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.