As summer approaches, my need to find temporary housing is intensifying at a startingly pace. And the process certainly isn't getting any easier. Whereas a week ago there were multiple listings for furnished studios in the most desirable areas, now it seems that the only post on Craigslist is for a small room in an "international warehouse" which is already home to 12 self-described "international" -- i.e., disturbingly eccentric -- people.
That's not to say I haven't been putting in effort. I received an underwhelming response to an ad I posted about a week ago. Evidently, I didn't make it clear enough that I'd rather not live deep in the heart of the Castro or in the most dangerous parts of the Mission.
Ultimately, if everything works out how I'd like, my temporary home will be located in either SOMA or North Beach. It will consist of a furnished studio or shared two-bedroom apartment from which I can walk to a grocery store and have easy access to SF's nightlife. Perhaps this is too much to ask.
The importance of securing housing before school ends is heightened by the fact that I've committed to a weekend in Vegas with the college crew immediately prior to my first day at work. Given how tired I usually emerge from Las Vegas, it may not have been the most prudent decision. But what's done is done, and I'm not withdrawing regardless of my situation on May 11th. You see, the preservation of the ad hoc college reunion depends entirely on attendance of the invitees. Once people start allowing responsibilities or other factors to preclude seeing friends who live all over the world, those friendships are put at risk. At least until it is absolutely unavoidable, I won't allow that to happen.
But I digress. If no other housing alternative presents itself between now and then, I can always hole up in a hotel for the first week of work, and postpone the housing search until week two. So all is not lost - yet. At a minimum, I'd have a place to sleep, and, more importantly, housekeeping -- something that most of my living situations would have benefited from.
On Wednesday, we left Cartagena and returned to Bogota. According to Dan, this point in the trip was to be when the “real” drinking would begin since the election was now over. But our bodies, specifically Josh’s and mine, would soon conspire against Dan’s desire to accelerate the pace of our partying. That night, at a packed bar in the historic district of Bogota, both Josh and I suffered dramatically from hot flashes, upset stomachs, and profound exhaustion. Traveling to a foreign country, living at 8000 ft above sea level, lack of restful sleep, and excessive consumption of foreign food and drink had finally begun to take its toll. We could barely put down any beers. Not long after we arrived, a visibly disappointed Dan allowed us to go home. I promptly fell asleep.
The next day, partially recovered, we did our best to rally from the failed night before. During the day, we went go-karting and bowling, proving once and for all that the two are not mutually exclusive and setting a bold precedent for future trips. That night, we finally met Dan’s ex-girlfriend, Serena, when she and her friend Angela accompanied us to dinner at a Benihana-style restaurant. After dinner, we drank two jirafas at Bogota Beer Company, and then took the girls to a dance club not far away. The club was packed, and, despite still being somewhat ill, we stayed until closing at 3:00 am.
Friday was our last full day in Colombia. Unfortunately, a large thunderstorm developed, preventing us from going on a site-seeing trip to the top of a nearby mountain. Instead, we did some souvenir shopping and generally laid low, in preparation for the evening’s festivities.
And it was a good thing we did. We started out drinking frozen alcoholic beverages at the appropriately named Tropical Beverages and then made our way to our final destination -- Salto del Angel. The three-story, high-ceiling, multi-bar dance club was full to capacity – and beyond – that night. Though we would only be there for two hours or so, I can honestly say that this was one of the best venues I’ve ever seen. The crowd consisted of the who’s who of Bogota, as well as a high percentage of foreigners. A live band played Colombian hits to the delight of the patrons. It was truly unfortunate that we had to leave early the next morning.
Epilogue
With only a handful of travel inconveniences between us, Josh and I returned safely to the US that Saturday. To be sure, I was glad to be home; but not for the reasons I would have thought before the trip commenced. Given the dire warnings showered upon us by friends, family, and the State Department, I expected the trip’s end to be followed by an overwhelming sense of relief for having escaped what was sure to be an anxiety-producing, fear-filled experience, like walking through a dark alley in a bad part of town late at night. Instead, I felt relief only because I would finally be able to rest, to pause, to catch my breath. The real Colombia, not the version that exists in the collective mind of the West, offered too much fun, proved too intriguing, and, totally unexpectedly, was almost too welcoming – until you get in a cab, of course.
