tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36141903764383450362024-03-05T11:00:32.583-08:00*Senorita Bogota*Is this what my earlyish midlife crisis still looks like? I guess *This website is not an official U.S. Department of State website. The views and information presented are MY own and do not represent the English Language Fellow Program or the U.S. Department of State*Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-65972237126904536492012-11-05T13:31:00.003-08:002012-11-06T12:03:53.591-08:00I Blame Sexismo<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">In the beginning of September Griselda Blanco was shot and killed outside of a butcher's shop in Medellin. She was born in Cartagena and at the age of 11 kidnapped a rich little boy for ransom. When his parents failed to pay up, she killed him. By her early teens she had moved on to petty theft and prostitution. It was not until she emigrated to Queens, NY in the mid 70s that she found her true calling- cocaine. She was really good at both smuggling it into the country and selling it. She was the first Pablo Escobar. Escobar may ultimately have moved more product and had a little more flair, but I'm pretty sure Griselda was way crazier. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">In 1975, she was indicted on the biggest cocaine charges in history and fled back to Colombia. She returned to Miami a few years later and was involved in the Cocaine Cowboy Wars that plagued Miami in the 70s and 80s. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Griselda became known as The Godmother and was credited with the invention of motorcycle sicarios (hit men). S</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">he was suspected in masterminding around 200 murders in Dade County, helping to make Miami the murder capitol of the United States during this time. At one point there were two many bodies to fit in the Miami morgue and the city had to rent some refrigerator space from the local BK. In the very male dominated world of narco trafficking she was a real trailblazer. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, she was more than just a very successful drug dealer. She was also a total psychopath and absolute nut. She had a son named Michael Corleone and a dog named Hitler. She once tried to organize the kidnapping of JFK Junior in order to hold him hostage to secure her release from prison. Her three husbands? She killed them. However, while Pablo Escobar went on to become a huge cultural icon, very few Americans have heard of The Godmother. Why? Well, I think it is largely to do with the fact that she looked like this:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">While The Godmother's lack of hotness might have made her less famous, it certainly did not get in her way. She bought some of Eva Perone's diamonds, built a bronze statue of herself other drug dealers would rub for good luck,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">and beat the worst charges leveled against her in the US because her hit man was so sexy the secretaries in the Miami Dade State Attorney's office couldn't resist having phone sex with him making a plea bargain seem like a good idea to the prosecutor. When she finally went to prison in California she continued to run her empire from behind bars with the help of this young Oakland dealer, Charles Cosby.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Now,at the risk of sounding cynical, I am sure that the fact that she made this dude a millionaire a month after meeting him helps explain how he also became her lover since they weren't exactly an obvious match. Each time Senor Cosby came to visit she paid guards $1,500 dollars to let them get busy. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">All of her accomplishments add up to a special kind of crazy that I think has been really over looked.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">Unfortunately, people don't seem to be so interested in female criminals unless they are also super hot. I have a sneaking suspicion that if The Godmother had looked like Shakira she may have usurped Escobar's title of Colombia's most famous drug dealer. However, people were not as interested in a female criminal who looked a lot like some one's little old pee paw. Often time when bad girls get famous they look a lot less like pee paws.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The Manson Girls weren't all super hot, but they looked pretty damn good considering they spent most of their time dropping acid, creepy crawling, looking for a giant cave filled with gold in the middle of the desert, and preparing for a race war. LSD must be a very powerful drug if a dude who is 5'2" (yes, Manson is 5'2")can convince you that all of this, plus bludgeoning some innocent strangers is all a very good idea.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Amanda Knox</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I am pretty sure that the idea of a young, sexy blond having some sort of sex orgy with a couple of African bouncers and her roommate was part of the reason this case got so much press. If Amanda Knox had looked like a young Bea Arthur I am sure none of us would know who she was. I know she was exonerated and everything, but those look like crazy eyes to me. If I was planning a sex orgy involving knife play she would not be on my guest list. The Godmother was rumored to have hired Miami hookers for cocaine filled orgies at her Florida mansion, but I guess that image isn't really all that titillating and probably wouldn't sell too many magazines.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Casey Anthony</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Unfortunately, there are more than a handful of horrible mothers out there who decide that their life would be better if they kill their kids. However, most of these moms do not get the media to cover their trials 24 hours a day for months or inspire Nancy Grace to talk about the Devil dancing. I have a feeling if Casey Anthony didn't like to spend her pre trial days doing body shots and wearing half shirts she would not have gotten nearly as much press.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Even Bonnie looks like she was pretty cute in an old timey way.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">There are other bad girls that kill people and rob banks, but we only seem to hear about the ones who are also good looking. This leads me to believe that it is really hard for women to get any respect for being homicidal maniacs, lunatics, or psychopaths unless they are also sexy.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Sometimes, it is easy to forget that perhaps feminism didn't really work out. I can see how the traditional grumpy and dumpy feminist is sort of a no fun image. However, it seems to have been replaced by ladies working 40 hours a week and taking classes on both BJs and pole dancing in their spare time. I have a feeling this was not exactly what Gloria and Betty had in mind. </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3614190376438345036" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> Even though I hope Christopher Hitchens RIPs, that ridiculous article he wrote about women not being funny was just published in 2007. So, just 5 years ago enough people thought that an article whose main premise was that women weren't funny because humor is a male province used to seduce women and women don't really understand that "life is quite possibly a joke to begin with" because they have babies and want life to be "fair and sweet" was reasonable enough to publish in magazine. I can think of at least a couple of moms who must have realized that life is at least a little bit absurd. I mean at least the mothers of The Menendez Brothers and Ted Bundy must have thought that life was not all fair and sweet, right? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">To make matters worse Naomi Wolf, who I think used to be considered a sorta serious feminist, wrote a book about her vag. I don't have a problem with that per say, but the fact that she felt the need to describe her big Os as "mystic" and "oceanic" seems a little troubling and a little gross. She went on to describe how she believes vag slander (like the see you next Tuesday word and "the awful feline moniker")can negatively effect the very tissue of bagingos as as a result prefers some Sanskrit term that I am sure is also really mystic. Uh Oh. In a world where women are often times still expected to cook dinner and laugh at bad jokes, I think Naomi has gotten a little off topic. Especially, since I am pretty sure I would not want to date any investment bankers that would greet my ladyparts with a "Welcome Goddess" each time they entered the boudoir like she did. If this is what serious feminism has been reduced to at the start of 2000s, maybe the Mayans were on to something.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><a href="webkit-fake-url://DFF13928-53CC-4D96-A247-62B2B6857B60/image.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></a><a href="webkit-fake-url://DFF13928-53CC-4D96-A247-62B2B6857B60/image.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Ultimately, we still live in a world where Griselda Blanco couldn't get the attention she deserved for selling lots and lots of cocaine, killing hundreds of people, and being a world class crazy person just because she was not very foxy. Our job is not done ladies. It is just not done. Our job is not done until ladies can get the respect they deserve for being homicidal, drug dealing maniacs even if they don't look like supermodels. I'm going to start by listening to this:</span></a></span></div>
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Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-5949354260465399582012-09-09T12:01:00.000-07:002012-09-10T06:29:41.841-07:00 DONKEY LOVE?<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Ironically, since coming to Colombia I have embarked on one of the squarest periods of my adult life. It might have something to do with the relatively conservative nature of the organization I am working with. I am not complaining, since I am not totally sure I would be ready to party it up at a Bogota dive bar and I have little interest in being given any of that zombie drug. However, it has made blogging a little bit more difficult. While I have enjoyed elements of being a fancy bitch who goes to five star restaurants (Ok, probably just three and four, but they seem like five to me), I have had a hard time coming up with hilarious stories about appetizers, moderate drinking, and returning home at reasonable hours.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Cartagena, a city on the coast </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, a while back I had a stroke of luck! I was at a party and some locals started talking about a tradition the men have on the Coast of Colombia. They claimed that many, many men on the coast love having donkey sex. At first, I was not sure how accurate it sounded since many Colombians from the capitol don't think the Costenos, people from the coast, are super classy. In addition to this, I am <b>really</b> not an animal person and the idea of wanting to have intercourse with a member of the animal kingdom under any circumstances sounded absolutely bananas to me, not to mention unsanitary and more than slightly depraved. I thought that perhaps it was just a rumor perpetuated by negative stereotypes about that part of the nation and that my Colombian amigos were exaggerating due to the fact that most of them (meaning Colombians in general, not my amigos specifically) like to drink like they are at a freshman party. Given different comments that I had heard, it seemed that the Coastenos were viewed sorta like the American hillbilly, only much, much sexier. And since I don't think that EVERY hillbilly is missing important teeth and married to their sister or brother, I was not convinced that tons and tons of muchachos on the coast were trying to get into the bone zone with the hottest donkeys in town. I've heard about these type of things in Mexico, but weren't those Donkey Shows just a way to make money off of perverted tourists, not for fun. Right???</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Of course, I kept trying to get some more info because curiosity really does kill the cat. One Colombian explained to me that the men enjoy sexo with the donkeys on the coast because they have <b>"magic baginas"</b>. He described how the <b>MBs</b> do all the work enabling the hombres to just stand their doing almost nothing except <i>maybe</i> tickling the donkey's back with a stick. Perhaps I lack erotic imagination, but I was having a really hard time believing how anyone could enjoy any of this. It just did not sound very sexy to me. Certainly not sexy enough to have an entire part of a country ( a country where you can legally hire a prostitute of the same species, BTW) all into it. After hearing about these sultry burros and their <b>MBs</b>, I simply had to know more. So, I took my doubts and my questions to Google and according to Google it was all <b>TRUE</b>. Aye dios mios!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The first thing I found was a Vice Documentary that made it seem like a pretty popular thing to do in the smaller villages on the coast. The people were pretty open and talked about how it was a real old timey tradition. They seemed to have no problems discussing how many donkey lovers they had had (some dozens, some 100s) and what moves worked best (YUCK). Groups of young teenagers described how they liked to get together and get some hot donkey action as a Sunday Funday Activity. What is so wrong with a nice game of soccer or throwing back a few cold cervezas???</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> If you don't believe me check it out for yourself (Shockingly, I am pretty certain this link is in no way safe for work):</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> According to the documentary, adolescent boys are encouraged to have sex with donkeys in order to become better lovers and increase the size of their members (which is why one man claimed his doctor recommended it). I'm no Doctor Ruth, but I have serious doubts that donkey sex will actually help either one of these things. I can't see how doing it with a donkey would make a guy more in tune with how to please a lady and I can't see it increasing the size of his manhood unless those <b>MBs</b> are really, really magical. They suggested that because Colombia is such a Catholic nation it was hard for the 14 year old set to find willing human partners because the girls are waiting for marriage because of God. However, since it is also a pretty macho nation, virginity is seen as not very cool. Therefore, it is better to do it with some burros than to hold on to your V card. I am pretty sure that Jeezo did a big one of these when he heard about all this.