Chapter 9: To Colombia . . . .
Things continue to progress with everyone living in the house. I took another Spanish class and improved a little more. I was still far from being fluent, but I could understand a lot better when people were speaking slowly. It would take a long trip before I could get to the point well I really felt “fluent” in Spanish: a long trip to María’s native country of Colombia.
María had visited her father one time since they had come to the US, but neither her mother, sisters nor I had been there. Giancarlos’ birth got María thinking more and more about the fact that he would need ties to his grandfather as well. What better way than to travel to Colombia?
A “normal” couple here in the US would pack up their bags and travel: father, mother and son. I had learned a long time ago, that we were not part of a “normal” family. We would be taking the trip along with Iris, Ximena and Sonia. We actually tried to get some of los tíos to accompany us as well, but because of schedules and finances, it ended up being just the six of us.
We were all set. We had found the most economic way of getting to Colombia during December, the best time of year to travel to Latin America, especially to South America since it is their summer time and most people have off from work. December worked perfectly with our schedules as well, since finals would be over before we were scheduled to leave. Giancarlos would be just over a year old, having turned one at the end of November. Everything seemed to be perfect. It seemed that way, then I went out and fractured my ankle.
I didn’t realize that I had fractured my ankle. I thought that I had just twisted it. I did it while playing basketball. Two or three times a week, I would get up at 5 AM to play basketball with other men in the gym at the married student housing center. Even though, you would think that I would be more tired being up at that time playing basketball, I always seemed to have more energy on those days. I was actually able to stay awake through my early afternoon lectures. I wasn’t able to do that on the days when I didn’t play. I guess it is one of those strange coincidences in life.
Whatever it was, my ankle was at least sprained, and with no time left before we flew to Colombia. It was Thursday morning when I twisted it, and Saturday morning early we flew out of San Francisco. I had time at the doctors to get the ankle wrapped and to get crutches, but, for some reason, I don’t remember getting X-rays. “That’s OK,” I remember hearing, “you can have the X-rays done in Colombia for a lot less anyway.”
So, away we went! What a great attraction we must have been to everyone in the airports: Iris, Ximena, Sonia, María, Giancarlos and me, the only male in the group, hobbling along on crutches. Giancarlos was extremely blond at the time. His hair was so light that it was almost white. Many people asked us if I was Swiss, since his hair was so light. On top of that attraction, we carried him around in a little backpack-type carrier. There were times that I was the one doing the carrying, so, through the airport would pass this 6-foot 3-inch, giant of a man with a white-haired infant on his back. Actually, it ended up being more of an attraction in Colombia with the same scene except that there everyone else measured about 5 foot 2 inches and had dark, black hair. I heard “El Niño Dios” many times while carrying Giancarlos either on my shoulders or in the backpack in Colombia. It was only later that María let me know that it meant “The Christ Child.”
More than once we were almost late to an airplane as I hobbled from one end of the airport to the other. We ended up flying from San Francisco to Atlanta, Atlanta to Miami, Miami to Bogotá, and Bogotá to Cali, where María was born. In all, we arrived to Cali 25 hours after taking off from the airport in San Francisco. That was quite a experience for me, since the only flight I had taken before in my life was to Mazatlán for our honeymoon, and that was only a 5 hour direct flight. My family had traveled when I was going up, but traveling meant driving either in a car or in a camper. There was never any airfare involved and definitely no foreign countries.
The most difficult stop in all of the different airports was the stop in Miami. Since we were flying out of the US and into Colombia, we had to pick up all of our bags and check them in again with the new airline. In the many times that I have flown since, I don’t remember ever having to do this ridiculous step, but on that occasion, when the number of strong people available to carry bags was limited, we did.
The entire thing wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for two complications. The first was unavoidable: traveling with an infant meant that you basically had to take an entire house with you. You had to make sure that you had diapers, toys, diapers, food, diapers, multiple changes of clothing, diapers, pacifiers, diapers, baby wipes and anything else that you can imagine to take. Especially since this was our first child and our first time traveling with him, we took a long of stuff.
Complicating that even further was Iris and Ximena’s ways of traveling. I have had the opportunity now to have travel most of the way around the world with Iris and I am convinced that there can be few, if any, people who take more, and more useless, things. Don’t get me wrong, as I stated in an earlier chapter, I love Iris to death, but . . . . On one occasion, we were traveling to stay in a NICE, notice not cheap, NICE hotel in Monterey. We were going to be there for 3 days and two nights. On top of her 4 bags of luggage, Iris insisted on taking a coffee pot, coffee to brew in it and sugar. Despite the fact that most hotels provide those materials or provide you coffee free of charge, she took the largest coffee maker known to man, a whole gallon of coffee (“You never know what kind they might have there.”) and a 5 pound bag of sugar. I’m not sure if she could have finished off all of the coffee and sugar in a year, but she insisted on taking it for a weekend trip.
Ximena is not far behind. She has shoes for every imaginable occasion and uses every occasion to buy more shoes. When the former dictator of the Philippines was overthrown and his wife’s possessions were examined, it was found that Imelda Marcos had about 740 pairs of shoes. I think this made Ximena jealous, and she has worked to try and better that record.
