Life from Canada to Latin America, one word at a time.
“Dear 1037148,” wrote one admirer to a golden elm in May. “You deserve to be known by more than a number. I love you. Always and forever.” (Atlantic Magazine) Airports are my favourite. There is nothing to do but sit, think, eat hamburgers, and spray myself with expensive perfumes. Whatever is left behind is simply
It rained the whole three days we were in Puerto Asis, Putumayo. Instead of the blast of hot, humid, air I was expecting when I stepped of the plane, we were meet by gray skies and drizzling rain. From the weather to the alien looking pineapples currently in season, with their spiky skin, everything was
When on Colombia’s Caribbean coast, I spend the my time in the places I know best: the small communities that pepper the highway in Bolívar. In order to truly enter into a costeño rhythm, it is imperative to leave the city and experience life in a pueblo. Still want the beach? A great route to
Español Over the weekend on team retreat, a few of us visited the second highest waterfall in Colombia, led by Alex, a local guide. As we grew closer to the sound of rushing water, we chatted about life: what we were doing in Colombia, what our favourite tv shows were (Alex loves Friends), our thoughts
The Caribbean coast is my first Colombian love. Beaches, sun, costeños, tropical air, coconuts fresh from the tree. Yet if the coast is vibrant and loud, Boyaca, the department to the east of Bogotá, is soft rolling farmland and ten thousands shades of green. I am learning to love Boyaca and you should too! All
This is an ode, a eulogy if you will, to that tin can of glory, the Sembrandopaz van. Despite its unassuming appearance, with a royal blue paint job, a side door that I never really did figure out how to open, and the seats that appeared to be taken straight from the world’s most uncomfortable
Traveling Light by Linda Pastan I’m only leaving you for a handful of days, but it feels as though I’ll be gone forever— the way the door closes behind me with such solidity, the way my suitcase carries everything I’d need for an eternity of traveling light. I’ve left my hotel number on your desk,
Go Greyhound by Bob Hicok A few hours after Des Moines the toilet overflowed. This wasn’t the adventure it sounds. I sat with a man whose tattoos weighed more than I did. He played Hendrix on mouth guitar. His Electric Ladyland lips weren’t fast enough and if pitch and melody are the rudiments of music,
Anna L. Vogt 