Bogota - Cali - Bogota

When you get behind as a writer there’s really nowhere to go. Emails, piling up, a backlog of submissions. Rejections coming in when you’re taking a shit or talking to a pretty girl. Life only makes sense again in the act of creation.

But there are other things important in life too. Like taking a shit and talking to a pretty girl.

In fact, one is going to be on her way here. Soon. And so, I’ve got some time to peck at these keys with my fingertips while listening to Brahms (Symphony №2) and drinking a can of Club Colombia (Roja) as the sliding glass door on the balcony remains ajar — the sun shines down, setting on Bogota. And I am 12 floors up into the air.

This has always been a dream of mine. To write, only. And to write a book. Nothing else matters. But shit man, you gotta attend to the little things in life.

And I’m not a travel blogger. Nor am I the kind of writer who attracts anything other than ridicule, trouble, condemnation, lackluster readership, and disgruntled or disgusted editors and publishers (and women). It’s good to be alone in a world of sad ghosts aching to be loved…

I came to Bogota at the end of May from Ecuador after spending six months there. The girl — or woman, er — who drove me to the airport said it was “Awkward.”

“Why?” I replied from the passenger seat, buckling my seatbelt. “I don’t feel awkward.”

Sometimes you’re on the receiving end and other times you’re just a plain old dick.

And we hugged as I left her in the parking lot. I’d given her around $120 for driving me around two hours to Guayaquil from … shit I can’t even remember where I was.

And yeah, I got to Bogota. And I had my preparations of a return ticket to show the immigration official … plus I had my Airbnb address, etc. And lo and behold, as the rest of the people coming to the country from elsewhere were asked myriad questions — I was allowed right in. No questions asked.

I got my money — Colombian Pesos. And they asked some questions there. But by then, I was already in the country.

I took a registered taxi. And in my broken Spanish, I explained that I was a writer. I told the driver that I had been working for a company based in Colombia … writing about gambling, sports betting, etc. That made him appreciate me.

I got to my place. Paid. He tried to get change. I said, no. It’s okay. And he gave me a fist pound. You know what I mean.

And then I wandered around to get something to eat. And I saw people on the streets ripping at trash bags for their insides. And they were sleeping out on the streets or gathered around and drinking, smoking cigarettes, and weed.

At the store, customers weren’t allowed inside … they had to ask some shoddy-looking Frankenstein-walking dude for what they wanted, and he’d amble toward the merchandise, soul-dead and ready for sleep.

I got some beer. And I drank it at my place.

Then I spent the next month working from a studio apartment with a big comfortable bed and a stovetop from the 1970s. There were two large glass windows on the second floor overlooking an office building. I kept the blinds mostly closed. And I worked from a huge TV that I moved from the TV stand to the kitchen table. (I never watch TV.)

In the afternoons, I visited different neighborhoods. I’d practice my Spanish on Duolingo, drink beer — the beer here is delicious — and generally keep to myself. And that’s how I fell in love with Bogota.

First, I visited an English bookstore. And then I went to various bars and restaurants. I began writing poems for a new chapbook.

I was right near the red light district, I discovered.

And one Sunday night, I scoped it out while drinking cans of beer. It was cold in Bogota — but I was used to it by then, somewhat.

I walked into the place as some guy ushered me in, asking something in Spanish about me wanting a girl. I nodded, smiling.

The place had electric lights, almost neon. I ordered a Corona.

He brought the beer and I pointed at the stage. “Where are the girls?”

He laughed.

After a few moments, a Venezuelan girl was sitting next to me. She was young and skinny with brownish blonde hair that dangled down her back in thin strands. Her eyes were brown, and she was friendly.

I bought her a drink. I bought her many drinks and she almost kept up with me. And then some girl went on stage and did the catwalk, strutting, hair bobbing in brownish curls. Red skimpy top, removed under the loud throes of pumping speakers. I also watched her giving three or four dudes a lapdance at once. They must’ve split the bill. It was a poor country.

Another girl came to our table. She was also young. Soon, I bought her a beer. And I bought one of the strippers a beer. And she took it gladly, panting. And then I bought another stripper a beer, who grinned at me and peered through my soul, warmly, with such wanton abandon and curiosity that I almost shook like I’d gotten an electric shock. A third young girl sat down at the table, and it was gladly assumed that I’d be buying her a drink as well.

The three girls at the table were all sucking on lollipops. And a guy came out of nowhere behind me to ask if I wanted any coke. I think he said it came in a cigarette, but I hardly listened. I laughed, shaking my head.

“I’ll take another Corona, motherfucker.”

The beers came, and I was awash in cervezas. Normal people ate dinner on Sunday nights. Instead, I was dancing with a triage of young girls whose ages probably added up to my mother wagging her finger at me in some kinda maternal dream of conscience that had long ago been sweated out of my brainstem. I danced with three girls at once and none of them spoke any English. I was getting drunk.