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Apparently, a few villages even have an event called the Fiesta del Burros to celebrate boys losing their virginity to some really sexy donkeys.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Now, from what I've heard 14 year old boys can get turned on by just about anything. But, this? Really? If any of my dude friends would care to weigh in I would greatly appreciate it, because I am really at a loss. Is it the wig? The oh so fetching eye make up?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I tried to find out more about the festival, but there was very little about it on the internets. I guess Lonely Planet has not found out about it yet. However, while trying to get Google to tell me more I discovered that Fiesta del Burros is also the name of a Mexican restaurant in Myrtle Beach. Even though they seemed to have a pretty decent happy hour special I hope never to go there even if I find myself in the area with a powerful craving for some guac. I don't think I would be able to enjoy even the tastiest of burritos with visions of tarted up donkeys and horny 13 year old boys dancing through my head.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">After finding all this info on the Internet I thought it was still best to check with an actual Costeno, just to make sure. Because honestly, I still was having some big trouble wrapping my head around all of this. Well, my amigo from the coast confirmed it all. He even told a story about a man from his village who was carrying on with a donkey even after he was married (guys are sorta expected to stop it after they get a real live girl, but some discover that they really like it and continue). The wife became crazed with jealousy because the donkey would follow her husband through the streets hee hawing at him seductively. Now, I am no relationship expert but it would seem to me that this would be a sign of some very, very big problems in your marriage.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I try to be open minded and accept that all people are into different stuff. Some of it is weird, but if it is not hurting anybody and does not involve me personally, who cares?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">If people want to dress up like fuzzy animals and get it on, then so be it. I just reserve the right to laugh at said people and to think the entire idea is completely bonkers.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">If people want to act like babies and wear diapers and look for a nice "mommy", I guess that is OK. However, I would maybe like to suggest that they think about seeking some professional help instead of finding each other in online communities and thinking it is simply a different "lifestyle choice" because I am pretty sure that they are insane.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, I must say I can find no way to rationalize donkey love or any other kind of bestiality for that matter. As Dan Savage, an extremely funny sex columnist, pointed out it is never OK since animals can't consent which makes it all pretty rapey. Besides, it's really gross and I am pretty sure I don't feel that way just because I believe that all animals belong in the zoo.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I even think all this donkey business is even creepier than having a clown fetish. And I <i>really</i> hate clowns (I just found out this even existed last week while watching Gigolos and I have not really recovered yet. My friend Sofia tells me that Dan Savage also finds it really scary. I knew I liked that Dan Savage.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Perhaps at the end of the day, I am just a bougie white girl who, try as I might, is just not all that open minded.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I am going to the coast in a couple of weeks. Between all the chicks who look like Shakira and all those sassy burros, I don't think I stand a chance.</span><br />
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Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-79996684119808352202012-07-18T21:56:00.002-07:002012-07-18T21:57:41.777-07:00Thank You Very Much, Regina Morrow<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Before I begin, I would like to readily admit that I in no way have my finger on the pulse of Bogota night life. There are a few reasons for this.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMzPwhKNj3c5cMAqlARihNWO1wiZ10fQ0VqXON2-RSv3bn0mOwFE3Ccmwbh6EYzmWD_CfucaU6ay2t3Eq7bAncn8fQdVhhqv_eBxJxZzUiWhohcYAr1skLan-VnjmQd7Jml5wrVf3av8/s1600/united-states-marine-corps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMzPwhKNj3c5cMAqlARihNWO1wiZ10fQ0VqXON2-RSv3bn0mOwFE3Ccmwbh6EYzmWD_CfucaU6ay2t3Eq7bAncn8fQdVhhqv_eBxJxZzUiWhohcYAr1skLan-VnjmQd7Jml5wrVf3av8/s400/united-states-marine-corps.jpg" width="395" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And this:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">While it is probably good to have the numbers of a few sergeants in my celly in case I ever find myself in a pinch, it is not real helpful in finding out where the party is at.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">In addition to this, I have been a little less enthusiastic about going out since somehow finding myself in my 30s. My younger self would never have believed that there would ever come a time when I could have a perfectly nice Friday night with some yoga pants, a glass of Cabernet, and an episode of True Blood. But that time has totally come(and I am loving Pam even more than usual this season and I already loved her a lot).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Often times when I do force myself to put on a pair of pants that has both a button and a zipper, I find myself feeling more like an observer than a participant. I watch the youngsters dancing around to bad electronic music and start to feel a lot like a chaperon at a high school dance. I start to watch the kids in action. I see slightly snarky, but flirty faces and think "that should work well, good job little guy." I also watch the same snarky flirter buy his new lady friend a shot and think "that should wrap it up. Well, played, dude, well played". And yes it has crossed my mind that this type of almost lurking could come across as potentially creepy, but since I am not looking to pull a Demi Moore or a Linda Hogan I don't really care.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">When I am not kept busy semi-creepily observing the dance moves and the pick up attempts like a borderline lurker, I can easily become a grump. All it takes is a single stepped on toe or an unpleasant bump and I can start to look like this:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Or this:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqd-HE7W6aAAlyWCQWQMS-EHG9s_UICZPkFnfBB0ASuKpV4SD3UlIk6wsUjqfa5s0GC8vCC_bKhLSpo1DhG86NVwwjygwnNqc2_xMlgAaGY9VTRqtTPsAJ5B5FTWgBuXsSqupG0ajI3U/s1600/458266_479299155418078_816531006_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqd-HE7W6aAAlyWCQWQMS-EHG9s_UICZPkFnfBB0ASuKpV4SD3UlIk6wsUjqfa5s0GC8vCC_bKhLSpo1DhG86NVwwjygwnNqc2_xMlgAaGY9VTRqtTPsAJ5B5FTWgBuXsSqupG0ajI3U/s640/458266_479299155418078_816531006_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Obviously, there is probably a lot more partying going on in this town that I know about or am interested in participating in. However, I think that I would have to search it out or at the very least stop making those damn faces. However, I think that there is a misconception about Colombia that the streets are paved with cocaine and that everyone is constantly gnashing their teeth and making group trips to the bano when they are not busy salsa dancing. Sometimes when people ask me what it is like here they sound as if they envision that there is a Tony Montana (who, yes, I know is Cuban and not Colombian) hiding around every corner waiting to tell you to sat hello to his little friend.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">If anything, I find Colombia to be far more conservative than I imagined. The few times I have come home a little bit late I felt like the guards at my building were silently saying "Tsk Tsk!" and everybody seems to be constantly hanging out with their families in much larger quantities of time than I think the average American could handle without bloodshed or therapy.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Am I bummed that I am not experiencing more late nights and danger while I am living here? Absolutely not. While I have a deep affection for wine (which, like most Irish Americans and people in their 30s without a sponsor, I do not really consider a form of alcohol but more like something that all grown ups should drink with dinner and ,no, I do not truly trust people over the age of 6 who drink milk with their meal unless they have spent some time at Betty Ford or they are Amish.) I have never really been interested in anything else (except for sometimes beer and the occasional whiskey). </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Have I abstained from the white stuff because of a strong moral fiber? A deep respect for the law? Out of fear that even those who love me the most could not tolerate my already loquacious self talking even more? Because I have terrible luck and get caught every time I do anything even slightly wrong and after watching Oz and Locked Up Abroad felt life in the big house was probably not for me so it was best to just be a law abiding citizen?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Well, I'm sure all of those things play a part. I would say that Punky Brewster also has a little bit to do with it. She was abandoned at the mall with nothing but her bandannas, mismatched clothes, and a mangy dog. She knew about danger. When she chanted "Just Say No with Punky Power!", I listened. I figured she knew what she was talking about.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">But really it's mostly because of Regina Morrow. If you don't know who Regina Morrow is you were probably not a tween in the 80s who read EVERY SINGLE SWEET VALLEY HIGH BOOK. I was.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">My best friend Elizabeth and I were very competitive. Each Easter we would compete to see who could eat the most Cadbury Cream Eggs (it is shocking we were not exactly skinny minnies). We would compete to see who got the best grades in school and we would compete to see who could read the most books. For several years we were in a race to see who could read the most Sweet Valley High Books and it was always neck and neck.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The series was about these two beautiful blond twins, Elizabeth and Jessica, who lived in Sweet Valley, California and shared a red fiat. There was something about this that sounded pretty magical to a brunette growing up in Worcester, Mass. There was the smart twin and the bitchy twin and the series followed their adventures as the two most popular girls at their school in Southern California.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Regina Morrow was friends with the smart twin, Elizabeth. She was deaf for most of the series. However, thanks to a radical surgery somewhere around book 30, her hearing was restored and she started going out with rich, bad boy Bruce Patton. However, their relationship was not built to last. Regina did not handle their break up well and fell in with a bad crown and began experimenting with drugs and alcohol.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">On the Edge, SVH #40, detailed how she started making bad choices in attempts to mend her broken heart. At the end of the book she is at a party and tries just a <i>tiny</i> bit of cocaine. Guess what??? It triggers an unknown congenital heart defect and Regina dies on the spot. I remembered thinking it was so no fair because A. she had just gotten her hearing restored a few books ago and had barely any time to enjoy it and B. she had spent the majority of the series being so good and the one book where she is a little bad she ends up <b>DEAD</b>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Being somewhere around 4th or 5th grade (Elizabeth and I were really good readers, so sometimes we read books that we were a little too young to understand. Around this same time we also read Less Than Zero and learned what a snuff film was.)we knew nothing about drugs and were shocked at Regina's untimely demise. We discussed it at length in hushed tones. Could we have secret and mysterious heart defects that could suddenly kill us? Is this what went on in high school? Were teenagers just dropping dead all of the time? We were terrified. Since this was pre-Internet, we didn't have many tools determine how plausible this scenario was. There was only so much we could figure out using a dictionary and some old Cosmos.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">When I look back and try to figure out why I am pretty square I have to say it is largely because of Regina Morrow. I was never tempted to do much experimentation because I always pictured Regina being carried out of the party in a body bag THE ONE TIME SHE WAS BAD. When I would hear stories about wild parties all I could think was "DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO REGINA MORROW??? WHAT WERE YOU GUYS THINKING??? DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH OR SOMETHING??? It just seemed like too big a risk. I bet if Lindsay Lohan head read the Sweet Valley High books when she was little everything would have turned out differently.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">As a result, I am more than happy with my very tame night life in Bogota. I am sure there are people living it up right now doing a variety of things that are dangerous and possibly illegal. Since I have no interest in pulling a Regina Morrow and I am pretty sure that the places where these things take place probably don't allow their patrons to wear yoga pants, I am more than fine leaving all of that a mystery.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Maybe if they really want to win the drug war down here they should try translating the Sweet Valley High series into Espanol. That's some scary sh*t.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-72410998525638243722012-07-06T09:30:00.001-07:002012-07-06T09:50:47.745-07:00In Stitches On Lake Titicaca :(<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I began my trip to Puno by visiting a farm on the outside of town, eating some edible clay on some potatoes (not for me), looking at some Alpacas, and watching Soul Surfer at the hotel. Once my friends arrived, we set out for Lake Titicaca where we visiting three islands. I was excited since I had never been there and my mother has been talking about a clay model of the Lake she constructed for a projects fair in the 60s ever since I can remember.