Filed under: colombia, dance, language, love, medellin, music, spanish, unfinished business
In the indulgence of a fortnightly massage (life is good), my masseuse (and now dear friend) asked me for how much longer I was here. I told her: “solo cuatro semanitas“.
“Semanita” is a Latin American variation of “semana“, the translation of “week”. The “ita” belittles the word, somewhat. A lady can be called “señora” (madam) or “señorita” (miss, or little miss). So what I infact told her was: “just four, little weeks”.
A month before I left my life in Chennai, India, my feet were itching. For the comforts of home, for the Christmas that would be had there, for ovens and microwaves. (Better still, Mum-cooked food.) But here, my thoughts are of a different, anxious nature.
As I type this the sky is a glorious pale blue and the clouds are big and white and fluffy. (Let’s forget the monsoon-like rain shower earlier.) I am sat in my modern flat, where I get to sleep in a giant double bed with a pink duvet cover. And yes, we even have an oven and a microwave.
A feeling of ‘unfinished business’ feels me with a dread, a hope, an overwhelming felicidad. I am strong in my language, but not quite yet done. I am yet to try every exotic fruit that fills the market I strolled past earlier. Yet to guess correctly whether the downstairs shop will once again put Air Supply’s “All Out of Love” on repeat.
Unbeknown to me, I had been making a life here. Building a home. And this home is one full of music and dance, language and love. I am not yet ready to file this away, tuck this under my pillow of yesterdays, yesteryear.
“Stay a few more months”, my masseuse advised. “Work here and perfect your language, then go get that job that’s on offer at home in January.” Not such bad advice.
The tiny detail is that “non-exchangable” word written on my airline tickets. Well, I shall use all of my philosopher training to fight with the agency until I am blue in the face.
Please, deséame suerte.
Filed under: colombia, dance, forever, medellin, place, spanish | Tags: dance
Yesterday, I had my tenth and final class of tropical dance. After three months of hard graft, thank all the goodness that I am now neither mute nor ignorant. Gracias a esto, I can chat to others inbetween our careful steps to perfect new turns and spins. Every week I am asked if I am happy here. And every week, I tell them that yes, I am.
Usually, their response to this is a kindly sonrisa. But last night, a friend piped up with something else: “Ah! So why not for forever?”
The shock that I am at halfway still slaps me, teasing me with wet eyes, too. I usually pinpoint my ‘place’ feelings with remarkable accuracy: halfway, I cannot imagine going back; a month to go, I am in pain with homesickness; two weeks left, and the sting is in the leaving, not the staying. But here, in my Medellin, I will not be homesick.
It is a great luxury to have lived in the number of cities in which I have been able to. In each one, there have been things that I have loved, and things that have driven me nuts, nuts, nuts. Two months ago I had cravings for London. For the little, trivial things that do often cause the biggest pangs. But now that I can reasonably fumble with endeavours in speech, those hungers have left and gone on their way.
I am left to ponder on how I will possibly be able to leave. I tell people that I must earn a salary in my own currency, to allow me to return to England when, or perhaps even if, I choose to. Secretly, this is likely an excuse for the slight inquietude that surely accompanies the awareness of having found one’s lugar in this grand, vast world.
And for this, I do not know what to do.
I had my second class of baile tropical today.
Before flying out, I was familiar with the slogan of the national tourism campaign: Colombia es Pasión. Today, I finally think I understood.
I arrived breathless to the dance class, worried that I was late. As promised, my interpretation of ‘tardy’ was a Colombian’s ‘early’. The others were yet to arrive, though our instructor, Andres, was there.
As tropical notes of song stretched into the muggy air at sunset, he danced. Alone, by the mirror. The rising montañas distracted not as he twisted, turned, spun. His students neither, as they entered, with soft toes, the room.
His body glowered with the grace of a militant precision. Andrés locked his eyes to the reflector. One turn, no, two; a roll of the shoulders, a swing of the hips. Dedication, fervor. An arch of the back. Fever.
The canción stopped its play, and his body fell limp. He jogged to the music maker, to start a new song, and to greet us. As if nothing had happened.
Hoy, entiendo. Creo que sí, Colombia es pasión.