I will not tell you what happened next because nothing happened at all. But later when I awoke and tried to leave — I’m not including the part where I was driven to an ATM to pay for the illustrious bar tab (I didn’t see how it would’ve been possible to bolt on that one) — and when I wanted to go they demanded more money from me. One of the girls and about four or five Colombian dudes.

“FUCK YOU ALL. I AIN’T GIVING YOU ANY MORE MONEY. LET ME OUTTA HERE, YOU SWINE.” I looked at them all in the face, and they knew I’d lost a screw. I went to the back and saw that the door was locked. I got back to the front and by then they realized they were dealing with a nut.

“REMEMBER MY FACE,” I said to the one guy who’d been nothing but nice to me. He frowned. Later, the next day — I wondered about that. And I swigged from a bottle of red Italian wine at 11 AM. It was a Monday. I decided to take the day off.

That’s the thing about being a self-employed writer. If you didn’t take any breaks or time off, sooner or later you’d snap. And I didn’t even get laid. Fuck it.

At the end of my time at the studio apartment in Santa Fe, I’d left a window open one night after being tired from working so much. And visiting so many places. The next day, I felt sick. And I could hardly work. From being tired. It was a Saturday. So I began drinking, and I drank. And the next day, I was sick.

Two days later, I had to move out — uptown to Chapinero.

I did that. And I had issues with the shower and the lady gaslighting me that I had broken the heat.

“NOW YOU LISTEN HERE. I’M A WRITER. I WRITE THINGS.”

I decided to leave my big suitcase at the apartment and booked a round-trip ticket to Cali in the southwest where the weather would be warmer. Bogota had been cold and rainy. I figured the better weather would cheer me up and tighten my nads. That was good for poetry. A tight pair.

I found a place and flew on down.

It was green, green. Circling through the clouds. Getting through the airport was as easy as cutting through a slice of cheddar with a diamond ring. I got a taxi, and the sunlight poured down as I took off my blazer. I was a writer. I was a fucking writer.

The clouds covered downtown Cali. I got to my place on the third floor. It was a Mexican-style one-bedroom apartment, minimalist. Paintings on the walls in black and white. Cement. A big black leather couch. A small kitchen with a washing machine. I’d never use the kitchen for cooking during the four-night stay, which I wound up extending another night — missing my return trip on purpose and buying another ticket — and two more nights in a second-floor apartment. I worked during the day with the door open, shirtless, barefooted. Happy as a clam in the wandering 3-D ocean.

I explored, drank, and tried to meet a few girls. But mostly, I walked around Cali — an extremely walkable city. With the Cali River gushing through the middle of it all.

I did meet one girl one night, a beautiful bartender covered in tattoos who smiled at me, piercing my stubborn cancer soul. “Soy Americano,” I told her.

“Nice,” she responded.

The beer was bad at the bar. It wasn’t very cold and it seemed a little off.

I gave her a big tip, each time grinning with a new beer. The bar played records from a record player and there were pictures of John Lennon and Bob Dylan, etc.

I sat outside. The air was warm. And the people were too. The girls were beautiful, everywhere. I saw for the first time Colombian women in a warm climate. My Airbnb host was also a beautiful soul who probably should have been on the board of directors for the company.

I ate well, never cooking. The coffee was good. The sunlight, best.

One night I explored a ritzy area nearby. And I felt so damn good that I sat down on a corner with a big beer and stared at everything and took in the utmost appreciation for being alive. Cali was startlingly unique, with interesting architecture, art galleries, amazing graffiti, and street art.

Then I went to an outdoor bar area with a few places to eat. It was busy. I waited at the bar. Then I got my beer. I sat down, thinking previously about wanting a BBQ pork sandwich. And the Universe had delivered.

After that, I had a brownie with some ice cream. Some girls kept eyeing me up. I ignored them.

“The world is my oyster,” I said aloud in Swahili. But nobody heard me.

The Cali trip reminded me that the Universe is a magical place. Where whatever you think becomes reality. And whatever you want, you ask. And it comes. I had a good time, really.

A week away and then back to Bogota. I thought it might be rainy. But no! I arrived on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. And cruising back through the city, aimed at the mountains, I felt good. Damn good.

Two more nights, and then I’d be moving again. That’s when I met the most beautiful woman…

Alas, I’ll have to end it here. She wouldn’t want me writing about her without her permission. Which is a nasty thing if you fuck it up.

That’s the thing about being a writer. Picking your battles. Yeah, sure. Why not?

And I’ll be here for six weeks — up in the sky. Like a dream come true. And there are yellow flowers behind me, waiting for her.

Maybe I’ll take her to the beach with me in Santa Marta. She’s never been to the beach before.

And I’m just crazy enough to do it.

July 10th, 2022
Bogota, Colombia