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Our first stop were the floating islands of Euros. I was not so sure about them. They were constructed by piling a few layers of reeds over some floating sod and didn't really seem that stable. They also didn't seem incredible authentic. As soon as we arrived, the islanders whipped out some looms and started weaving (I think they had just been sitting around before we got there). When our guide began describing how they also ate the reeds they made their islands out of to prevent goiters (which I didn't know were that common) and as a good source of iodine, on cue one of the women jumped up and began chomping away. I got the disturbing feeling that I had stumbled on to some sort of zoo for humans and it made me pretty uncomfortable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I then noticed that our boat had pulled away. Our guide told us that to get to the next island, if we wanted, we could buy a ticket for a ride on the traditional read boat. I was confused as to what our option would be if we decided that we were not interested in the traditional reed boat. Swimming? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, before our departure we were told we must buy something from the islanders. We were assigned to the islanders in groups of two. They immediately began crying at us to buy their crafts (which honestly were not that good). While the crying made me feel even more uncomfortable than the reed chomping, the not very good crafts were also pretty expensive. I settled for two necklaces and then hightailed it to the reed boat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Once we boarded the boat the women of the island came to sing us a good bye song. I can only presume that "Row Row Row Your Boat" is also a traditional song of the Euros Island. They then followed it with an "Hasta La Vist Baby". I was left sorta wondering how they were watching Arnold Schwartzenegger movies from the 90s on the floating islands. Maybe there was a floating island wreck center? I was left unsure how I would enjoy the rest of Lake Titicaca.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, once we arrived at the next island. I was pleasantly surprised. The islanders were far more laid back. Instead of crying at us they told us that they had some hats. We could buy them or not buy them. I was so impressed by their sales technique that I bought one. I was also cold. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">We were each assigned to a host family who took us to their homes and fed us boiled potatoes and friend cheese by candlelight. My group had to use a combination of our 8th grade Spanish and mime in order to make dinner conversation (I think the miming may have been more successful). They then dressed us up in some native clothes and then took us to the town hall where they pulled us around in a circle while some teenagers played the pan flute. After my friends and I bought a beer our host families sat down and started looking incredible bored. However, the island we were on had no electricity and seemingly few choices of leisure activities so I thought it was possible that they might just always look like that. How many hats can a person really get excited about knitting?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">We then returned to the house where it was time for bed. I, however, was unable to sleep very well. This was because after settling in to bed wearing my hat and fluffy alpaca sweater I realized I had to pee. Since the thought of going outside in the cold, dark night to use the outhouse armed only with a flashlight was nothing short of awful, I decided to hold it. ALL NIGHT LONG. Luckily, for my roommates, David and Mayumi, I was unaware that our room came equipped with several bedpans. It could have turned into a Bridesmaid situation and possible put a damper on the rest of our trip.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The next morning it was time to head back to the boat. I am not sure if it was my lack of sleep or my natural clumsiness, but on the way I stepped in a ditch (while talking of course</span>) <span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">and fell on a rock. When I took a look at it on the boat, it looked sorta bad and deep. However, since I was in the middle of Lake Titicaca there was not much I could do besides clean the cut with a baby wipe, dab some anti-bacterial ointment on it, and throw a band aid on it. I then tried to enjoy the scenery.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The problem was that I inherited a touch of White Coat Syndrome, an irrational fear of doctors and health problems, from my mother. When she goes to the doctors she usually breaks out into a cold sweat and her blood pressure spikes to heart attack levels (</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">My mother's
White Coat Syndrome has actually improved since she has become pals with
her doctor. She might be one of the few ladies charming enough to make
friends with someone while profusely sweating and wearing only a johnny). My symptoms are more mental. I just become convinced that the doctor has very, very terrible news for me. Luckily, I am usually pretty healthy (yes, I am knocking on wood right now) so my condition does not show itself very often. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I checked my cut a few hours later. It was still bleeding. All I could think about this was this girl:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><a href="http://www.cnn.com/2012/07/02/health/georgia-flesh-eating-bacteria/index.html">http://www.cnn.com/2012/07/02/health/georgia-flesh-eating-bacteria/index.html</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I was soon convinced that a Peruvian superbug was in the process of devouring my knee and probably my entire leg.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I knew I was being nutso, but that didn't stop me. I remembered a conversation I had with my best uncle (by marriage) who told be my entire family was completely irrational. At the time I had feigned confusion, but I knew exactly what I he was talking about. However, it is not entirely our fault. Almost all of our ancestors don't just hail from Ireland, but from the West of Ireland. In addition to being inhabited by people who believe in fairies and alcoholism, they also have the highest rate of schizophrenia in the WORLD (the Internet told me researchers blame the misery of colonial oppression, malnutrition, and old sperm {apparently a lot of guys did not get married until they were almost 50 because of property laws and old sperm gives you a much higher chance of making a crazy baby. Again, mom you were right about the dangers of bunk sperm}). This just can't be DNA that gives a person a talent for logic or reason. But I am afraid it is DNA that can make a person predisposed to something like White Coat Syndrome. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">When I returned to the mainland 7 hours later and my knee was still bleeding I knew that I was going to have to go see a doctor. Luckily, we were traveling with a guide who was able to take me to the local tourist clinic.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">When I went in to see the doctor she told me that the skin was muerte and I needed stitches. Not only had I never had stitches before, but I was not exactly thrilled that I would be getting them in Puno, Peru for the first time. It is a dusty and ramshackle town where more than an average amount of its people appear to be suffering from a variety of serious, serious medical problems. In addition to this, when my friends arrived and stepped off the bus, the first thing they saw was a pool of blood. Therefore, upon hearing my diagnosis translated to me by my guide I did what any grown woman and seasoned traveler would do. I cried. At first they were just big silent tears, but once the needle came out I added some whimpering that increased with volume each time the needle got closer. This is when they turned up the volume on the TV in the waiting room where my friend David was patiently waiting for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">As I was trying to pull myself I looked over and saw a toaster over. All I could think was, what the hell is the toaster oven for??? Have I stumbled into some kind of tourist clinic ER/ tuna melt station? Just as I was trying to forget about the mysterious toaster oven I looked on the table that held all the doctor supplies and saw a bottle of Aqua Net. If there is a medical use for Aqua Net I surely couldn't come up with it. I tried to start reading the board filled with all of the post cards from all over the world thanking the doctors for their good medical help while they were traveling, but all I kept thinking was that the patients they had not helped successfully probably weren't around to write any postcards. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I could feel that the anaesthetic was starting to wear off a little bit on my knee and I was starting to feel the stitches a little more. However, since it is the needles that really get to me and I felt I had already reached my quotient for crying and whimpering for the day, I decided to just power through. In an effort to distract myself I started chit chatting with my guide. He began to tell me how his girlfriend had lost her eye as a child due to lack of health care in Peru and was about to loose the sight in her other one. Her last hope was to get on a list to be seen by a team of Colombian doctors volunteering in Lima. I found this story to be a great source of comfort.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">After the stitches were finished my friend David treated me to a glass of red wine, like a true friend (antibiotic be damned!). I would love to say that after it was finished I became less crazy, but that would be a lie. I had nightmares for several nights. One of which was about me being unable to graduate from high school because the Burger King drive through was so slow I could never make it to class on time. This felt frightening Young Adult of me. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCklkc92fP65Vu_VGpov4C1Ek6taw9a-txxjPSG42qnUMBweH2enTKGluAKPy1pXlBE4W0mbdFQOFSoLRQmdzUxDql-GC9JHj-sLZ0uDqe_KaCMhqUw-jsG1xzgv3ZsE4FCi9RF0vMUHs/s1600/young+adult+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCklkc92fP65Vu_VGpov4C1Ek6taw9a-txxjPSG42qnUMBweH2enTKGluAKPy1pXlBE4W0mbdFQOFSoLRQmdzUxDql-GC9JHj-sLZ0uDqe_KaCMhqUw-jsG1xzgv3ZsE4FCi9RF0vMUHs/s400/young+adult+1.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I started feeling better yesterday because I was able to see an American doctor who took a look at my knee and didn't seem to think it was about to fall off. I guess I'm just an American American after all.</span> <span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">One who likes doctors that have attended med schools I have heard of and who don't use their offices to make tasty sandwiches and fix their hair in between patients.</span><br />
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<br />Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-43518209550787051722012-06-23T15:05:00.002-07:002012-06-23T15:11:14.493-07:00Shasay! Shantay!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVb0vWAlWZ3xVoMb0WkztR7Cax6nxZMzUTu1nUZnkgatRaBIuWK3yI1rhVnDppfiEeLOOVq7VqjB4ztEWpKxAHrisqInZWB_ofrm52qRU6W5g6j5GdSDZqVXhX3aFSsdUA-MH5CEo8F2Q/s1600/IMG_0937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVb0vWAlWZ3xVoMb0WkztR7Cax6nxZMzUTu1nUZnkgatRaBIuWK3yI1rhVnDppfiEeLOOVq7VqjB4ztEWpKxAHrisqInZWB_ofrm52qRU6W5g6j5GdSDZqVXhX3aFSsdUA-MH5CEo8F2Q/s640/IMG_0937.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Keeping up with my blog in Bogota has proven to be a lot more difficult than it was in Borneo. In Borneo, every time I turned around there was something totally bizarre going on. There was vagina chalk, black magic, fish pedicures, and headhunters. My blog practically wrote itself. Life in Bogota is actually pretty normal except for the fact that I don't know what anybody is saying (it might be time to admit that I am just not a linguist). I can meet friends for dinner, I can drink wine, I can go to the movies, and I can do yoga. In addition to the fact that there are fewer things that strike me as bonkers, I also spent the first two months here with no friends and became increasingly certain that the rocking chair in my living room was laughing at me. I had a pretty hard time thinking of a way of how to spin that into stories that were anything close to hilarious. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, after a lot of hard work I did find some friends and told my rocking chair to shut the hell up. I must admit after spending the first couple of months watching lots of internet television I forgot how to go out at night. The thought of leaving my house after 9 pm had become a strange and exhausting concept. However, since I finished watching the entire seasons of Revenge, The Killing, and Mad Men I really had no choice. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I must confess that my first time going to a club in Bogota I was immediately skeptical. I blame this on the dancers at the clubs who looked a lot like this:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJBYbViSO_na4u_OcmwdhyphenhyphenFkmmc1awuqMNZ1lPEomb91Q-xUaUbt4ep4c3QIerbEu9joVBvufW84NHtN3o-_52bz9l861LBPwhRYW4z9giLLHOM-p9aCEciA2sgN_1tvHpw4ypSb8gMYs/s1600/DoinkandDink_display_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJBYbViSO_na4u_OcmwdhyphenhyphenFkmmc1awuqMNZ1lPEomb91Q-xUaUbt4ep4c3QIerbEu9joVBvufW84NHtN3o-_52bz9l861LBPwhRYW4z9giLLHOM-p9aCEciA2sgN_1tvHpw4ypSb8gMYs/s400/DoinkandDink_display_image.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">and this:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXB9WPtsheAB1_XGbliWyGOZTIuEetVAzI3B5gwFy-ULUH07QApzwwiGsU7DAtAwr3d9aDuvoMCiyn4BhTfkpYs_A9_oQxkSJGNol-ZELIFhpPTOofAEupPbV7s9MRTPQeQxOStzdlYAA/s1600/oompa-loompa-34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXB9WPtsheAB1_XGbliWyGOZTIuEetVAzI3B5gwFy-ULUH07QApzwwiGsU7DAtAwr3d9aDuvoMCiyn4BhTfkpYs_A9_oQxkSJGNol-ZELIFhpPTOofAEupPbV7s9MRTPQeQxOStzdlYAA/s400/oompa-loompa-34.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Am I alone in thinking that little people forced to dress up as clowns and oompa loompas and then dance around do not really create a party atmosphere? This might be related to the fact that I have a lifelong fear of LPs (which I don't support or condone). However, just as I was getting over the LPs dancing around in hot pink wigs, I spied a giant mime. Who the hell was managing this club? Clearly some sort of lunatic or sadist.