Bogota, Home, and Travel Influencers

Dos mundos. There I was. I was sitting in Bogota, living life like a queen. I stayed at 4-star hotels and smoked cigarettes I bought for a mere 4 USD. I ate the candy from my hotel room and indulged in the minibar, things I would not dream of doing in Chicago or New York, for instance. These things are not complimentary. I ordered room service—I could afford it. I went to the flea market and bought a typewriter for 20 USD which would ordinarily cost me about 200 USD on eBay in the states—pretty much mint condition, from a man who doesn’t lie, cheat, or steal, and who speaks my language, the language I dream in, the language I had been speaking exclusively since wheels-up, with ease and sheer joy--Español. You see, I am not a travel blogger, influencer, or creator. I have grown up consuming content from big-name travel creators who count countries and have been to over a hundred of them and brag about the affordability of them among other “cool” aspects of these developing lands. I used to admire these people on these accounts, wanting to be just like them, whether it be to find freedom in creating for a living and traveling full-time like they do, or simply just escaping my 9-5 from time to time in places where my USD would stretch and I could experience something exotic. But now, having been there, done that, I find it repulsive and repugnant to brag about how affordable a country is, especially one that is developing or been through periods of unrest or upheaval—it feels a bit as if one is swooping in not as a curious tourist or one hoping to explore or learn, but one looking for a cheap thrill or bang for a buck—to poke fun at the brown people or dusty streets, brimming with street food you might buy but toss aside after one bite, your mouth primed for American fast food and fast fashion and not accustomed to arepas, tamales, and the warm hospitality of strangers when you extend a hand and ask their name. You don’t speak the language, and you don’t know the culture. You want to take pictures for your Instagram—after all—this is country number 100—and you want to brag about how far you have come working remote and taking gondolas across rivers in Europe and fishing boats in Vietnam dangling your feet in the water and balancing your laptop on your knee. You claim it isn’t glamorous, but see, from my vantage point, it is. You claim to be a nomad, and a global citizen, but you are still a consumer of capitalism, and you still live your life as an American. It’s not exactly a bad thing, but it is incongruous to your message, isn’t it? If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck… it’s a duck, isn’t it?

            In the same vein, if a tree falls in the forest, and there is no one around, does it make a sound? That is the age-old adage, the ancient question. I don’t know who first asked that question, but it resonates today. I want to shout it from the top of Monserrate. If I don’t take pictures of this Basilica, if I don’t get a shot of me in my barrel jeans and bandana in front of his Jesus statue, if I don’t say hi to the man cooking my steak and tell him I am a journalist, will my experience here in Bogota be valid? Will I still be a traveler? Will I still be a storyteller? Will I still be an explorer, a taster, a life-liver? I realized in Bogota, recording a video that hit much in the same way I am writing up this recap now in the central library here in Dallas, that I am falling into a pattern I hate. I am influencing. People read what I write, listen to what I say. In some ways, that fulfills a childhood dream. In some ways, it makes me angry. I want people to stop listening to me and start traveling and listening to the world, living their own lives, going to their own bars, and speaking their own languages. I don’t want to be a memorial of something static and “inspirational”. I want to be a champion of those who want to move, act, live, and love doggedly. Not to simply cross items or countries off a list, nor to treat people like spectacles or exotic photo ops or run marathons to brag to their friends or sing at open mics because they want to be hot and get laid. No, there is so much more to life than that.

