In Which Caitlin Arrives in Bogota and Is Stoked

Every wall in Bogota is covered in art. Stencils of the Notorious B.I.G. and machine guns turning into flowers. Sketches of faces done in one continuous line of pink spray paint. Long stretches of collaborative mural, looping colors bending back into themself and leaping cats and paint explosions and missives from the artists themselves... en fin, artes en todas partes.

I dig it here in a big way. Weve been hanging out in a neighborhood called El Chorro de Quevado, the boho enclave of the old city. Tight little cobblestoned alleys lined with chicha bars, a fermented corn drink served in a bowl with straws which tastes a lot like alcoholic kombucha. They play metal at typical ear splitting Colombian volumes and you sit at your tiny table packed in with your buddies and youve won at life for sure this time.

Bogota is way up in the mountains, so we are cold. It rains every day, which Im oddly stoked about. I guess you can take the girl out of the City of Roses, but you cant take the City of Roses out of the girl. Traded in my gringa shorts and flip flops for some city threads, new jeans and a tweed jacket. Feeling good, feeling great.

Last Sunday the citys museums were free to the general public so we partook of Museo Botero, Dali sculptures and French Impressionism startling my brain as always with the panoramic opportunity that is art. We wandered through the Plaza Mayor, past impressively massive governmental palaces. A battalion of riot police stalked around the lethargic llamas brought in as photo ops for clueless tourists, looking for all the world with their beating sticks and Plexiglass shields as though theyd been stood up by some previously scheduled uprising.

The city bustles. And theres a yoga studio slash vegetarian restaurant around the corner from the hostel. Perfect, as Im heading back into a meat free existence for the moment. Wish me luck, last time I tried this in a Latin country I nearly came to blows with an obtuse waiter in a restaurante. What, ham counts as meat? These gringos, I tell ya. Wish me luck, gang.

I remain
Yours,
CD