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojEsQ31hDp140mElYvFFAqEya_r3UiBhMN9ysYhIRfj6uZn8zUHG9Qrl_cVa-9UIpChUIuJx9JtB1cO6N7qd9836HMHcPfQpSBUSdFYeRhkiYkfB5Nl2O3syvzFI2LVYmOYKAvTLNDUQ/s1600/club.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojEsQ31hDp140mElYvFFAqEya_r3UiBhMN9ysYhIRfj6uZn8zUHG9Qrl_cVa-9UIpChUIuJx9JtB1cO6N7qd9836HMHcPfQpSBUSdFYeRhkiYkfB5Nl2O3syvzFI2LVYmOYKAvTLNDUQ/s400/club.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I would like to take this time to warn all my fellow grumpy brunettes out there with attitude problems about something. If you go out to a club in Colombia with a Swedish blond who is cute and nice and cool, she may be a little bit more popular than you. You may also be cornered several times during the evening by small Latin American men who, using their best broken English, will demand to know how they can better impress your nice, blond friend. Then they might also look in the direction of another potential suitor and declare that he is a "PAYASO". Since this means clown in Spanish you may become concerned that one of the LP dancers may have overheard and hope that they haven't since their job is clearly hard enough. Then said suitor might also come back from the bar with drinks for everyone but you. It won't be like you will be unable to afford your own $4 dollar beer, but you may in fact end up feeling a little butthurt anyways and consider that maybe your mother may have had a point when she told you that you catch more bees with honey.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">It's not like I mind being a wingman, but at certain points I was afraid there might be some sort of riot and I was not sure what my course of action would be. Then some gays showed up. I heaved a giant sigh of relief! Finally, some dudes that usually appreciate ladies with bad attitudes. They were doing a lot of dancing and pulled me onto the dance floor. While it usually takes a lot to get me onto the dance floor I am usually OK at gay dancing. This is because it is all a big joke. I am someone who would never consider sexy dancing for real since I am not a teenager or a pop star. However, the rules are different while gay dancing. The sexy dancing is usually accompanied by a giggle fit since it's all so funny! Make no mistake chicas: Your gay friends love you, but they also find you totally sexually repulsive. Therefore, sexy dancing is all an incredibly, big joke. Since I like jokes, I am totally OK with this. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, when I found myself in a gay sandwich something felt off, and not just because I was at a straight club. Where was the giggle fit? Where were the sarcastic faces you make to let each other know that you are all in on the joke? Why was it feeling vaguely serious? I suddenly found myself confused. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDptx4fvEZWb3xyHts1rtUQio-d4EUWWnGVAd_1KBjhOqYjJFnNMxdtpj5a_8jU8vXRXZ41ajA5DfyYvkOMWxAlDI0IkeJOosDCK8M7sPF1Umopkkk4l2GG7mTrP3_AxpEUZOTnzuvZTg/s1600/macho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDptx4fvEZWb3xyHts1rtUQio-d4EUWWnGVAd_1KBjhOqYjJFnNMxdtpj5a_8jU8vXRXZ41ajA5DfyYvkOMWxAlDI0IkeJOosDCK8M7sPF1Umopkkk4l2GG7mTrP3_AxpEUZOTnzuvZTg/s400/macho.jpg" width="315" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Macho? I get it! No convincing needed!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Then the older guys wanted to dance just the two of us. He wanted to dance really, really close. Again, there was no laughing. He started to try to look deeply into my eyes and I had a sneaking suspicion that I could feel something on my thigh. What the hell was going on? I had this strange feeling that he was trying to show that he was still an <i>hombre</i>, even though he had just finished making out with his adorable boyfriend. Either that or Latin American are just so seriously sensual they have trouble understanding the concept of sexy gay dancing as a goof. Maybe down here sexy is always serious? Aye dios mios! Either way I found myself wishing my Spanish had progressed enough to say something like "Sir, no judgements here! I am clearly a dedicated sister to the community, but could you please back up off me?" or just flashed him a copy of this photo to prove I was totally down and in no need of proof of anyone's masculinity. I have been to The Folsom Street Fair and hung out on Christopher Street- I'm cool!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJFYRadrCmK7fNhpNEKuqOLNoTVDrVz50lpN9byE86kbetc6jgyFo1RVX0cP_7Mtu2DnvTQG0HSASx0Q_ZOEeiG5WdG83B_6TqqcZ4gj1S3_khBdgx4I778iiJouaUp95iVF7GkjVWc4/s1600/mustache.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJFYRadrCmK7fNhpNEKuqOLNoTVDrVz50lpN9byE86kbetc6jgyFo1RVX0cP_7Mtu2DnvTQG0HSASx0Q_ZOEeiG5WdG83B_6TqqcZ4gj1S3_khBdgx4I778iiJouaUp95iVF7GkjVWc4/s640/mustache.jpg" width="424" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">It was one of the first times I was confused by my gays! While living in Bogota really is pretty normal, I suppose there are a few cultural differences. Maybe the G men of Colombia just need to watch a few more videos like this:</span><br />
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<br />Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-42004844049057052352012-06-02T10:53:00.001-07:002012-06-02T10:53:16.802-07:00Hey! Who Forgot to Invite Me to the Make Out Party???<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcby5QQgxRry3-CguEuGM2y91ejYBVYyQx9mVo8R_uz8KZWzSGtT7Z_pAEQZyjpCs-7TuWwE_LIGkPbtnFDxVX_5vA89Gf-6De2YB-o-h7Sa5Hj7zs7hPN90cwf4Q5wrg0lBAmGiHnYD0/s1600/madonna-making-out-with-her-young-brazillian-boyf-3830-1234194604-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcby5QQgxRry3-CguEuGM2y91ejYBVYyQx9mVo8R_uz8KZWzSGtT7Z_pAEQZyjpCs-7TuWwE_LIGkPbtnFDxVX_5vA89Gf-6De2YB-o-h7Sa5Hj7zs7hPN90cwf4Q5wrg0lBAmGiHnYD0/s400/madonna-making-out-with-her-young-brazillian-boyf-3830-1234194604-9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I went out a couple of weeks ago to a bar that featured a tiny little man who looked a lot like a Colombian Woody Allen doing Beatles covers. When I first saw him take the stage, I was skeptical. Not so much because of his small statures, but because he was wearing hiking boots and a Crocodile Dundee hat. However, after watching half of his rendition of "Get Back", complete with high kicks and air guitar, I realized that I stood totally corrected.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">As I watched the show, I couldn't help but notice something else. There was a lot of making out going on. A LOT. This isn't so uncommon in a nighttime/bar setting however it is usually not so common in my country with the type of crowd I was surrounded by. Most likely because there was a cover and the mojitos were about 25,000 pesos (14 USD) a pop, the crowd was sorta old. Many people in the bar were losing their hair and packing a few extra. Back in the USA it is not so common to see people born in the late 60s early 70s french kissing in public. But, in Colombian it is pretty typical.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">On one hand, I kinda liked the idea because I myself am sorta old and I like the idea that there exists other social opportunities besides boring dinner parties and Netflix. It was kinda comforting to see some people who were even older than me who were still out to have a good time and enjoy some tongue kissing in the process. I wanted to believe that it was simply their natural Latin passion that kept them so hot for each other that they couldn't help but make out and cop a feel while listening to a itsy bitsy hombre belt out "Can't Buy Me Love".</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, as usual, the cynic in me had some doubts. Were the Beatles so romantic that these middle aged couples couldn't control themselves? Didn't they have homes where they could do this in private? Was the bald guy in front of me so turned on by his wife's flannel shirt that he had to touch her butt all night? I couldn't help but think that there was possibly something else going on.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">With the help of the internets, I came up with two possible explanations, the first of which was Colombian fidelity, or lack there of. According to the world of Google 8 out of 10 Colobiam men cheat. 8 out of 10?!?!?! Aye dios mio! (You would think with these statistics I would be getting a little more action and watching a little less internet TV.) But, before you try to condem these muchachos you should know that about 3 out of 10 of their ladyfriends are also down with OPP. The very reputable website Planetlove.com told me that the reason for all these shenanigans is that the men "just can't help themselves" and the women get some on the side because of feelings of "loneliness, unfulfillment, or the desire for REVENGE". Apparently, while the rates of infedelity are high throughout Latin America, Colombian leads the region with a total of 66% of all Colombians having cheated at least once. In addition to this, 47.5% have gotten their grove on in a group setting, 51% have hired the services of a professional, and 10.5% would like to get down more than 7 times a week (Is there an 8th day of the week I don't know about???). These stats made me think that perhaps Telenovelas are not as melodramatic as I thought. Maybe they are more like docudramas. I also can't help but wonder if this means that everyone is yelling at each other all the time and constantly feeling overwhelming feelings of rage and jealousy.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">For those of you who never watched Joey Grecco on Cheaters, you really missed out. The show filmed Joey and his beady little eyes and leather jacket as he followed people around in his van with their significant other to confront them while they were out romancing someone else. The first time I watched Joey almost incite an African American lesbian riot in downtown Houston, I was hooked. If he set up shop here in Bogota I feel like he would always be busy. Yes, Colombian can get a little dicey, but Joey in NOT afraid of danger! Remember this episode:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">But getting back to the old people make out party, after looking at the data I felt that there could be a strong possibility that most of the couples I saw getting so frisky may have left their husbands and wives at home and stopped off for a few drinks on their way to the No Tell Motel. Or they could have been out recruiting a third. Yikes, stripes.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I also uncovered another thing that could have made the middle aged people start acting like horny teens at the bar. It's called Berranquillo and it's a Colombian Love Potion. I learned about it while on a bike tour last weekend when my friend Erica was in town. It was served up here:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlmnP0rp8NRvVT3OAlVfN1mSBnojU6tRgNIvl8Hd6LHlUNOpRl7e7SmXQBYeinVDe7LDKzfMZilZ0ZBO7eEKDy0EVkHgklgMzw-O4cmKplKzBD56_2epdnWAATfLQSGWfHh35FaD8V_HQ/s1600/IMG_0998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlmnP0rp8NRvVT3OAlVfN1mSBnojU6tRgNIvl8Hd6LHlUNOpRl7e7SmXQBYeinVDe7LDKzfMZilZ0ZBO7eEKDy0EVkHgklgMzw-O4cmKplKzBD56_2epdnWAATfLQSGWfHh35FaD8V_HQ/s400/IMG_0998.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">My 8th grade Spanish tells me that this spot is called "The Love Door" and is convenietly located around the corner from the red light district, Santa Fe.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Berranquillo is an aphrodisiac whos main ingredient is the fruit called borojo. Borojo is thought to not only work as a natural aphrodisica, but to increase enegry, "promot hormone generation of all types developing sexual power", encourage cellular regeneration, decrease cholesterol, and revitalize ovulation, as well.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I was actually going to try to try some Berranquillo when we first rolled up to The Love Door, because I really will do almost anything for a goof. However, when I found out that one of the ingredients was live crabs, I had to pass.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">To make Berrsnquillo local love doctors put some live crabs in a blender with some oysters, a quail egg, milk, brandy, borojo, and ginseng. After seeing the live crabs creepy crawling all around the glass jar, I just couldn't do it. Besides, I had no hot dates lined up for that evening and am way too square to consider hiring a professional so it seemed like it would be a big waste of jungle fruit and live crabs, not to mention Brandy.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I was very happy with my decision after I learned that live crabs sometimes carry a very dangerous parasite that can give a person symptoms like tuberculosis. SInce it is usually treated as such, the parasite then goes on to attack other organs. It sounded like throwing back some Berranquillo could have turned into a goof gone very awry.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Well, I don't know if it's the cheating or the Berranquillo or good old fashion love that keeps older Colombians so hot for each other they find themselves PDAing all over the place. However, I am sorta into it. Why should pesky teenagers get to have all the fun?</span><br />
