Dose Cafes

October 22, 2018

Greetings from the Gringo,

Earlier this year we made plans to visit Colombia to visit my son Carson.  Quick primer on that country; it is in South America, which it turns out is not near South Carolina as I previously thought.  I also learned, (thank you Wikipedia) the language of Colombia is Spanish. 

Naturally, the most sensible thing would be to wait until linguistic imperialism overwhelms our neighbors in South America and makes it possible for us to travel without the inconvenience of having to squint to understand other people.

But that eventuality is still a way off and our tickets were non-transferrable.  And so it became apparent that I would need to learn Spanish before we travelled.  Not ALL Spanish, just what you can get on a free app. 

I actually got to where I liked learning, which is totally contrary to a lifetime of resistance to the process.  I studied every day, learning new words and phrases, using them in sentences and then forgetting them so deeply that I suspected Alzheimer’s. 

I would walk around the house practicing Espanol with a Midwest accent.  “Hello!  I am living in a magazine!  What is your toaster today?”  I would say to my dog Max, who, even if he were not as deaf as a rock, speaks no better Spanish than he does English.

I realized after a month that I was not advancing.  The app kept failing me on things I already knew, which I totally resented.  Regardless, when the time came to travel to Colombia, I felt confident that I could hold my own in the fundamentals.  “Where is the bathroom?”  “How much does this cost?”  “What is your toaster today?”

One of the things that the travel blogs do not explain, which I think would be helpful to know, is that when you go through security at the Colombian airport, there is some sophisticated equipment that somehow detects any knowledge of the local language and erases that from your memory.  Hence, I could not even remember how to say “No hablo South Carolina”.

Thankfully our son Carson speaks Spanish very well, and when we met him in Medellin he was already a seasoned traveler.  He guided us through the city, cautioned us about crossing the street, helped us figure out a menu, or where to stand to get off the train.  He helped us to understand it is rude to slam the door on a taxi.

At one point Carson observed that our roles had swung around, from us taking care of him, explaining the world to him, protecting him, to the reverse.  Very possibly a glimpse of our future.  It was both disconcerting and reassuring at the same time.

Colombia has a well-deserved reputation for danger and violence.  We saw none of that thankfully, but there were plenty of hints.  One was this; in Medellin there were security guards that roamed our neighborhood.  They carried machetes. 

There was some concern about safety, but my son gave us the fundamental guidelines to keep us safe, which focused on not attracting attention to ourselves as Americans. (Americans wear shorts, talk loudly on the Metro and slam taxi doors.) And so that was all well and good.  Until there came a circumstance that became more pressing than our safety.

We left Medellin and flew north and found our way to Arpatado.  We were staying in very simple accommodations, Carson was staying perhaps a mile away with a friend.  Even though we visited the place I am not sure I could have found it a second time. 

 Like any other town of its size there were probably folks intent on the malicious, but we did not intersect with them.  Still, it has not been too long since kidnapping, and worse, were fairly common.  My son Carson suggested that we not go out of the hotel without him, not to risk getting lost or into complicated situations without the gift of language.

We planned to meet Carson at 7 am to go for breakfast and then start our day.  The time came and went.  I watched out our second-floor window.  A motor scooter went by with two parents and three children on it.  A man herded some horses by.  Another man wheeled cart full of fruit with a dog balanced on top.  Carson did not appear.

After a while, it became a worry. We didn’t have phone service and there was no WIFI to send him a text.  As time passed we guessed what might be going on and sketched a plan to find him. But first we had to deal with the most immediate and imperative priority.

Coffee.

I have ranged the narrow alleys of Miami, prowled through the seediest part of Atlanta, scoured the wet predawn streets of St. Louis, searching for an open coffee shop.  In almost any large city you can name, I have wandered the sidewalks before sunup looking for the life giving elixir.

Armed with that confidence, and a pocket full of pesos, I went to find java.  I knew approximately where there was an open air café that was not too far, unless I was wrong.

I walked through the streets of Arpatado, greeting the few people I met with ‘Buenos Dias’ which means ‘Where is the coffee?’ It turns out everyone I met had the same question.

Soon I found the corner I wanted.  A woman was working behind the counter, a glass case filled with pastries and bread.  There were plastic chairs and small tables set in the gravel around the café.  A few patrons already were situated there, sipping coffee, eyeing me with the same look I have seen in small town diners everywhere I have travelled, where the locals peg you for a stranger.

I summoned up my massive library of Spanish phrases and said, “Dose cafes, por favor.”

The woman behind the counter didn’t miss a beat.  “Con leche o sin leche?”

I knew it was a question because of her arched eyebrows, and so experience told me that a response was required from me.  I wasn’t counting on that, and so my confidence eroded, and I suspected this is where I would now be kidnapped.  I muttered something that might have passed for ‘Con leche’ and she seemed satisfied.  I muddled through the exchange of approximately one million pesos and walked away with two plastic cups of what seemed to be coffee flavored milk.  Success.

It turns out Carson was fine.  He arrived to pick us up at the time we had agreed to and forgotten along with fundamental phrases in both Spanish and English.  We set out exploring his adopted country, guided by him and a few of his kindest friends.  It became natural to rely on Carson, his knowledge of the place and his mastery of the language, which allowed us to maneuver in ways that would have been impossible otherwise.

Even so, I missed being able to ask cab drivers questions, or to make small talk with the woman at the café.  I missed overhearing the stories around me, of becoming part of the dialogue of every moment.  It is a powerful lesson I will never take for granted, no matter what language surround me. 

Oh, and I meant ‘Sin leche’.

Hope this finds you talking pretty one day,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith