From Sri Lanka

One part I have come to love is the birds outside my window. They nest in the trees that rise up and peak a few floors down. They start chirping at any hour of the day or night, but I prefer it best when I rise in the morning, tropical sounds, off some relaxing rainforest mixed tape. It is hard to pinpoint exactly what kind of birds they are, but occasionally you will see a bright green parrot or a yellow beaked black bird and other times fearless ravens all flying between the brush, and it could be any one of these. They are sometimes accompanied by miniature squirrels, smaller than I have ever seen, running along the rooftops, and then if it is dusk, giant bats come out by the hundreds for feeding, their silhouettes flapping against the dimming sky. Nature, above all things, points you here. It is indicative of this small island in the Indian Ocean, and a reminder of where you are, how many miles you have come, when the buildings and the roads and the cars all start to look the same.

The morning run takes me with the birds, out of my apartment down a buzzing street until I reach that gaudy government building that signals the beginning of Viharamahadevi Park. Past the big statue of Buddha and down the cobblestone paths, the sweat is noticable already pouring off your face in the equatorial humidity. The captured heat of the grass and the trees and the pond encapsulates you as you tune into your breath, the pace of your steps, and the subtle looks from those around you, all very reminiscent of that one afternoon in Singapore's Chinese Gardens. There is a special feeling to a run in this part of the world, almost spiritual in this weather, where the rain can come at any moment when the skies are still blue and then vanish without a trace leaving curious little puddles in the street.

And that is how a day begins, before a suit flies in and characterizes the rest. How different are things in Dallas and Austin and the rest, where all those people from past lives scurry about fighting and finding their way, one person in a crowd of millions, with one or two overarching themes soon to define a decade? I gauge often the merits of both - there certainly are merits to both -  but to be honest these days, a brief examination of all the lives I could have had, normally plastered over people's Facebook walls and Instagram accounts, provides all the motivation I need to keep moving and wait patiently until I find the right kind of rest.

So I arrived here in this place, fittingly welcomed by a tropical downpour on the cusp of monsoon season, with so many unquantifiable things put behind me and any number of new things laying ahead. That was that. Old colonial hotels beckon afternoon tea, plantations sit waiting up in the highlands, and a thousand untouched beaches on far corners of the island call out to my Saturdays and Sundays just a train ride away. There are new routines to find and be made, and even a little trust in life leaves no doubt a piece of writing from January 2016 will proclaim how all this could not have been any other way, another lovely year in the books which one does not get back.

Intermediary

The intermediary place was New York City, which puts me in good company. It has been the intermediary place for how many people throughout human history? How many writers toiled away on its city streets and never published anything? How many artists whose name I have never heard painted in a run down studio? How many twenty-somethings tried to make it work in shared beaten down apartments full of strangers? How many people in suits withered away working 80 hour weeks hoping they would succeed? How many weary travelers? How many immigrants? How many romances? This city is always changing and redefining itself, as are the people in it, and that energy you feel when you get out in the middle of it all.

So for three days I put my feet to the pavement and explored and wandered and got lost while visualizing again all the infinite crevices I could one day call home, and all the manners in which I could potentially make that happen. In the background sat lovely conversations woven with food and coffee that turned slowly into beers as the day moved on. All the various micro-niches worked themselves in and out of sight and by walking and tuning in to your surroundings you realize not a single city block is left untouched by some profound past event, whether remembered or not remembered by the average outsider like me. 

And again, that was it, a start and a stop. Up again from JFK and out across the Atlantic, Soho and Brooklyn and New York University and all the fountains around Washington Square continue making noise further and further into the background. The future ushers in tropical rains, tea plantations, and a whole new set of unknowns.

In and out of the Aburra Valley

I grow unnaturally excited these days at the sound of salsa music. The rhythm to me demands movement and a migration of people to open space, linking hands, looking into one another’s eyes, and then the steps and twirls begin. It is beautiful when done correctly, when seasoned veterans intertwine like they have known their partner their entire lives. It is romantic even if it is not romantic, passionate even if there is no sexual passion. It is improv, never the same, and it is based off feeling: the strength in which the woman holds your hand; how she twirls when instructed; and the manner and confidence and delicacy in which he the man directs. Of the many things I think back on from Colombia and my month in the Aburra Valley, this dance and my progress in learning it makes me smile a lot in the end. 

Thousands of miles away now, other things also come to mind, things which make up a month just too short to justify any drastic changes or life alterations but just long enough to feel important. Sipping a coffee in Parque Lleras and having a Sunday run in el Poblado and drinking a pint in Bogota Beer Company were just a few of the gorgeous routines that settled in shockingly little time, all to the backdrop of Spanish language. This is a familiar process, developing routines and then uplifting them, a theme of impermanence and constant change. It has come to characterize my last five years, and while there are of course trade offs to this style of life (aren't there with everything?), this time left me musing from the 740th step atop Guatape, on just what sort of toll this takes. How many times can you say goodbye just as it got so good? At what point does perceived obligation take a rest and you just go where you want to go? When do you drop everything on irrational chance, and when do you maintain the course? These are the questions that sit in a grey hazy middle, without straightforward answers, that to some extent haunt you, tossing and turning up and down the aisles of the plane that takes you off somewhere else in the night.

My first image and last image were the same, rounding the first and final corner with the lights of Medellin spreading out into the distance and maneuvering up the hills on the other side. This will forever be ingrained in my head and associated with this point in my life, another profound transition, alongside this lingering feeling that Latin America feels more like a distant home than anywhere else in the world, and like somewhere I belong, a borrowed culture, somewhere I fall back into in stride and will certainly swing by again.