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<span id="goog_622178914"></span><span id="goog_622178915"></span>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-74288147479717246542012-05-20T10:02:00.002-07:002012-05-20T12:21:14.998-07:00Straight Outta Bogota<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I have never really been into rules. It probably has something to so with the fact that one of my parents still likes to end debates with statements such as "I don't have to do anything that I don't want to do, so just leave me alone". One of my earliest memories of my other parent is of them clenching their jaw in outrage in response to the Walk Sign before declaring "Nobody is going to tell me when I am going to walk", grabbing my hand, and leading me into oncoming traffic. They both just really want to be free.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">As a result, I have never cared for people telling me what to do (which is surely why I was such a successful public school teacher).I have never had a great affinity toward authority. I've always thought that as long as I am not hurting anybody or breaking any laws you should just do you and let me do me. Even in elementary school I thought that the kids who went crying to the teachers were just cry babies who couldn't handle their own business. Didn't they get the memo? Nobody rats!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">My feelings about authority only became worse after my arrest. In order to fully understand my feelings of outrage you must understand that it was a <b>miscarriage</b> of justice. After I explain a few things it will become clear why after my one and only ride in the back of a cruiser, I spent the rest of the summer listening to this CD </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">and watching many, many episodes of The Dukes of Hazzard and developing a very deep and very real hatred for Boss Hog.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> Due to my high school's very strict discipline code and my own teenage neurosis upon graduation from high school I had consumed a total of 5 beers. I had never done drugs or spent much time with boys (which was not so much by choice). I didn't usually go to parties. If I did, I ended up doing the dishes. This was to distract my classmates from the fact that I was not imbibing. I spent a lot of time realizing that intoxicated high schoolers are really not that much fun to talk to when you are stone cold sober and have dishpan hands. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Basically, I did absolutely nothing wrong except fail to clean my room and sometimes have a smart mouth (a condition I am still trying to cure). In short I was a nerd, a wet blanket, a stuffed shirt, a real Johnny No Fun. The only perk of which was never, ever getting in trouble. (I have a funny feeling I may have been having a little less fun than my amigos who spent their weekends doing keg stands and getting busy.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Therefore, when I returned from my first year of college and my one year younger bestie invited me to a keg party in the woods I thought it would be funny. I had never been to one before and after a year at ZooMass I now knew a thing or two about drinking beer. However, our evening went horribly awry and the night ended with us standing in a holding cell with our hands handcuffed together with what I am pretty sure was a crack whore who was wearing a Ren and Stimpy T-shirt and a pair of unzipped jean shorts, or jorts. She informed us she was hiding pills in her "underwears". She then somehow managed to extract a half smoked cigarette from those underwears and smoke it. I felt like I was in the wrong place, not only because of all my years of rule following and sobriety, but because I knew tons of kids that did real bad stuff and they had never been forced to pose for a mug shot. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, what really made my blood boil is that at the time of my arrest I was not doing anything wrong. We had been waiting for the beer to arrive when we were arrested, there was no party happening at the party. We were sitting on a rock talking. They arrested us for trespassing and said we could all thank our friend's brother for this (who had some sort of argument with them the night before). It was all his fault because he thought he was so cool.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> These were not the words of respectable law man! These sounded a lot like the words of a jerk (which my cousin who went to school with my arresting officer confirmed that he in fact was) It was a miscarriage of justice! The charges were trumped up! The park where we were had closed 5 minutes before they showed up! You are not supposed to arrest a bunch of kids because you are mad at someone's brother (I think that they were just jealous that he actually was that cool)! I finally understood what those boys from Compton were talking about! All of my years of being a geek were totally down the drain. I had been booked! It was so no fair! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I vowed never to watch another episode of this show again:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Although I have never that into rules, I don't actually do anything wrong. I realized at an early age that since I have terrible luck and an almost bizarre inability to lie, I wasn't really cut out for a life of crime. In addition to this, I didn't really enjoy my one trip to the pokey. The following day when I had to be arraigned with car jackers and prostitutes I felt pretty out of the loop(the bailiff asked my friends and I who were all 18 and wearing pretty Spring dresses if we were on a class trip) and felt it wasn't really my scene. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because of my feelings about <i>Law and Order</i> (not the show, ironically I really, really love that, especially the ones with Ice-T)I was surprised to find myself working with the 5-0 as part of my new job. Even though I am just there to teach them English, it just felt like something I would never find myself doing. I looked out into the classroom and looked at their feet and was like <b>WOAH</b>.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">This photo is from the internets because I didn't really feel like it was a col time to whip out my camera and start snapping photos.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">They were all actually really nice and not exactly what I expected. They were friendly and smiley and very interested in the workshop I was giving them. Some of them even made some goofy jokes. In celebration of Mother's Day they gave me a mug filled with chocolates (even though I explained that I was not a mother)and one of the officers played some sax solos, including Frankie's NY, NY in honor of what I claim is my home town (they seemed like the wrong crown for some kind of "I Am A Wandering Gypsy" spiel).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, their language center is the same place where they train for other stuff. This is why I saw a group officers practicing how to load automatic weapons and another group practicing how to rescue important people from riots using defensive driving. I couldn't help feeling that it was a bad time to mention how hilarious I think <i>Straight Outta Compton </i>is or my feelings about Boss Hog. I just hope they don't find a way to hack into my Netflix account where Fight The System documentaries are always among my top suggestions.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because I like doing things I never thought I would do, it is actually a kinda perfect assignment for me. Besides, it seems that even though Bogota is way safer than it used to be having some some 5-0 to contact if you find yourself in a bind just can't be a bad thing.</span>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-3602146369466477392012-05-05T09:53:00.002-07:002012-05-05T09:54:59.809-07:00But I'm Sooooo NOT a Millionaire!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">When I first arrived in Bogota I was faced with a little problem. On my second day in the country I went to a meeting about security where I was told to never take the bus because they are targets for the the guerrillas. I was told the only safe mode of transport was to take a taxi. However, when I met any Colombian person the first thing they would say to me was "Please don't take the taxis. They are not safe." One person I talked to went as far as to tell me that each time his wife leaves the house he begs her to please never, never take a taxi by herself. This left me with no idea how to safely leave my apartment. The taxis are safe if you call them and get a password to give them when they pick you up, however, my 8th grade Spanish does not always allow this as an option. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">As a result I spent more time than I'd like to admit at the mall down the street treating myself to McFlurry's. Nothing says glamorous, international traveler like sitting at the local food court alone in a pair of yoga pants. Jealous?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I found out that all of the Colombians were warning me against taking a taxi solo because of the Paseos Millonarios. This translates into Millionaire Ride. Apparently, a thief will pose as a taxi driver. However, instead of taking you where you want to go he will pick up some of his friends who will pop in the back seat with you carrying some knives or guns and ask you to withdraw as much money as possible from various ATMs until you hit your daily limit.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Firstly, this made me nervous because of my bank's crazy security policy. The last time I tried to make a wire transfer they flagged my account for suspicious activity and I had to spend several hours verifying my identity by answering various security questions. Some of them I didn't even know, and I'm me. Honestly, does everyone really remember the year their Nana was born, what street their aunt lives on, and the address of the branch they opened their account at over ten years ago? It seems like if I found myself on a Paseo Millionario and my account was somehow flagged I would probably have even more trouble answering these questions and the robbers would probably not be too impressed.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I was also nervous about the possibility of them wanting some sort of larger payment. Unfortunately, when a lot of people think of Americans they think we all grew up like this guy:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Sadly, this was really not true in my case. I didn't have one of these in my childhood home (but it would have been so cool if I did which is what I used to think every time I watched the show when I wasn't busy thinking about how cute Jason Bateman was.):</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjco6KQ9h4AzhI8ApkcMyGjF4c7dxZHinVASM1i1RZVODl3aCX9LoykzF_HdcEeEpnh5WKzMd0KVThCI6VYQlatYpRysHBzFHTOui1e4d6B9xGvUCi4jqBE-yGQtJEAWCUJ8A_velvwuSE/s1600/silverspoonstrain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjco6KQ9h4AzhI8ApkcMyGjF4c7dxZHinVASM1i1RZVODl3aCX9LoykzF_HdcEeEpnh5WKzMd0KVThCI6VYQlatYpRysHBzFHTOui1e4d6B9xGvUCi4jqBE-yGQtJEAWCUJ8A_velvwuSE/s400/silverspoonstrain.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I thought it would be really great if I could get some sort of small tattoo on my wrist or carry some kind of official card letting potential robbers know that I am really not even close to being a millionaire so would be a real waste of their time. When I really racked my brain I realized that while I probably did know about two millionaires, neither one of them like me enough to pay my ransom or anything.(I would like to add that is in no way a result of a lack of wishing and hoping on my part.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> My own personal philosophy is something like this:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> Which has led to me doing a lot of this:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Through copious amounts of travel and a choice of a low paying career I have managed to avoid most of the problems that Biggie warned us about back in the day. I guess when I read The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer and she talked bout society keeping us in line by giving us the illusion of security when such a thing does not actually exist I took her a little too seriously.I have questioned this plan a time or two but then I realized that a new plan would require a job that forces you to work TWELVE MONTHS a year. This is just ludicrous. How could I go on road trips and watch The Wendy William's Show? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> It's really such a good show. How you doin'?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, I have a feeling that if I ever find myself on a Paseo Millonario I might be questioning my path and wishing I had become a businessman who could call an assistant who could wire some robbers a large</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> sum of cash. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because I knew a Paseo Millionario would not work out well for me or anyone else involved, I decided to start taking the bus. I reasoned that not only did all of the Colombians I met think they were safe, but they were way cheaper than cabs and part of deciding not to be a businessman means giving up some luxuries (I can't lie. Many times while dragging heavy suitcases through Port Authority and sitting through 6 hour rides on the Hound I have felt as though I have taken a wrong turn somewhere at which point I have to concentrate on the three months out of the year that I don't work.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The buses were scary at first since they don't have specific stops, you have to flag them down. I also can't figure out if they have numbers or anything. I have to strain to read the painted signs they have in the window to see if I recognize any of the locations and then hope I get on the right one. Once you get on the driver immediately takes off with a jerk. He then takes your money and makes change while both steering the bus and driving stick. This seems like too many jobs for one guy to be doing in heavy traffic, but it only costs 75 cents so it's hard to complain.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, once I get on and sit down without falling down (which I always consider a big accomplishment)I find I m surrounded by seemingly normal people who all look as though they are on their way to work. While living in San Francisco, I saw people pass out, nod out, freak out, do heroine, and forget to wear pants on the bus. The buses in Bogota actually seem a lot less frightening. Everyone is always wearing pants!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Besides, I think it would be best for me to do everything in my power to avoid a millionaire ride since I am not sure any Colombian robbers would like to hear my take on Germain Greer, the dangers of materialism, or the magic of The Wendy Williams Show. I'm also pretty sure that they don't take IOUs.</span><br />
