Organ failure

Well, it happened again.

My stomach let me down when I needed it the most.

As in last night, when Sebas and I went to one of the best restaurants in Bogota for his birthday dinner (of which he was paying for, sadly).

The place has a 5 diamond rating, and is only one of two in the whole of South America to receive this honor. Now, under normal circumstances, we would never be able to afford a dinner like this but....it's Colombia, and that means Colombian pesos which instant royalty status for Holly and Sebas.

So we get there and decide we're going to order the tasting menu with the accompanying wine. I mean if you're going to do it, do it all the way, right?

First course: thick, creamy, buttery French vegetable soup in a little tiny espresso glass.

I chug it.

Second course: quivering, savory, rich foie gras pate with vanilla gelatin and reduced wine sauce.

I inhale it before the waiter can leave the table.

Third course: crispy, creamy, firm scallops perched atop spanish chorizo, which is perched atop a crispy corn cake (total: 3)

I attack them like a rabid dog.

Keep in mind, this whole time there is a half glass of wine to accompany each course. I'm eating, I'm drinking, I'm feeling good and...

BAM.

The stomach gives out. I went from 100 miles per hour to 2 miles per hour in 1.2 seconds. Just the site of the next course, Lobster thermidor with champagne risotto makes me want to vomit. The smell of the Reserve Collection Napa Valley wine makes me want to jump out of the window just to get away from it.

I eat one bite.

Fifth course: seared ribeye with escargot and smoked mashed potatoes.

You notice there are no glowing, succulent adjectives to go with this one. Why?

One bite.

Sixth course: pineapple sorbet

Three bites. Hey, it's sorbet--it like, dissolves in your mouth.

Seventh course: lemon tart with strawberry icecream.

One half of a bite--the ice cream, not the tart.

And the wine through all of this? Sitting sadly on the table, never to touch my lips. To my credit, I did force myself to at least try everything, though it kind of backfired because the exquisite food (which was excellent, according to Sebastian) just tasted like impending doom to me.

So we left the restaurant almost immediately after the last course, me apologizing profusely, Sebas being reassuring but looking disappointed.

But that's not even the best part.

We get home, brush our teeth, settle in for a night of sleep. Except I wake up around 4:00 suddenly, sit straight up in bed and think to myself

I'm hungry.

And suddenly the whole evening came rushing back, and the realization of all the delicious food I didn't eat and I stared at the ceiling and tried not to cry.



Ask yourself this: have you ever cried in the middle of the night over food that you didn't eat that day?

I have.

Liquid crack

I'm addicted.

I know what you're thinking. "Uh, hello, it's Colombia," but I never saw this coming. It's white, it's cold, and it's delicious.














It's called guanábana juice and I can't stop myself.














It follows me everywhere I go.














It took me a while to warm up to it, because the flesh of the fruit is slimy and stringy and mushy.
But now there's no going back.


Yes, that's me drinking the good stuff, then drinking Sebastian's fresh grape juice just to spite him. (His wasn't as good as mine.)

I can't stop.

Doing the dishes

When Sebas told me we were visiting the town of Carmen de Viboral for their ceramics, I was skeptical.

Ceramics?

A couple of things came to mind:
1. Cheesy movie scene--two people at the pottery wheel, feeling up wet clay.
2. Ceramic hair straighteners.
3. Creepy doll faces. (they're porcelain, I know)

I mean, what does one do with ceramics? Put them in glass-fronted cabinents? No, I think that's crystal, or china, or something. Make heavy stews in them? No, that's cast-iron.

Anyway, you get the point. I'm always game for a trip, but I wasn't expecting much on this one.

I mean, how can you expect something like this?
Yeah, that's a mosaic of tiny ceramic fragments. It is on the side of a building, on the street, partially covered up by some cheap purses hanging on a vendor's rack.

How about this scene? These buildings are nothing special--they house dimly lit little restaurants or clothing stores where the shirts come in plastic bags.
The crazy thing is, we seemed to be the only ones that noticed the mosaics. It would be safe to say we were the only tourists in the entire city, and we were getting more looks than the art that was on the walls, around the plants, on the ground.


Sometimes there are just fragments, sometimes there are complete dishes--one building had dozens of little bowls affixed to the front, bottoms-out. And I've been using them for cereal all these years. Psh.

So we stepped into a shop (which are surprisingly scarce) to buy a few pieces. The proprietor was a little cold at first, but as our selections stacked up on his table (this stuff costs cents, you guys) he got a little more enthusiastic. He even let us peek through the side door.
After they hand-cast these pieces, a few ladies sitting in a dim, bluish room paint each piece with different patterns. And sure, they make mistakes. Maybe they drop a piece of pottery every now in then. But instead of throwing away their scraps, they use them, the way a baker might use stale bread to make bread pudding.

That's the floor of the shop.

I don't think I have to say this, but I'm going to anyway:

I'm a believer.

Hanging by a cable

They tell me this thing is a rock, but I think it is something else.

1. An alien outpost
2. A fossilized, giant humpback whale, partially submerged.
3. A hibernating elephant. A big one.

I could go on, but they'd only get weirder from there.

It's called El Peñol, but let's call it Frankenrock (I think the stitches running up its side are an obvious connection.)

Isn't there something a little disturbing about Frankenrock's shape and size? There is nothing else in the area that resembles it--there are no rocky cliffs, no crumbling mountains--just green, green grass, silent trees, and a lot of water.

Frankenrock was so intimidating, in fact, we decided to take the pressure off by zip-lining around the monstrosity. (Don't worry Mom, we didn't zip-line OFF of the rock, only beside it.)

That's Carolina, Sebas, and myself looking like construction workers.

I was really pumped for this experience: I've never zip-lined anywhere, though I've often fantasized about clinging to Batman as he zip-lined around Gotham City.

That's a lie.

Anyway, I'm really excited, partially because it only cost four dollars, but also because it's another thing to check off my life list.

So we get strapped in, Sebas and I, so we can zip-line side-by-side. The lady explains how to stop ourselves when we near the next platform, so we don't body-slam into the wooden structure.

I'm ready, man, and she counts to three and pushes us off the platform.

Yes!!!!!

Wait, I'm barely moving. Sebastian goes flying by me, hurtling along the cable. I'm drifting along, like I'm out for a Sunday drive in a vintage car. I don't even make it all the way to the platform. I have to pull myself along the cable, hand-over-hand.

On the next line, I stop even further away from the cable. The wind blowing against me is enough to bring me to a dead stop.

Apparantly the more body mass you have, the better your ride, and I failed miserably.

On a higher note, I almost passed out on the 30 minute climb to the top of the rock. Want to know the only thing worse than climbing hundreds of stairs at an incredibly high elevation? Climbing hundreds of stairs at an incredibly high eleveation that are, occasionally, coated in someone's vomit.

Luckily, the top looked like this.

It was worth it.










Oh, and one more thing.












It was a spiritual moment.

Rain gear

Maybe it's just me, but I can't help but gawk at horse-drawn carts.

We're not talking draft horses pulling tourists around in carriages--oh no. We're talking little bony horses pulling little rickety carts with cargo--usually a weathered man wearing a sombrero and bouncing along like a pimp in a pimp-mobile with hydraulics.

They trot along the roads like sputtering cars, the unflinching horses taking stilted little steps on the pavement. Once they get where they're going, they are tied up to a post, a tree, a road sign--whatever is closest.

Once, I saw one tied up outside of a bar.

And, in case of bad weather, there's always this option:














Yes, that's a horse with a raincoat you're looking at. This particular vehicle was tied up outside of a grocery store.

Wow.