So there we were in Miami, way too many bags, an infant, and the only strong male in the group hobbling around on crutches. What a sight we must have been trying to move all of the luggage from one side of the airport to the other! There was no way that we were going to pay to have someone move it for us, none of us had any money to pay for it even if they offered. I remember lots and lots and lots of complaints (Colombians don’t hold back on offering criticism of anything), but somehow we made it through the airport, checked in and settled in for the last big leg of the flight.
It was on this portion of the journey that I made the big decision that would have long lasting impact. I decided that regardless of how silly I sounded and how much of a fool I was making of myself, I would speak only Spanish throughout my entire time in Colombia. Yes, people would be trying out their English on me, but I would respond always in Spanish. There would be English music on the radio (listened to a lot by Ximena and Sonia), but I would listen only to the music in Spanish. I would have no idea at times how to express my feelings, emotions, or what have you, but I would immerse myself completely in Spanish. The only English I would use would be if I wanted to ask María something that I didn’t want the others around to understand.
It was not going to be easy, but I figured that it was the only way that I could get to the point where I could even slightly consider myself fluent in Spanish. I had a decent vocabulary already. I knew the basic grammatical structure. I knew verbs, even though conjugation was a completely different story (“I going yesterday to the store.”). The only way that I could really get better, at this point, was to throw myself to the wolves and speak only Spanish.
My first trial by fire was when we arrived to the airport in Cali. Colombian citizens, as María, Iris, Ximena and Sonia were, were able to pass quickly to one side, while the rest of us waited in a much longer line for our bags to be inspected. As I waited in the line, with my bags, crutches and a fishing pole gift for María’s father, a woman came up to me in line and said something along the lines of “Mumble mumble, correrse, por favor.” The key word was about the only one that I was able to catch. That word correr literally means “to run.” She said it again and pointed down towards the bags and the fishing pole.
Ok, what did running have to do with a fishing pole? Maybe she was talking about my ankle? I had no idea.
“Um, sí correr tobillo quebrar.” Literally, that’s “yes, to run ankle to break.” Great job!
“¡Córrase, pues!”
I still had no idea what the woman was saying, but I knew that she had changed to a much angrier tone and was using a command instead.
“Can jew move jure bags, please,” she said finally frustrated by my lack of Spanish. All the time she wanted me to move my bags. Why didn’t she just say so?
“Lo siento.” I added expressing my sorry, trying to hide my embarrassment. That embarrassment got worse when I asked María later why she was asking me to run instead of move the bags. It turns out that correrse means to move over, even though the term I was familiar with mover is literally “to move.” Correrse is more appropriate in the context that the woman was using it, “Move you stuff over, idiot, so we are closer to the end of the line!”
María had visited her father one time since they had come to the US, but neither her mother, sisters nor I had been there. Giancarlos’ birth got María thinking more and more about the fact that he would need ties to his grandfather as well. What better way than to travel to Colombia?
A “normal” couple here in the US would pack up their bags and travel: father, mother and son. I had learned a long time ago, that we were not part of a “normal” family. We would be taking the trip along with Iris, Ximena and Sonia. We actually tried to get some of los tíos to accompany us as well, but because of schedules and finances, it ended up being just the six of us.
We were all set. We had found the most economic way of getting to Colombia during December, the best time of year to travel to Latin America, especially to South America since it is their summer time and most people have off from work. December worked perfectly with our schedules as well, since finals would be over before we were scheduled to leave. Giancarlos would be just over a year old, having turned one at the end of November. Everything seemed to be perfect. It seemed that way, then I went out and fractured my ankle.
I didn’t realize that I had fractured my ankle. I thought that I had just twisted it. I did it while playing basketball. Two or three times a week, I would get up at 5 AM to play basketball with other men in the gym at the married student housing center. Even though, you would think that I would be more tired being up at that time playing basketball, I always seemed to have more energy on those days. I was actually able to stay awake through my early afternoon lectures. I wasn’t able to do that on the days when I didn’t play. I guess it is one of those strange coincidences in life.
Whatever it was, my ankle was at least sprained, and with no time left before we flew to Colombia. It was Thursday morning when I twisted it, and Saturday morning early we flew out of San Francisco. I had time at the doctors to get the ankle wrapped and to get crutches, but, for some reason, I don’t remember getting X-rays. “That’s OK,” I remember hearing, “you can have the X-rays done in Colombia for a lot less anyway.”
So, away we went! What a great attraction we must have been to everyone in the airports: Iris, Ximena, Sonia, María, Giancarlos and me, the only male in the group, hobbling along on crutches. Giancarlos was extremely blond at the time. His hair was so light that it was almost white. Many people asked us if I was Swiss, since his hair was so light. On top of that attraction, we carried him around in a little backpack-type carrier. There were times that I was the one doing the carrying, so, through the airport would pass this 6-foot 3-inch, giant of a man with a white-haired infant on his back. Actually, it ended up being more of an attraction in Colombia with the same scene except that there everyone else measured about 5 foot 2 inches and had dark, black hair. I heard “El Niño Dios” many times while carrying Giancarlos either on my shoulders or in the backpack in Colombia. It was only later that María let me know that it meant “The Christ Child.”