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<br />Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-60482441749362962622012-04-30T07:45:00.002-07:002012-04-30T09:47:15.524-07:00Latin Lovers. Fact of Fiction?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I've had a great respect for all things French ever since watching Better Off Dead in the 80's (back when John Cusack only made hilarious/heart warming comedies where he always played the sexy cool underdog and not lamo RomComs). The French exchange student was so cute and sophisticated I just knew they all must be on to something. The fact that the nation is currently led by a tiny man who is not exactly a silver fox who is married to a former super model who not only ruled the runways, but dated Jagger, recorded a kinda cool album of folksie pop music, and was born into an Italian Tire Empire seems like pretty definitive evidence that probably all of the rumors about their talents in the boudior are most likely true. There is seemingly a pretty good reason that they are the nation responsible for the Emanuelle series and French Kissing.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Because of this, when I found myself sharing some cafe con leches with two frenchmen this weekend and the conversation turned to matters of amor I made sure to pay attention. I was especially curious about what they had to say because they were both adorable and charming and in their twenties. Because of this I imagined that they had had a pretty good chance to figure out what was going on around town in terms of sexy stuff.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">What they were saying was <b>shocking</b>. They were both in agreement that they had not come across a single person who had a talent for French Kissing or getting busy. Since one was a monsieur and one was a madamoiselle I was getting both the man and the lady perspective. Their complaints included too much biting, make out partners who tried to shove their tongues all the way down their throats, and ones who were way too sloppy. They had similar complaints about other related activities and felt that way too many things were left off the sexual menu.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;">I was left with so many questions! Do the French really have all these special sexy skills in relation to which all others pale in comparison? If I managed to eventually do any field research (I was cursing myself for letting the 60 year old cabbie slip through my fingers! How was I to know that when Culture Shock Colombia told me that women over 35 got little love in this nation that they were not joking around?), would I even notice what they were talking about as an American? Being almost ten years my junior did the two adorable Frenchmen grow up with so much access to internet porn that their standards had become impossibly high and complicated preferring bedroom activities that I have never even heard about or contemplated as a person on the 30s who had to use the dictionary and my best friend's mom's Cosmos to figure out how things went down?</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">But most importantly, is it possible that the Latin Lover is some sort of a myth??? Is it no more accurate than the idea that all Asians are math wizards, all Russians are Communist grumps, and all Germans are deeply weird? After all of my travels had I failed to view the stereotype through a critical lens because it just sounded too appealing. Did I have to allow for the possibility that maybe anyone can do the Lambada? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Have I been guilty of buying into a cultural stereotype. Are sexy times no sexier in Colombia than say Minnesota or Winnepeg? I don't know! However, when two sexy frenchmen speak up it is hard not to admit to the possibility that where there is smoke there is fire. Have you seen Carla Bruni? She is smoking hot! They know secrets!</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;">Was I picturing this sort of trip to South America?</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I don't know. Maybe? (However I would like to take this opportunity to say that while I am all for movies which depict older women getting their groove on or back, I could have been totally OK with not seeing Shirley Valentine's boobs). Who hasn't had at least a few Joan Wilder type fanatasies where you go to a foreign land and meet a either a swarthy man or a Michael Douglas adventurer who sweeps you off your feet? Remember how much better Kathleen Turned looked after she ditched the power suit and bun and found her way to Cartegena with Michael Douglas in search of that stone? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">It seems that I must admit that there is at least a chance that all of the time I have spent assuming that these guys all had special romance/bedroom skills may have been erroneous.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Even though I had to disagree with a friend who claimed that Jarvier was still super hot while wearing the little dutch boy wig and mass murdering people in No Country For Old Men, I always he assumed that he was crazy sexy in a way that was distinctly Spanish.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">What about Menudo? Could they really French Kiss no better than say The Backstreet Boys or In'Sync? The very thought of this possibility totally blows my mind.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Is the fact that Antonio Banderas is married to Melanie Griffith not so strange after all?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">When the lights go out is the only difference between being with Diego Luna and being with Ryan Seacress the accent?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: Courier New;">But more importantly, where do all the French dudes in Bogota hang out?</span>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-70503221304172815132012-04-20T13:21:00.000-07:002012-04-30T10:28:15.647-07:00They Work Hard For the Money! (So You Better Treat Them Right)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I think that prostitution is probably a very hard way to make a living. I would imagine it is way less Pretty Woman and more really, really difficult work. I am guessing that regardless of where your moral compass lies on the whole selling your body thing, just pretending disgusting men are not disgusting but super hot and sexy must be extremely challenging and exhausting all on its own. I´m pretty sure that the number of dashing Richard Gere type business men who roll up and want to take you on Rodeo Drive shopping sprees and wine and dine you must be pretty few and far between. I also bet that dudes probably don´t always seek the help of a professional in pursuit of their healthiest sexual impulses. Working girls also must often times wear really uncomfortable clothes and shoes and work late hours. Not to mention the fact that they also live under the constant threat of violence and disease. That´s a lot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">For these reasons alone, I feel that they are some of the very last people that a customer should try to cheat out of any money. They work really, really hard and most often because they don´t have any other choices. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">However, even if a person is really cheap (And this is a terrible, low rent thing to be. If I go out to dinner with someone and discover that they are a bad tipper, I never feel the same way about them and if you are over the age of 22 please don´t try to quibble over the bill and pay 5 dollars less because you had one less beer. It´s tacky. Just try to keep up next time.), I would hope that if they were specially trained in international crime fighting and discretion they would realize that if the prostitute they hired the night before is demanding more money and they work for an organization that really, really frowns upon that sort of thing that it is a really good time to put your cheapness aside and PAY HER. Pay her extra. Include a really good tip. Give her your watch. Give her anything she wants so she does not alert the police that someone who has been entrusted with the protection of the leader of the free world is either a despicable cheat/cheapskate or somehow under the impression that the city of Cartagena is home to a great number of volunteer sex workers. (I would hope that in international crime fighting classes you learn that there is no such thing.)Seriously, even if you wake up from a black out if you are a professional secret police man you should be able to think your way out of this one. If not, you are in the WRONG game.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Do I think that all those international crime fighter guys should lose their jobs? Hell, yes. However, I am less concerned with the fact that they decided to pay for sex and more concerned with the fact that they are clearly very, very cheap and very, very stupid. This is a terrible combination. Besides, Obama has enough other problems and always looks in need of a very long nap. He should at least have access to better, more reliable protection givers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">The only possible explanation that I could come up with was that perhaps the international crime fighters in question somehow didn´t know the situation. Perhaps they just thought that they had stumbled upon a collection of extremely young, gorgeous, and sexually adventurous young women. I know it sounds bananas, but I have seen it happen while living in Indonesia. I saw many men who liked to sometimes forget that all of the gorgeous young women falling all over them were on the clock. It was nicer to believe that said gorgeous young women had simply fallen victim to their irresistible charm and overwhelming sexual magnetism. Demi Moore clearly has to keep making those documentaries (And forget about Ashton! He's NOT charming!).Would I fall into the same trap if I took a trip to Imaginationland and found myself surrounded by young men who looked like this and seemingly wanted nothing more than to shower me with lots of flattering attention and display a powerful desire to bed me?</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhEZXWgVwLPmW8f057IJtdj1edLzvyIf9B8c2leYfH8inINPdB4KMSsDm0ptGrFD32KBSl3S7c4B8V1iXm0fOUAVPDKd0QMJ4dagll-Y090eyJ30FKRWEfJfGyrQNa299fxyzu5EvCso/s1600/ryan-gosling-in-drive_500x345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="220" qda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhEZXWgVwLPmW8f057IJtdj1edLzvyIf9B8c2leYfH8inINPdB4KMSsDm0ptGrFD32KBSl3S7c4B8V1iXm0fOUAVPDKd0QMJ4dagll-Y090eyJ30FKRWEfJfGyrQNa299fxyzu5EvCso/s320/ryan-gosling-in-drive_500x345.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Since I already have no problem with the fact that Ryan Gosling is both a Canadian Mormon and a former Mousekateer who somehow sounds like he was born and bred in Brooklyn no matter what role he plays (Who cares? It always sounds wicked hot!), I would say it´s highly possible. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I would like to add that I am pretty sure that I have been subtly propositioned before while traveling in Bali (which is a hot spot for older ladies looking to pay for the company of young men. They call them Kuta Cowboys.). Yes, it´s time to give myself a great big pat on the back! I knew what they were up to! I did not think that I was just looking irresistibly sexy in my sunhat and flops to a 20 year old Balinese guy! But, before I do I would like to add that it´s pretty hard to loose one´s objectivity when being approached by Kuta Cowboys who are literally 1/5 your size. Look at that dude in the middle! I hope someone gave him a sandwich or some nasi goreng immediately after this photo was taken! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">However, I would also say that the events in Cartegena highlight a much greater problem than simple male self deception. What is up with these international crime fighting classes? Are they missing the part about how to tell the difference between a prostitute and a really, friendly lady? Do they not tell these guys some of the signs to look for? I would like to think that I am pretty OK at being able to tell if someone is in the life or not. So, I would like to lend a hand. I would start by watching some episodes of two of my favorite shows from elementary school:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">From what I remember Dee Dee McCall and the two ladycops from Miami were always having to go undercover in outfits like these:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0yxTI6iDP00dMhyphenhyphen80f-0w_PEUx4dAC09Bw5Qly_18YOfnTEcoUhVjJWXQz8FJ8dokU5pFWS6_GfNjhLw2LRYTnnyJ1apB4nTptLScR-BGQo42JleT253huL8Hk3fQpnxT6ZkhT7Pzngg/s1600/Stepfanie-Kramer-Sergeant-Dee-Dee-McCall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="320" qda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0yxTI6iDP00dMhyphenhyphen80f-0w_PEUx4dAC09Bw5Qly_18YOfnTEcoUhVjJWXQz8FJ8dokU5pFWS6_GfNjhLw2LRYTnnyJ1apB4nTptLScR-BGQo42JleT253huL8Hk3fQpnxT6ZkhT7Pzngg/s320/Stepfanie-Kramer-Sergeant-Dee-Dee-McCall.jpg" width="255" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Although perhaps a bit dated, I think the costume choices and situations can still give a viewer a pretty good basic idea of what to look for. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">They should also be taught to watch out for both of these two types of shoes:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Lucite Heels</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-k0xgTHMetmiFOxj_B8s1Hps9Xy0FxKHR59WXIrzVx7XpABhTVofcCBBvu6nUesQxskPNWqxF6brvjTVcB0SfvaLLud55TqH8KoZ2bV-k3xpL9iRf-wJP6h2xASlwNvNbaYPiQtjZC94/s1600/HA4WT350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="320" qda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-k0xgTHMetmiFOxj_B8s1Hps9Xy0FxKHR59WXIrzVx7XpABhTVofcCBBvu6nUesQxskPNWqxF6brvjTVcB0SfvaLLud55TqH8KoZ2bV-k3xpL9iRf-wJP6h2xASlwNvNbaYPiQtjZC94/s320/HA4WT350.jpg" width="214" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> White Boots</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I am pretty sure that the only three types of people who are allowed to wear them are strippers, prostitutes, and porn stars.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Other helpful hints include lycra dresses, bunny fur jackets, being called ¨Daddy¨, and scantily clad women you don´t know who are standing on dimly lit streets, but not really going anywhere who ask if you would like a ¨date¨. You can totally learn all of these things from Miami Vice and Hunter. If you feel that these are not enough you could move onto the HBO documentaries ¨Life on the Point¨ and ¨Downtown Girls¨. As an educator I see a problem with a lack of meaningful content being provided; The International Crime Fighting Institute should really consider adding these programs to the curriculum.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">They could also learn a thing or two from Hilary Clinton. She was able to avoid dabbling in any morally questionable activities and get her party on with just a few brews and some good tunes. I knew I liked her. See? You don´t have to take your clothes off to have a good time!</span></div>
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<br /></div>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-26055322213959631282012-04-15T21:27:00.001-07:002012-04-15T21:31:17.916-07:00Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen Spoil the Soup<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"></span><br />
