There's No Place Like Home

Little Dorothy has had it right all along. Although I wasn’t “home home” per say this weekend; it sure felt like it.

This weekend I was reminded of so many things that I already know. But it feels good to be reminded. I was reminded of how strikingly beautiful Vanderbilt’s campus is on a warm, cloudless, October afternoon; of how you can’t go wrong with the plethora of options in a Panera’s You-Pick-Two; of how despite now being 23 I think I will always prefer a good frat party over a bar; and of how peanut butter and conditioner make a perfect combo for getting gum out of your hair. Exponentially more importantly, I was reminded of the value of true friendship; of the joy of a good surprise; of the strength of a mother’s love; of the comfort of sharing with those you trust; of the solidity of an honest, dedicated father; and of happiness so genuine it’s hard to keep down an obnoxious smile.

So why leave? Good question.

For me, the adrenaline, the leap of faith, and the test of personal strength and perseverance is just as important as the comfort of the familiar. When it comes to my room and my eating habits, I like it the same: if it’s not broken, don’t fix it. But when it comes to life experiences, I’m incessantly asking for more, for new. I think I have been able to love and appreciate travel because of how much I love home, not in spite of it. So thanks; I miss you already.

World Peace

World peace… every beauty pageant contestant`s famous last words. But wouldn`t it be nice?

I spent this past weekend in Sogamoso, a relatively small town in the Department of Boyacá. As part of the Indigenous Art Festival hosted by the city, I attended a free, outdoor Aterciopelados concert. The group has been popular for over 20 years, but they are 20 years young. The spirit of the group, the audience, and the message they sent could not have been more alive, genuine, and absolute. While the main singer, Andrea Echeverri, did partake in a few corny/hippie-esque demonstrations, like holding up a sign that said Amor y Paz (Peace & Love), what I got out of it was more than just an idealist let`s get together and feel alright sentiment.

I`ve always wanted to save the world. Don`t we all. And I`ve always been disappointed by those who say that you don`t have to make a big change in order to make a difference; every effort, no matter how small, matters; it`s the thought that counts. To me all of this always sounds like an excuse, a cop out, a way of accepting mediocrity.

Now I think there´s more to it. Peace takes political reform, from the top. Period. But there´s no means by which to compel compliance if we don´t have a solid middle class: a group of people who make peace contagious through their active positive attitude, acceptance of differences, and dedication to loving the good and doing the right. It´s a two way street, so unlike Harry P and Volds (new nickname), top-down and bottom-up, world-wide and inner-city, group and individual efforts can and must coexist.

So I guess every effort does count, but don´t get lazy; I´m still rather critical of that concept. You can give more, be better, try harder, so that when this Earth goes to rest, it may do so in peace.

You Are What You Eat

Some say the best way to get to know a culture is to eat your way through it. Sounds like a fat person’s rationalization to me; or anyone’s excuse for gaining weight on vacation. Been there done that right? Actually… in Colombia’s case, I tend to agree.

Colombians are really into their food. That’s not to say they’re overweight, just that, in general, Colombians derive a great deal of pride from the perceived deliciousness of what they eat. Everyone, I mean everyone, has asked me So how do you like the food here??? They ask genuinely, but they’re waiting for a very specific answer. Sometimes they even prime the answer by “asking,” Isn’t the food here amazing??? I must say, the food is good. Of course I miss my mom’s famous gooey noodles and French toast, but Colombia knows what’s up.

Being the domestic fool that I am (and as I am really busy), grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, pasta, and bizarre combinations of the three are as far as I’ve gotten. Even when my roommates cook, they give me remedial tasks like mixing things and setting the table. Pathetic I know. I’ve found some local “hot spots” to eat out on weekends, and Arepas rellenas off the street are so delicious and so cheap I’m not sure why I eat anything else.

My greatest eating experience thus far however, bar none, was the weekend I spent out on the farm. Benjamín (Ben-ha-mean in Spanish), a good friend without whom I would admittedly be rather lonely, invited me to travel out to Fresno where his parents live on a farm. Not the Illinois, flatland farms you’re picturing. This farm is in the mountains. It’s ridiculously beautiful, and they grow chocolate (yes, chocolate grows on trees here!), bananas, coffee, plantains, maracuya, guayaba, mangos, oranges, avocado; you name it, they grow it. They have dozens of fruits that don’t even exist in the US. Aside from fruit, as it is a farm, they also have chickens and the like running around everywhere. Most unfortunately, I woke up Sunday morning to a giant rooster hanging upside down with blood oozing down its face into a bucket placed appropriately below. Graphic I know. So this is where Benjamin’s mom comes in.

For starters, she’s ridiculous. She cooked all day Saturday and Sunday; I’m literally not sure she ever stopped. Everything’s from scratch. And I mean scratch scratch, like start-by-killing-the-rooster scratch. She prepared traditional Colombian tamales, which start as a mixture of potatoes, rice, carrots, corn, chicken, beef, and probably lots of other things I’m unaware of, and are then wrapped up in giant leaves (picked from the trees out back) and cooked in boiling water for 2 hours. She made 100… one hundred. It was almost comical, like a witch with a giant wooden spoon, ladling her magic potion in a giant cauldron. And the kitchen is far from high-tech. We’re talking coal and wood burning under the stove.

Needless to say, I overate. She just kept handing me food, and I kept eating it. She even sent me home with four tamales to eat throughout the week: hospitality in its purist form. I watched her cooking the whole time, intrigued, and when she caught on to my curiosity she asked, Well how does your mom make them? She struggled to understand what exactly we eat in the United States if we don’t eat tamales. Adorable.

In Colombia, food is a way of life. Boasting about your mother’s homemade meals is a common pastime. Sharing a good meal in good company is about as good as it gets J.