats pulled down over their eyes, streched out beneath trees and power lines, they snoozed or chatted, laughing loudly from time to time. They didn't seem to mind our minor interruption of their free time, nodding to us, smiling and saying "Buenas", the shortened form of "buenos días" that works at any hour of the day. We continued on up the road, and as on our long walk the other night I could feel the muscles in my legs begin to perk up a bit, muscles tight from anxiety relaxing and being put to work as they so infrequently are. The flow of cars thinned considerably as we took a turn that led toward a group of small towns outside the city. We were close, just a few more bends, Sebastian assured me. I felt as if I wanted to go all the way to the top, but I may have passed out from the altitude at that point, struggling so much down here only halfway up the hill.
Finally, we arrived: la Casa Loma, literally "the house on the hill". Another fantastic panorama of the city, awash in sunlight in parts, overrun by the wandering clouds in others. I think I mentioned in my first entry that the weather seemed consistent... wrong. It changes every 40 minutes at most. The temperature, yes, very consistent, but the weather not so much. Up there, though, everything seemed tranquil, stable, beautiful. I let Sebastian take my iPhone to have his way with the camera. He surprised me with his eye for composition and ability to capture sincere, spontaneous moments. Satisfied with the view, we descended. It was a relief not to be climbing, returning to where the air was a bit thicker, easier to process. This time around I noticed the university that sat midway up the hill. We passed along a barbed wire fence that bordered its campus, spying groups of students on their breaks, hunched underneath power lines as the workers had been, smoking who knows what.
Once we reached the bottom it was time for lunch, and we entered a student-friendly pizzeria that we had spotted on the way up. A short counter stuck out from a large, domed dining room, walled off by a tarp on the side facing the road. It was filled with cackling groups of students scarfing down pizza, and again I was a sight to behold. No matter, we ordered some crazy pile of food, called mazorcada, which consisted of fried potato sticks, all kinds of meat, cheese, and a thick, tortilla-like piece of bread as a base. Absolutely the least healthy thing I have eaten, even still today as I write this a few days after. But it hit the spot, can't deny that.
We headed down to the hostel for a little siesta, and maybe an hour later I heard some confused voices from the lobby. I strained a bit to listen, and it became clear that whoever was trying to check in had no idea how to speak Spanish. I got up and entered the lobby, where I saw something that still makes me laugh thinking about it: two wide-eyed guys from the UK trying desperately to make themselves understood in the most broken Spanish I had heard yet. I walked up behind them and said "I heard that you guys are looking for someone who speaks English" and they where overcome with relief. We introduced ourselves to each other. They were two elementary school teachers on vacation from London, one, Halman, a second generation Londoner of Punjabi descent, and the other, Ian, an Irishman with the accent to match. I assisted them through the checkout process, showed them the room and their bunks, and then we all decided to go out for yet another tour of the historical plaza.
Sebastian felt like the Pied Piper of foreigners this time around, even bringing his quena along to play a little tune as we followed along. Halman was in absolute shock that he and Ian had made it, that they were in Bogotá, Colombia, South America. I smiled as I recalled my own overwhelming state of mind, one that still hounded me whenever I was alone with my thoughts. I realized that having been immersed in Spanish for the better part of four days had made it rather difficult to transition back to English, especially British and Irish English, but in time I was conversing and cracking jokes as I had been able to in the past, or at least somewhat similarly. I practiced British slang to the laughter of my new friends. They helped me zero in on the pronunciation. I don't think I'll ever be able to say "wanker" effectively, but it was a hoot to try.
We soon found ourselves northbound on la Séptima, where Sebastian and I had walked our Gran Paseo two nights before. That meant one thing to the two of us: BBC. We all headed in for a few pints (I had a couple half and halfs, which were a delicious mix of the red and blonde ales), laughs and more conversation. Kora let Sebastian use her camera and he once again showed his affinity for photography, as well as (and much to his own surprise) the photogenic diversity of Halman's expressive face. Two rounds were enough, the newly arrived were hungry and no one wanted to shell out the tourist prices for the food (nearly identical to the price of brewery food back home, and seemingly of the same quality). We decided to do a complete 180 and go for the ultimate in Colombian street food: arepas. Think the shell of a pupusa split in half, stuffed with all kinds of meat and cheese, slathered in butter and grilled on an open flame before you eyes. Sebastian and I had gotten a few with everything on our day out with Kora, and they are absolutely divine. We went back to the same vendor, right around the corner from the hostel, a fast-handed young man, alternately flipping arepas and dipping into a bag around his waist to make change with lighting speed. Halman and Ian were completely satisfied with the meal, and thanked us for the grand tour. Oh no, boys, it wasn't over yet. This had been simply the civilized part. Ahorita, vamos a la oficina.
Doña Ceci, it seems I will never be able to escape your grasp. Cheap drinks, great atmosphere, what else does one need in a bar? All 5 of us went out for the night, alternating rounds of tequila and beer as always. Ian and Halman couldn't believe the tunes they were hearing on the jukebox, laughing out loud and nodding their heads to beats they hadn't heard in sometimes more than 20 years. When it was clear that simply being American wasn't enough to excuse my ignorance of some popular songs, Halman asked me my age. 23! Bloody hell! He shook my hand several times and admitted he was super impressed by my ambition at such a young age. I was touched. Ambition is something I had found myself struggling with after graduating university, and in large part it was my lack of it that led to a serious downturn in my life. Hearing him say that made me feel like I was doing the right thing for my life, for myself.
We all drank past our previously set limits, and once Kora began to nod off a bit decided we had better head back in. The party didn't stop, though, as Sebastian pulled out the remainder of the bottle of rum from the night before and we all passed it around, constantly being shushed by both management and each other. Whenever Halman wasn't around I did my best to make Ian laugh with my British accent, which I've always considered to be pretty up to snuff. His laughter confirmed that, or at least as much as drunken laughter can confirm anything, I suppose. I joined Sebastian outside for a bit, where we sat talking with a travelling French girl, Lynn. She spoke a Spanish that for whatever reason was extremely easy for me to understand, perhaps because we had both studied it in university and received the textbook and literature verisons. I felt my head swimming again, that meant it was time for bed. Can't keep up this kind of partying forever, bro, it's going to catch up to you. But that's another story for another day.