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</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Why didn't I ever learn how to cook? I am not really sure. It's certainly ironic since I really love eating. It might be related to this time I remember watching my mother cook a big meal for my father and his friends sometime around kindergarten. I remember they all sat around eating and laughing and having a good time while my mother wore an apron and cooked and and served all of the food and waited to see if they needed anything else. Even at five I guess it didn't look my kind of party. I remember thinking that if I didn't learn how to cook, I wouldn't have to do that.</span><br />
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">When I left home at 18, I figured I would eventually learn how to cook out of necessity if not desire. I greatly underestimated my ability to eat peanut butter and jelly and pasta with Ragu sauce for weeks and weeks at a time. The only thing I ever learned how to make was sandwiches. I do make pretty good sandwiches, but I am pretty sure that doesn't count as cooking.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I am so untalented in the kitchen that usually my mother gets too upset watching me try to cut or slice anything. Therefore, when she has parties at the house she usually politely asks me to stop trying to touch the food and go and pour wine for the guests instead. I pour wine pretty well.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I realize that given this set of circumstances it may seem strange that I decided to take a cooking class. I did not sign up for the class out of a burning desire to learn how to prepare a traditional Colombian dish. I was more interested in taking a break from my steady diet of TV. I really do love TV, madly and deeply, but even I have my limits. I also figured I should try to avoid becoming a complete and total weirdo which was in danger of happening if I watched even one more subtitled episode of CSI Miami, New York, or Las Vegas.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">So I went to this nice lady's house and she tried to teach me how to make Sancocho, a type of Colombian Soup. Unfortunately, my teacher, Elsa, and her husband, Hernan, could speak no English (except for the word "chicken"). Therefore, we had to rely on my 8th grade Spanish which I am sure was a special kind of torture for both of them. We learned some basic things about each other, but a lot of our conversations ended with one or both of us shaking our heads in total confusion.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Elsa showed me the ingredients (chicken, beans, plantains, corn, and potatoes)and tried to give me some basic tasks to aid in the soup making. At first I thought my lack of culinary skills would not be a problem. I was totally able to open the pea pod and let the peas fall into the bowl. However, that was pretty much the last task I could complete with any real competency.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I thought that getting the corn off the cob would be no problem. I watched Elsa do it at a rapid pace and the bowl began to fill up with perfect little kernels. However, when I tried they did not look like perfect little kernels. They looked like I had removed them with my teeth and spit them into the bowl a chewed up mess.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">We then moved on to the potatoes. I watched Elsa peel the potatoes with a large knife. The peel came off in a single,perfect ribbon. When it was my turn, I was very concerned. I had never attempted to peel a potato without a potato peeler. The giant knife looked way out of my league and I figured that accidentally lopping off a finger would put a damper on my cooking lesson.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I heard Elsa and Hernan do a little snickering and I saw them shake their heads. I wasn't offended. A grown up should be able to figure out how to peel a potato with a knife. I will readily admit that I could not figure out how to do this. I did figure out how to remove the skin but it required that I place the potatoes on the table and cut it off in chunks leaving the potatoes pretty hard to identify.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I think when Elsa realized what a menace I was in the kitchen she somehow signaled her husband to show me his wood shop where he carved frames and altars by hand for churches around Bogota. It was a pretty extensive tour which I think was meant to keep me away from the food because when it was finished so was the soup.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, since I had not really done all that much to help make it besides deform a few potatoes and shuck a few peas, it felt less like a cooking class and more like I had just paid two nice old people to have lunch with me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">They were pretty sweet so that didn't bother me at all. However, I might have to accept that, much to my mother's chagrin, I will just never learn how to cook.</span></div>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-9552178943990405082012-04-12T00:35:00.003-07:002012-04-12T06:26:57.727-07:00I'm Trying To Stay Hip In Colombian, Homies<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wXlDswKU-tl948icpc2CoQG95L-EPn8amxh_Qa8ahjAvMJVvnxHPZRsQ59Q1bmVvm8ptcGPDFMn7buyMFTaDoKosgJarbHR5ROglfLWHS7QIzOWiZjedyfKT-bhyBRlIJUF_Oy8q77M/s1600/2472572-a-cool-girl-looking-at-a-party-in-a-nightclub-through-sunglasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wXlDswKU-tl948icpc2CoQG95L-EPn8amxh_Qa8ahjAvMJVvnxHPZRsQ59Q1bmVvm8ptcGPDFMn7buyMFTaDoKosgJarbHR5ROglfLWHS7QIzOWiZjedyfKT-bhyBRlIJUF_Oy8q77M/s320/2472572-a-cool-girl-looking-at-a-party-in-a-nightclub-through-sunglasses.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">As many of you already know, I am having a devil of a time finding amigos in Bogota. I have sent out countless emails to friends of friends of friends (who I suppose are actually strangers) and have yet to convince anyone they might like to get a cup of coffee with me. I get the feeling that most of the people I have met at work think I'm some kind of a hippie, but not in a good way. Bizarely, I had an easier time finding friends in Borneo, the same island where I guess some people like to do this: </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><a href="http://www.thepetitionsite.com/841/068/757/stop-using-orangutans-as-prostitutes/">http://www.thepetitionsite.com/841/068/757/stop-using-orangutans-as-prostitutes/</a> . </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, I have not totally given up hope (even though the rocking chair that came with my apartment does seem like possibly a very bad omen, I might have to contact the fortune teller I visited in Chelsea before I left NYC to see if there have been any changes in my Tarot Cards). I am not totally convinced that I came to Bogota to be a single, sober, homebody who spends a great deal of time wondering if it's time to make the jump and adopt that first cat. It just seems as if that would be a little too ironic, even for me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">In the past I have learned that for those of us who remain single out social lives don't change all that much. I don't know what people in serious relationships do for sure, but I have heard tails of tasteful soirees and nights in. From what I gather they rarely find themselves at slightly scary gay bars on Christopher Street. Sometimes I get invited to nights out with couples and figure I should accept said invitations in order to satisfy my curiosity.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Often times these nights will include going to a tasteful place which has either candles or muted lighting like this:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH9EdEv_zD3n5HJz-a9uHWfsTHnRavdh5dK54ETDvloaor5-USJlgtDaOMGwdejb7VvuU9qLAitlaLmQpBY8F0iUlk2hny-3-RsxNhpMpmLnhz5uegzBMyflThVdWTCZqlbMqVoXSSuc0/s1600/_MG_9295_000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH9EdEv_zD3n5HJz-a9uHWfsTHnRavdh5dK54ETDvloaor5-USJlgtDaOMGwdejb7VvuU9qLAitlaLmQpBY8F0iUlk2hny-3-RsxNhpMpmLnhz5uegzBMyflThVdWTCZqlbMqVoXSSuc0/s320/_MG_9295_000.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I feel like I should warn the other single ladies out there that at times curiosity really does kill the cat. Although going to an establishment where Budweiser or PBR is not the biggest seller will feel like a nice change of pace at first, you will probably find yourself wedged into a dimly lit booth flanked by one or more couple. They will begin using strange and unfamiliar terms and acronyms. After a longish period of time you will learn that these strange and unfamiliar terms and acronyms relate to things like mortgages and professions you know nothing about. You will begin to feel like a little kid who has accidentally made their way to the grown up table. They will sometimes ask you to share your latest "hilarious" romantic debacle and they will chuckle. They will follow this by either sharing an inspirational story about either a friend of a friend who "never gave up hope" and recently married their internet boyfriend or a less fortunate friend of a friend who has decided to artificially inseminate herself. The conversation will then turn to either fertility treatments or plans for the next couples vacation. At this point you will probably start to feel like this girl (not the one on the left):</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-VE4HBwp7zU7MyA_o-n1zJAfW9PFFsNFkHUJXjPQhUZ7bFIWosKk-2-k2LSFIugVkgSU7kC1R26aPjPx0oeYSC8iysm80XuU7VpirQRDKFiUCGsL2Fwe-l0To9KNTLKsAgW9aPQy9CU/s1600/third-wheel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-VE4HBwp7zU7MyA_o-n1zJAfW9PFFsNFkHUJXjPQhUZ7bFIWosKk-2-k2LSFIugVkgSU7kC1R26aPjPx0oeYSC8iysm80XuU7VpirQRDKFiUCGsL2Fwe-l0To9KNTLKsAgW9aPQy9CU/s320/third-wheel.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">In order to combat these feeling after a few hours you will probably try to contact one of your few remaining single friends or try to remember if this is the night that your old roommate works the door at the hipper bar down the street. You will try to go to the louder, younger bar where at least you might be entertained by watching a Hassidic guy who has ten kids at home somehow manage to pick up the 22 year old hipster wearing some sort of jumpsuit from American Apparel, or catch some metal band's last set.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because at the end of the day hanging out at tasteful, candlelit wine bars with people who are very much in love is perhaps more age appropriate, but not all that much fun (at least not all of the time). I often times find myself at some places that are younger and louder where people are less likely to suggest that I start to consider buying a stranger's sperm off of the Internet. As a result I still sometimes wear vans and tend to use a little bit of slang that I might be almost too old to be comfortably using. I have to try to blend in without coming off like this guy:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHunigbK0jaHG67eJI0ViW6plG9WWfZx_BmkxsOHyMtxvFqTDdCxMUUf9BlsQ9lu5-n4M8PF3WQ5wcZRLHWqN-B66hTeO1fiYcu7DOWpzH_8GWPliCgXfw-7dQU4Y8edHr-YpyI9kkvtg/s1600/wooderson-synthesizers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHunigbK0jaHG67eJI0ViW6plG9WWfZx_BmkxsOHyMtxvFqTDdCxMUUf9BlsQ9lu5-n4M8PF3WQ5wcZRLHWqN-B66hTeO1fiYcu7DOWpzH_8GWPliCgXfw-7dQU4Y8edHr-YpyI9kkvtg/s320/wooderson-synthesizers.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Therefore, I have been trying to prepare for finding some amigos here in Bogota. I figure when I finally find some hip, new friends I should have a few cool, local slang words to throw around to really wow them with. Since I hear they speak a lot of Spanish here I started doing some research on the internets. Hopefully, the website I found is pretty up to date or else I might sound like this guy I worked with in Japan long ago who was constantly quoting In Living Color from almost ten years before when it wasn't really cool anymore. This would probably not do much to help my hunt for a few good amigos (mediocre would also be OK). Here's what I've got so far.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhvfNwRiCv2A2JNJNN4yTrRE03fdzUUkKfyPkpjYV8bE756WbzmlTMUyi95H6x6GzP0CI6maiGP71nCEV57IqkNlqFPdBLJcUPNLHmWosCyGMHedKiAOFnX7D6DcNyRhbEEMakTxCR6aI/s1600/how-dress-like-nerd_132992889069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhvfNwRiCv2A2JNJNN4yTrRE03fdzUUkKfyPkpjYV8bE756WbzmlTMUyi95H6x6GzP0CI6maiGP71nCEV57IqkNlqFPdBLJcUPNLHmWosCyGMHedKiAOFnX7D6DcNyRhbEEMakTxCR6aI/s320/how-dress-like-nerd_132992889069.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>NERDO/NERDA</b></span></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Since this word means nerd in English I am hoping that even with my embarrassingly limited linguistic talents I should be able to lock this one down.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbhJ9iryc5OJmtvnHi-mJh2g0l1PCzhO0NR6E1ZIAx4LnGyd6vNxLEBt8lxuLpgfs0KjsZHVprF2edXLzx-tE7GBvqVZMm5JjEbUJsiLOfrRoMnWiWu7xzoLKXFzG6UeVQOsvX6XKD4o/s1600/blog+yellow+pan.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="107" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbhJ9iryc5OJmtvnHi-mJh2g0l1PCzhO0NR6E1ZIAx4LnGyd6vNxLEBt8lxuLpgfs0KjsZHVprF2edXLzx-tE7GBvqVZMm5JjEbUJsiLOfrRoMnWiWu7xzoLKXFzG6UeVQOsvX6XKD4o/s320/blog+yellow+pan.gif" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><u><b>PAILA</b></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Although I don't really have any personal problems with saucepans the fact that the word also can be used to mean bad luck, or not good, is fine by me. Probably because I don't think I have ever tried to use a saucepan (since you don't use them to cook up PP&Js</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><u><b>GONORREA</b></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">In addition to the STD this can also be used to describe something evil or loathsome. Even though I am not totally sure what the symptoms are, I have never really heard anything good about Gonorrea so this sounds about right.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDTpJ06TdNZelv2D67rbOFeRM4Bln8p_8uVjFAPPsOu_5VknxipjISXqHp4LhBU6X5pLBoSgFsbp3DwbrsO0L8pDXnORFNeGgbyYuROamCkVDhAVtRcOwKAGTTUzvqNlKZWFJMoi5jCU/s1600/20100629-nastybits-primary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDTpJ06TdNZelv2D67rbOFeRM4Bln8p_8uVjFAPPsOu_5VknxipjISXqHp4LhBU6X5pLBoSgFsbp3DwbrsO0L8pDXnORFNeGgbyYuROamCkVDhAVtRcOwKAGTTUzvqNlKZWFJMoi5jCU/s320/20100629-nastybits-primary.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">CHICHARRON</span></u></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">This is the word for fried pork rinds, which are delicious. The fact that they are so delicious makes it hard for me to understand why it is also used to refer to a problem or something to deal with. This sounds pretty negative for such a tasty treat.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAarYaS0_7Y0jWbSqgtSAQfBrw0tH11P1yEt3QbUXADG3dN9AItNQ36DDGscjDbdc8WE3lACoSzG7tDA81nVj7JDul2GONn1QZ9W8VgQs1pT-LqA6js2zxqVYqJyX6ZG5wVcrzLU_vgI/s1600/ladyparts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAarYaS0_7Y0jWbSqgtSAQfBrw0tH11P1yEt3QbUXADG3dN9AItNQ36DDGscjDbdc8WE3lACoSzG7tDA81nVj7JDul2GONn1QZ9W8VgQs1pT-LqA6js2zxqVYqJyX6ZG5wVcrzLU_vgI/s320/ladyparts.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><u><b>CHIMBA</b></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><u><b><br />
