Life from Canada to Latin America, one word at a time.
A strong woman is a woman who is straining. A strong woman is a woman standing on tiptoe and lifting a barbell while trying to sing Boris Godunov. A strong woman is a woman at work cleaning out the cesspool of the ages, and while she shovels, she talks about how she doesn’t mind crying,
Mongui, Boyaca, is truly beautiful. This admission comes as no surprise to its residents. After all, they proudly proclaim, the town has been declared, year after year, as the most beautiful pueblo in the department. The streets and the cobblestone plaza are lined with colonial buildings painted in green and white and adorned with geraniums
A pair of cat burglars are living in the neighbourhood of my office. When the sun goes down, the lights go out, and everyone has gone home for the day, they emerge to clamber over the roofs and into backyards, making their surefooted way across shingles, over coils of barbed wire and shards of broken
“To see life as a poem and yourself participating in a poem is what myth does for you.” Joseph Campbell One of the first things I noticed when eating out in Colombia was the small plastic packet that always accompanied fried chicken. At first, I assumed it was a wet wipe, to clean up afterwards.
My first year in Colombia, living in Mampujan, I facetiously gave up almost everything for Lent: running water, carpets, spicy food, chocolate chips, winter coats, long sleeves, bathtubs, washing machines with spin cycles. Every time I bathed with a single cup full of water and ate a plate of plain rice, I felt holier than
I used to love motorcycles. When I first got to Sincelejo, every trip to the store felt like an adventure. I would stand on the street, wave down the first moto that came around the corner, and hop on board. As we raced down the street, I relished the feel of wind in my hair,
Liberation comes in the smallest of ways. Somehow, the normal moments of adulthood have never shown up: the deed to a house, a ringed finger, an enjoyment of driving, a bun in the oven, an understanding of RRSPs, the final of revelation of what I really want to be when I grow up. Yet in
Espanol Bogota is different. Instead of chickens and pigs roaming the streets as I walk to work, I avoid beautifully groomed dogs and their equally beautiful owners. Instead of stepping over ditches of grey water and greeting all of my neighbours by name, I try to be careful not to get run over by giant
These shriveled seeds we plant, corn kernel, dried bean, poke into loosened soil, cover over with measured fingertips These T-shirts we fold into perfect white squares These tortillas we slice and fry to crisp strips This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl This bed whose covers I straighten smoothing edges till blue quilt
The last few days have been a flurry of activity: packing, cleaning, finishing, last minute paperwork, handing out over fifty photos of my face, saying see you later, and eating rice. It has been full of the last time (at least for a long time) I will: Eat San Choco in Mamapujan Viejo Hang out
Anna L. Vogt 