            People sometimes ask me, “Why Spanish? Why Colombia, why Guatemala?” They ask what about Latin America excites me, and why I have chosen to dedicate my life’s work to the region, to a language I didn’t grow up speaking, to a culture that isn’t a part of my gringa DNA, and to something I knew nothing about until I was an adult. Why I am not content to simply be a citizen of Dallas, Texas, or a music journalist, or a person who casually watches Almodovar movies, although those are very great things to be. I answered one person who asked me about Guatemala one late night at one of my favorite bars in a burst of tipsy honesty, “Because they speak the language that I dream in.” I remember flinging my hands around the way I do when my thoughts jumble in a bilingual clump. Really, that is all it boils down to. A deep-seated love of this different way of expressing myself and the people who I can express myself with. These people happen to live in countries of immense beauty, like Guatemala, Colombia, and Peru, and yet, these countries often have economic and social struggles. The United States likes to label these countries “third world” or “developing”. Now, academia lumps them into the “Global South”. For me, I just call them “home”. When I went to Bogota, I just went home. In September, I will return to “home” in Guatemala. I don’t think of it as a vacation. I think of it as a homecoming and a mission to uncover more about myself and more about the history, people, and culture of this place that I love so much. Sure, my USD goes far there. It is a convenience I no longer take for granted. I used to haggle for everything—taxis, souvenirs, street food. Now, I pay what I owe. My taxi driver in Colombia makes in a single month what he made in a single week being a cook in the States when he used to live here. Now, he works two jobs in Colombia after living all over the world. I didn’t ask what brought him home, but by the sigh in his voice, I suspect it had something to do with politics, economics, or some other bureaucracy outside of his control. For me, my passport allows me great freedom. For him, it is a prison. We Americans don’t think about that very often.

            I live between these two worlds. The world of my taxi driver and the world of my infancy. Here in Dallas, I have an apartment, disposable income, safe streets, a library, family, and friends. At my other home, I have the luxury of walking the streets as a welcome stranger. I can receive the hugs of unknown street vendors and tender cheek kisses along with advice on how to hide my valuables. I can sit for a margarita or pisco sour and listen to music—music is everywhere—it is why I love writing about it. It is a universal love language. I can converse with my drivers on motorcycles or otherwise and start fresh each time I hop in a Didi. No one knows about my struggles. I see how friends and unknown strangers alike take care of each other in these places. There is an unspoken camaraderie in the streets and bars of Bogota. If you listen, if you humble yourself, you are accepted wherever you go. You are loved; you are helped. With the Copa Mundial coming to Dallas very soon, I hope that my friends and neighbors can extend a bit of that to our foreign guests. A bit of Colombian hospitality. A beso, a hug, a piece of advice. A free drink, some directions. I see welcome parallels between Southern hospitality and Latin American hospitality sometimes. It makes me happy to call both places home. Both groups of people are full of warmth and smiling faces. At times, however, Texans lack the curiosity I found in Colombia. They harbor a bit of fear of the unknown. But I saw a favorite bartender of mine last night. “I hope there are a lot of visitors for the world cup,” I told him, “And I hope they come to the bars.”

            “Me too,” he said, with a smile, “I would love to meet some new folks.”

            He said they would be showing all the games on their little TVs. Although the bar is primarily a hub for live music, they try their best to show sports, too, as they are New Orleans themed, and they serve as a home for Saints games for Louisiana transplants in the city. I often see people filter in with tired eyes and jerseys on ordering frozen Irish coffees to watch the games and cheer on their team. It is a third space—a community. A rare spot I love dearly.

            Patrick is one bartender I trust to treat people with respect, his coworker Elliot, too. At Twilite, that is the standard. I am lucky to have a community, a small army of people who are accepting, caring, and humble, even if they are musicians. My first world. It is hard to think of leaving this first world for my second, and I wonder sometimes if I can have both—if I can somehow fuse these two worlds together and live a unified life. A true bilingual, bi-cultural life. There is a neighborhood in Dallas called Oak Cliff I would like to spend more time in where this could be possible, but still I have my doubts as to whether even in Texas with all the Mexican influence I could truly manage to speak as much as my heart wants to speak. In Colombia, something clicked. I did not worry about the food on my plate, the weight of my body, the thoughts in my head, or any of my ordinary woes. I don’t know how to insult myself in my second language. In Colombia, I was learning how to show myself grace. I would somehow like to carry that over into this first world, let it sit with me, let it marinate.