Sunday night in Cartagena marked our first and only break from drinking during the 8-day trip. Rather than venture out to bars which could still not legally serve alcohol because of the election period prohibition, we saw Munich at the local theater. Wallets heavy with newfound Colombian wealth, we splurged on snacks, purchasing two large combos of soda and popcorn to split between the three of us.
The movie had already started by the time we made it in the theater, so we silently slid into seats nearer to the back but amongst the majority of the patrons, most of whom were Colombian teenagers on group dates. Josh sat on the far left; Dan in the middle, and I took the position closest to the aisle. Just seconds after sitting down, I heard a loud commotion from Josh’s area, followed by Dan’s riotous laughter and then the laughter of the rest of the audience. Somehow, Josh had managed to spill the majority of his 64-ounce soda on his lap. Between fits of laughter, Dan urged me to move over one seat so Josh would not have to spend the rest of the movie sitting in a puddle of Coke.
Once the laughter had died down and the collective attention of the audience focused once again on the movie, I asked Josh to pass me the remainder of the soda. As Josh handed the soda across Dan’s lap, I absent-mindedly reached over to grab it using the ordinary hand-over-the-top-of-the-lid maneuver. Without warning, the lid collapsed, and the soda, once again, emptied its contents on a gringo – me.
This time, the audience couldn’t contain themselves. Most of the teenagers sitting directly in front of us turned around to laugh and point; in addition, it was apparent that almost everyone behind me had also witnessed my stupidity and was now thoroughly entertained.
Thoughtful as always, Dan, at this juncture, chose to inform us that soda lids in Colombia are almost all defective and that we should handle the cups carefully. It was quickly becoming clear that our tour-guide was more interested in witnessing our downfall than averting disaster. This did not portend good things for the rest of our days in this strange land.
Even before our first Colombian taxi had traveled 20 feet, it was obvious that this was not going to be any ordinary cab ride. You see, in Colombia, lane markers are only suggestions; cars frequently go three-wide on two-lane roads. At night, obeying red lights is, at best, optional. Speed limits? None to speak of. Because of the lack of traffic laws, chaos reigns supreme on the roads of Bogota.
Most of the cabs navigating the chaos are slight variations on this common theme: small, ultra-cheap car, constructed entirely of aluminum foil, with never more than a quarter tank of gas, desperately in need of repairs (indicated by sputtering engine), guaranteed to get you to your destination most of the time. Mechanical infirmities generally limited their speed, which was a relief, but it was clear from the sound the doors made when shut that an accident at any speed in one of these tin cans would be our demise. Word to the wise: Colombian cab drivers HATE it when you use any force to shut the door. We learned this quickly – the first night in fact - and soon it became standard practice to verbally warn whoever got in the cab last to be very, very careful not to slam the door.
To give you an idea of how harrowing an experience it is to take cabs in Colombia, I’ll list some of the cab-related incidents that occurred over the course of one week. Bear in mind this list is by no means exhaustive. One of the cabs was so pitiful that it almost stalled whenever we would have to climb a hill, causing other cars to back up behind us as we motored slowly ahead at 1500 rpms. Another blew a tire or lost a rim on the way to the airport. We stalled on the freeway at least once that I recall. We had one driver who, still many blocks from our destination, turned off his car whenever we came to a stop to keep us from running out of gas. Many of our other drivers accelerated full throttle through bumper-to-bumper traffic as if their cars were not about to fall apart, in the process terrorizing Josh and I.
Battling for domination of the roads with the cabs are these gigantic multi-colored buses, called [I need Dan to remind me]. Apparently, some of the buses are for site-seeing/drinking and others are for normal transportation. Unless I missed something, there is no way to tell the difference between the two. These buses stop whenever – and wherever – a rider wants, which means that your cab often has to screech to a halt because a bus has just stopped, without warning, in the middle of the busy road right in front of you. Though it seems self-evident that the cabs cannot possibly out-muscle the buses, our drivers were never willing to back down, even in the face of a collision.
To add to the congestion, some of the poorer people travel on horse-drawn carts. One of these 19th century devices came within inches of colliding with one of our cabs. Yes, that’s right: we were almost in a car crash with a horse in the middle of the busy streets of Bogota.