More than once we were almost late to an airplane as I hobbled from one end of the airport to the other. We ended up flying from San Francisco to Atlanta, Atlanta to Miami, Miami to Bogotá, and Bogotá to Cali, where María was born. In all, we arrived to Cali 25 hours after taking off from the airport in San Francisco. That was quite a experience for me, since the only flight I had taken before in my life was to Mazatlán for our honeymoon, and that was only a 5 hour direct flight. My family had traveled when I was going up, but traveling meant driving either in a car or in a camper. There was never any airfare involved and definitely no foreign countries.
The most difficult stop in all of the different airports was the stop in Miami. Since we were flying out of the US and into Colombia, we had to pick up all of our bags and check them in again with the new airline. In the many times that I have flown since, I don’t remember ever having to do this ridiculous step, but on that occasion, when the number of strong people available to carry bags was limited, we did.
The entire thing wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for two complications. The first was unavoidable: traveling with an infant meant that you basically had to take an entire house with you. You had to make sure that you had diapers, toys, diapers, food, diapers, multiple changes of clothing, diapers, pacifiers, diapers, baby wipes and anything else that you can imagine to take. Especially since this was our first child and our first time traveling with him, we took a long of stuff.
Complicating that even further was Iris and Ximena’s ways of traveling. I have had the opportunity now to have travel most of the way around the world with Iris and I am convinced that there can be few, if any, people who take more, and more useless, things. Don’t get me wrong, as I stated in an earlier chapter, I love Iris to death, but . . . . On one occasion, we were traveling to stay in a NICE, notice not cheap, NICE hotel in Monterey. We were going to be there for 3 days and two nights. On top of her 4 bags of luggage, Iris insisted on taking a coffee pot, coffee to brew in it and sugar. Despite the fact that most hotels provide those materials or provide you coffee free of charge, she took the largest coffee maker known to man, a whole gallon of coffee (“You never know what kind they might have there.”) and a 5 pound bag of sugar. I’m not sure if she could have finished off all of the coffee and sugar in a year, but she insisted on taking it for a weekend trip.
Ximena is not far behind. She has shoes for every imaginable occasion and uses every occasion to buy more shoes. When the former dictator of the Philippines was overthrown and his wife’s possessions were examined, it was found that Imelda Marcos had about 740 pairs of shoes. I think this made Ximena jealous, and she has worked to try and better that record.
So there we were in Miami, way too many bags, an infant, and the only strong male in the group hobbling around on crutches. What a sight we must have been trying to move all of the luggage from one side of the airport to the other! There was no way that we were going to pay to have someone move it for us, none of us had any money to pay for it even if they offered. I remember lots and lots and lots of complaints (Colombians don’t hold back on offering criticism of anything), but somehow we made it through the airport, checked in and settled in for the last big leg of the flight.
It was on this portion of the journey that I made the big decision that would have long lasting impact. I decided that regardless of how silly I sounded and how much of a fool I was making of myself, I would speak only Spanish throughout my entire time in Colombia. Yes, people would be trying out their English on me, but I would respond always in Spanish. There would be English music on the radio (listened to a lot by Ximena and Sonia), but I would listen only to the music in Spanish. I would have no idea at times how to express my feelings, emotions, or what have you, but I would immerse myself completely in Spanish. The only English I would use would be if I wanted to ask María something that I didn’t want the others around to understand.
It was not going to be easy, but I figured that it was the only way that I could get to the point where I could even slightly consider myself fluent in Spanish. I had a decent vocabulary already. I knew the basic grammatical structure. I knew verbs, even though conjugation was a completely different story (“I going yesterday to the store.”). The only way that I could really get better, at this point, was to throw myself to the wolves and speak only Spanish.
My first trial by fire was when we arrived to the airport in Cali. Colombian citizens, as María, Iris, Ximena and Sonia were, were able to pass quickly to one side, while the rest of us waited in a much longer line for our bags to be inspected. As I waited in the line, with my bags, crutches and a fishing pole gift for María’s father, a woman came up to me in line and said something along the lines of “Mumble mumble, correrse, por favor.” The key word was about the only one that I was able to catch. That word correr literally means “to run.” She said it again and pointed down towards the bags and the fishing pole.
Ok, what did running have to do with a fishing pole? Maybe she was talking about my ankle? I had no idea.
“Um, sí correr tobillo quebrar.” Literally, that’s “yes, to run ankle to break.” Great job!
“¡Córrase, pues!”
I still had no idea what the woman was saying, but I knew that she had changed to a much angrier tone and was using a command instead.
“Can jew move jure bags, please,” she said finally frustrated by my lack of Spanish. All the time she wanted me to move my bags. Why didn’t she just say so?
“Lo siento.” I added expressing my sorry, trying to hide my embarrassment. That embarrassment got worse when I asked María later why she was asking me to run instead of move the bags. It turns out that correrse means to move over, even though the term I was familiar with mover is literally “to move.” Correrse is more appropriate in the context that the woman was using it, “Move you stuff over, idiot, so we are closer to the end of the line!”
posted by Richard Braun | 8:29 AM
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