            This was more than just a trip. It was stop number one on a journey. I visited the library yesterday to buy a plane ticket to Guatemala for September. (Pro tip from a dear friend—the library computer doesn’t have your browsing history, and you will get the best price!) There is a lot I plan to do, a lot of cards I am holding close to my chest, dreams I am not letting loose to the world yet. I have learned that the most precious dreams we must keep close lest the world taint them, until the right moment when they are ripe, mature, and ready to withstand the opinions of others. I have known for nearly a decade now that Guatemala is home. I told a friend years ago, over a peanut butter milkshake on a quiet evening there just me and her—“This is home; I belong here.” It was almost a whisper. She just looked at me, tenderly, deeply, in my eyes, and said, “I know.” I have spent every moment since in an odd circular fashion running away and running to this destiny, and finally things are becoming clear, and the means are becoming possible. I am connecting the dots. It is Professor Plum, in the library, with the candlestick. I am a journalist now, and soon I will be able to work from anywhere. I am creating my own job and my own destiny. I speak a language that was only a whisper, only a jumble of unfamiliar yet magical syllables so many years ago. I used to dream of this life I am living. It is strange to be healing this inner child, speaking to her, calming her. I could spend time being angry at all the wrong in the travel industry or all the wrong with AI in the world or all the wrong in politics right now. But there is so much right about this path that I am on, so much joy about the community I am building here in Dallas and the planes I am taking abroad. There is so much healing with my job. Yes, the paralegal job I claim to hate. It is not my most favorite thing in the world, but without it, I would not be able to travel home. I would not be able to explore my dreams. It is my means to find my way in the world. My paycheck is a great gift that I do not take for granted anymore, and my boss is flexible and kind. I am from the United States and I earn USD. I was born in a first-world country. That is a privilege that most people do not have, and yet I do. Why me? I could agonize over that question for a century. Thankfully, I am not really that much of an existentialist, except when I am depressed. The important thing for you and for me is to be grateful. Every time we whip out our credit cards at the bar or at Target or buy a plane ticket without thinking about a visa requirement, think about how lucky we are. How easily we could have been born into civil war in Sudan or genocide in Gaza. We agonize over Trump and our politics. But we could be sick with limited healthcare in the DRC, sweating in a hospital wondering if we are going to die. We could be waiting months or years working in a kitchen or as a hotel maid in the States wondering if our application for permanent residency will be approved or if we will be deported, or worse, sent to an ICE detention center in a country we weren’t even born in. You and I are incredibly privileged, and we use that privilege so flippantly on social media, waving it like a flag and making a fool of ourselves. Maybe it is time to take a look in the mirror. Travel isn’t supposed to be flashy. Sure, we could take our family to a quiet Yucatán resort for a relaxing getaway. I see nothing wrong with that. Or a nice vacation in the Rockies, or a ski trip. But country-hopping just to stamp your passport and your ego? Get out of here. Travel is humbling. It is hard, especially solo. It is lonely. It hits you in the gut, mentally and physically. If you are there to learn, which you should be, you might learn something that is ugly. You might learn something that makes Americans look bad. You might be embarrassed. Travel is messy. The logistics are complicated; it is difficult. Not everyone can afford to fly first class, and most people don’t have the credit card points. Influencers make it look easy, but it’s not—they are just trying to sell you something, no different than a used-car salesman. Travel is breathtakingly beautiful, but most people don’t have the fancy cameras to capture it, and most beautiful moments should not be captured by cameras, anyway. Beautiful things don’t ask for attention, as I learned from a dear movie of mine which I am sure I have mentioned before. People loved Anthony Bourdain because he was a radical traveler, but when most people try to emulate him, or copy him, they get it all wrong. They forget that travel is uncomfortable. It confronts you. It doesn’t fit a mold. It’s not just Europe or Japan. It’s Iraq, Lebanon, Venezuela, Somalia. It is places the United States tells you not to go, in fact, tells you it won’t rescue you if you go. But those are the places he went, and those are the places it is worth it for us to learn from.

            My therapist sometimes asks me to do an exercise. “Where are my feet?” is what it is called. She will ask me where my feet are, and I will describe the scene where my feet are, and I will ground myself to the present moment, and often it calms my anxiety. This time, right now, it is a bit more complex. Where are my feet? My feet are in the plaza outside the Basilica Santa Lourdes in Bogota. The neighborhood is a bit of a mess. I am drinking the best cup of coffee I have ever had and the best piece of bread, some sort of sweet roll, that I think I have ever tasted. I am staring at the people, the church, the sights, the sounds. It is just waking up, just beginning to hustle-bustle. My feet are planted on the legs of a barstool and I am completely, incandescently happy. This is my home, or at least an iteration of home, and I could stay here forever. My feet are still there, even though I am here, in Dallas, and I will follow them home, whatever it takes, and wherever life brings me.