In all fairness, we only witnessed one actual collision, and it didn't involve our car – a minor one between a cab and a bus in which the cab’s side-view mirror was clipped. But in our travels, we came upon one bus that had obviously been on fire, a Hyundai wagon sans its front bumper being pushed by several laughing drunk people, and one other standard collision between normal cars.
Given the state of traffic in Bogota and the driving style of Colombians, I am truly amazed that more accidents don’t happen. Is this a testament to their driving ability or, was Josh right, and Colombians truly are "the luckiest people on Earth"? It really must be the latter.
Before it even started, this trip turned out to be more fraught with complications than I ever imagined. Still, despite all the issues that surfaced during the lead-up, I'm looking forward to seeing friends, laying around in the sun, visiting a new continent, and avoiding what most everyone I know seems to believe is inevitable -- a run-in with hostile locals. No matter what happens, don't ever forget me. That's all I ask.
For all those interested, here is a list of what I need to do between now and Friday afternoon:
- Photocopy my passport, and figure out a good place to stash the copy
- Determine exactly how much cash I'll need and how many credit cards I should leave at home (What's the going rate for bribing your way out of trouble?)
- Mail a few assorted items
- Charge the battery on my digital camera
- Overcome my fear of kidnapping
- Put a bunch of college era music on my Mp3 player
- Decide if I'm going to attempt the impossible, i.e., studying during the trip -- this is highly unlikely
- Purchase some really strong waterproof suntan lotion, preferably SPF 30 or above
- Get a haircut (with any luck, it will be administered by a gay guy)
- Email my parents our exact location in Bogota
- Perform some ministerial tasks for the Journal
- Read Criminal Procedure for Friday
- Figure out when my flight leaves and when Josh's arrives
- Print out my tickets, Dan's address, Dan's phone number and anything else that might assist me in gaining entry to and departing from South America
- And, of course, pack
I'm sure that I'm forgetting something that will come to my mind immediately as I set foot on the subway train on the way to JFK.
(Yes, I realize this is the worst post ever, but it has the potential to assist me greatly in my preparations. I'll try to post something while I'm in the Southern Hemisphere, but I'm not sure the Internet exists there in the form I am accustomed to so no promises.)
Is it strange that I never speak at all to one of my best friends*? I never get together to hang out with him. I have never, in fact, met him at all. Other than one email, written in a drunken state late at night, we have never been in any form of direct contact at all. I do, however, hear from him for about an hour and half each day of the week, and sometimes on weekends.
His name is Phil Hendrie, the host of a nationally syndicated radio show, which features Mr. Hendrie performing interviews with himself as he plays a host of different characters. The cast of characters ranges from a weed-smoking professor of Astrophysics from Caltech to a psychopathic suburban house wife name Bobbie and her idiot husband who does nothing more than shout inane comments from the background. The appeal of the show is that this clever ruse -- a reverse prank call, if you will -- and Phil's uncanny ability to have a conversation with himself as two people (sometimes more) tricks inattentive or otherwise dimwitted listeners all across the country into calling the show and arguing against absurd and frequently offensive premises advocated by equally preposterous guests. Hearing the average American trying to convince a pompous business owner who speaks entirely in the third person ("I'm Ted Bell. Ted Bell doesn't ride coach.") that there should not be a law allowing business owners to drink and drive because of their need for additional stress relief is one of the most hilarious things I've ever encountered.
If you don't believe me, you should give him a try. His website is www.philhendrieshow.com. There are a number of free audio clips available. You might make a new best friend out of it.
* Perhaps "best friend" is overstating the case a bit. But he is undoubtedly one of the people who figures prominently in my life. He is someone I would miss were he not around. In some ways, he is little different than a friend you communicate with solely through email, only in this situation my obligation is not to reply, but to give him $6.95 a month. A small price to pay for almost 45 hours per month of entertainment.
As summer approaches, my need to find temporary housing is intensifying at a startingly pace. And the process certainly isn't getting any easier. Whereas a week ago there were multiple listings for furnished studios in the most desirable areas, now it seems that the only post on Craigslist is for a small room in an "international warehouse" which is already home to 12 self-described "international" -- i.e., disturbingly eccentric -- people. 