</b></u></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"> </u>d</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">While I might not totally agree with the use of Chicharron, I can totally get behind the use of chimba, although I seem to remember about this only being used this way in Medellin. Out of respect for my nana, I will define it as the word in English that begins with a P that we use to describe a lady's ladyparts. Now in English we use it to describe a man who acts like the opposite of this guy:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjF7hjs73FIqlvD1ETEYRrAdvDQARW8pXZeU2UR9dPHLD3CunMGQ8Cb1AOpuhtj-Hm2hVP3I3ur3T4GdbpRZelqk-koYsAC3zgCtVsmctjsqzLw3PEnlxSHDAplh31HEhJOkAT73WnKkg/s1600/Mad-Men-Don-Draper_dl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjF7hjs73FIqlvD1ETEYRrAdvDQARW8pXZeU2UR9dPHLD3CunMGQ8Cb1AOpuhtj-Hm2hVP3I3ur3T4GdbpRZelqk-koYsAC3zgCtVsmctjsqzLw3PEnlxSHDAplh31HEhJOkAT73WnKkg/s1600/Mad-Men-Don-Draper_dl.jpg" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Since this is generally a bad thing, it suggest that we English speakers have pretty negative feelings about ladyparts. This is not all that surprising when you take a look at what was sold to ladies to improve their ladypart hygiene not all that long ago to:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Cy_4HST5OpDhYrdZDT2Nat_EdCrb62Donj5Hgo78Bxds68wmg1-RWwBf4zAnqG68ZfV5-SNbSWVzX06w31ISamHhrIr6TPnKXE-ppdhfNH669FEJQ3fiJrOyTW3fWCXDdEiCl31sG8U/s1600/lysol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Cy_4HST5OpDhYrdZDT2Nat_EdCrb62Donj5Hgo78Bxds68wmg1-RWwBf4zAnqG68ZfV5-SNbSWVzX06w31ISamHhrIr6TPnKXE-ppdhfNH669FEJQ3fiJrOyTW3fWCXDdEiCl31sG8U/s1600/lysol.jpg" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">As a lady this is kinda a bummer (especially the Lysol part) and something I try not to get behind by trying to substitute the P word with another P word, pansy (which is probably not much better) when describing a girly man. In the interest of honesty I will admit that I am not always successful at this.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, in Colombia when the word chimba is used as an object of comparison it denotes an extreme attraction to something. For example, according to my Colombian slang website, "Eso es una chimba de carro" translates into "That is a cool car". Think of how much more pro-lady we would sound in English if you could say things like "That guy is a real P" and have it mean he's a real cool dude instead of some guy you wish would just man the hell up, or if you could say "How P!" and have it mean "Awesome!". I mean, isn't this why <u>Our Bodies, Ourselves</u> was written in the first place and why Eve Ensler wrote that play?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">When you think about it, the only people who really should be using the P word in a negative way is gay men. This is because usually when they get mentioned they involuntarily make a face like this:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiadP4a2jgZE5SKsu3ympHU4zbOyRkSB7X5hu7DU-r0jIzSgTMxIvG3Ya_iWP3HDLbwEQQnXarvYGdWubSmEVuY20rvCw7u3EYSqyWkVwNI6uv6YXop9T18zjgr08nqqtAhyNLRLfQhvgc/s1600/disgust.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiadP4a2jgZE5SKsu3ympHU4zbOyRkSB7X5hu7DU-r0jIzSgTMxIvG3Ya_iWP3HDLbwEQQnXarvYGdWubSmEVuY20rvCw7u3EYSqyWkVwNI6uv6YXop9T18zjgr08nqqtAhyNLRLfQhvgc/s320/disgust.png" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">They can't help it, it's biological. However, men who claim to be fans should really consider why they also use the same word as one of the most offensive insults for other men.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I would like to share this bit of info with my one of my aunties. I think she will be pleased. Several years ago I was related a story to her about a little family drama in which a man was acting a little less than manly. My brother's response was that the man in question was acting like a great, big V (while it is a more official word, it is still not complementary in the given context). Instead of being offended by my brother's indelicate language, my aunt who is both a Buddhist and a Yogi, was concerned that he sounded as if he had some negative feelings about Vs. I think she will be happy to know that there is at least one place where a similar word can also be used to refer to a bitchin' ride or a hot lady.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">So now that I can cooly talk about nerds, loathsome things, bad things and things that are wicked cool, all I need is a few homies to appropriately appreciate my command of the local lexicon.</span><br />
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</div>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-36340945666516020512012-03-23T13:42:00.002-07:002012-03-23T13:44:08.471-07:00Bogota, You Are Clearly Trying To Give Me The Willies<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I have never had nerves of steal. I cry at the dentist and the slightest hint of turbulence on a flight sends me into an absolute panic. Therefore, it is not too surprising that I found all of the police/soldiers with automatic weapons a little difficult to get used to when I first got here. I am used to seeing serious weaponry on clips from the news and movies with Sly Stallone, not at the mall. However, I finally convinced myself that since I am not a thief, a rapist, or a drug trafficker, there is probably little reason for any of these guys to want to riddle me with bullets.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Next I started noticing the dogs. To be clear, I am afraid of all dogs (except for Tootsie Pop), even ones that go to groomers and wear little sweaters. I don´t play favorites. However, I am especially afraid of stray dogs. I would say that even when dogs <span style="background-color: black;">are well fed and given lots of treats they are at best unpredictable. They are animals after all. Life on the streets is tough and stressful. I would venture to guess that this sort of life makes no animal less volatile. The fact that all of the strays look really well fed as if they are existing on a steady diet of small children did little to help me chillax. The only thing that helped is that most of the dogs looked really, really sleepy, like they were going nowhere fast. I figured as long as I kept my distance I could probably avoid being attacked by a pack of strays that thought I looked delicious.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I just tried my best to put the knowledge that the suburbs of Bogota has about 30,000 stray dogs out of my mind and forget about that show I saw on Animal Planet about a pack of wild dogs eating an unsuspecting elederly couple out for a Sunday stroll.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">As soon as I had finally gotten over the heavy artilliary and the dogs I began to notice something far, far more sinister. <strong><em>MIMES</em></strong>. However, they were not just ordinary mimes. There were silent, but there make up had an added hint of color that made them look like<em> mimeclowns</em>. If I was asked to conjure up an image more disturbing, I´m honestly not sure that I could. Has anyone ever really enjoyed any performance by either a mime or a clown? If so, why? Mimes are especially creepy because of the not talking. I don´t trust the quiet and I double don´t trust the silent. The fact that a mime may or may not be pretending to be trapped in an invisible box only makes them seem more creepy, not less. There is something even more sinister about clowns. All of the forced laughter and silly tricks are just an attempt to distract people until they find the right moment to strike. I know I am not alone in my feelings. There is clearly a reason so many people found Stephen King´s It so terrifying. Combining the two truly might be one of my worst nightmares.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">The wierdest part is that I started seeing so many mimeclowns. In New York, I was used to a variety of street performers. There is the tiny Mexican man who does a magic show on The L Train using real bunnies, the man with multicolored dreads who wears antennaes and plays the saxaphone very loudly even though he doesn´t know how and talks about aliens, and the one-eyed African American guy who does the best rendition of The Carpenter´s Superstar I have ever heard (however, I think just about every song sounds better when it is sung by a guy who sounds like Barry White). Now all of a sudden in Bogota, the only kind of street´performers I see seem to be mimeclowns. I can´t tell you what I would do for a magic show or an extremely untalented saxaphonist.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">They especially like to perform at traffic lights. I can honestly say that when I am in the back of a cab trying to figure out if the driver is trying to steal me or not the appearance of a mimeclown juggling fire does little to help me relax. The worst was when I was at the food court at the mall. I had just settled into a plate of Taco Bell because processed cheese always reminds me of bowling alley nacho plates and America. I had had a long week playing the part of Nell while trying to do just about every daily task and just wanted to eat something comforting and chill out. As soon as I took my first bite I started to relax and understood that the way in which I had had to humiliate myself in front of the Taco Bell cahsier had been totally worth it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">My feelings of serenity, however, proved to be short lived. As soon as I finish my first bite who rolls up but a mimeclown carpenter and a mimeclown doctor ready to perform some guerilla theater for the lunchtime crowd. What the hell was going on???? How had I managed to land in a country that was apparently inlove or obsessed with <em><strong>MIMECLOWNS</strong></em>??? Bogota, was clearly on a mission to give me the willies and I was not into it. I wanted some answers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">So of course, I took it to the internets. What I found out was so much wierder than I imagined. I learned that in 2004 Bogota elected this mayor who was an academic, a mathematician, and a philosopher. He was into the idea that if people know the rules and are "sensitized by art, humor, and creativity they are much more likely to accept them". His ideas were based on a Nobel Prize winning economist, Douglass North, who looked at the tension between formal and informal rules. apparently, when these two things clash it does bad things to the economy. The first part I am totally down with. I like the concept of not shoving rules down people´s throats, but finding a pleasing way to suggest them. That´s a good idea, right? However, the way the Mayor expressed this idea, I find nothing short of incredibly scary.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Traffic is a huge problem in Bogota. In addition to this, a lot of pedestrians don´t like to follow the rules. So what did they mayor do to fix this problem? He hired <em><strong>MIMES!!!!</strong></em> He began with 20 mimes who were hired to shadow pedestrians and mock reckless drivers. The program was so successful he hired <strong>400 </strong>more. These means that at some point in 2004 there were 420 mimes roaming the streets of this city. Just the idea of this gives me the shivers. The program was so popular he talked about it at Harvard and several other Latin American countries copied his idea. Clearly, Colombia has some sort of long history with this particular artform.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> It´s not like I don´t have faith in the good people of New York, but I can´t help thinking that if Bloomberg tried a similar program in the Big Apple at the end of the day there would be a lot of messed up mimes wandering around. I just don´t think too many people in Brooklyn or the Bronx would take kindly to a mime telling them how to drive or cross the street. Come to think of it, I can´t think of a single part of Manhatten or the surrounding burroughs were people would be OK with it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Since I haven´t seen any official mimes directing traffic, my guess is that the mayor who came next didn´t keep the program in place. Therefore all of the mimes I keep seeing "entertaining" people around the city must have been left jobless after the program was disbanded and have been forced to freelance. They must have also added the clown touches to broaded their appeal which accounts for the fact that most of them looklike mimeclowns. It´s enough to make a girl sleep with one eye open.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">My greatest fear is that somehow the mimeclowns and the straydogs will somehow join forces. That I will start to see puppies dressed as mimeclowns or the two performing joint fire juggling acts while my taxi is topped at a red light. If that happens, I´m not sure I´ll be able to stay unless I figure out how you say "valium" in Espanol.</span>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-63017901279932139212012-03-13T23:03:00.002-07:002012-03-13T23:18:21.443-07:00Is It Possible To Turn The Sexy Down? Just A Little?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">After two plus weeks in Bogota one thing is for certain: I will be extremely surprised if I start singing this 90s classic to myself at any point this year:</span><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I wasn't singing this song last year either, but for completely different reasons. The ladies at my local salon turned my hair orange and I looked a lot more like some sort Carrot Top/Ronald McDonald hybrid than I did a youngish Julianne Moore. I also was surrounded by little men with inexplicably long fingernails who always wore Batik shirts which always reminded me of Tattoo from Fantasy Island even after a Google search proved this to be erroneous (Tattoo always wore a white suit). They did, however, look a lot like Hawaiian shirt and, let's face it, very, very few men look like Magnum PI in a Hawaiian shirt.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Usually guys in Hawaiian shirts look a lot more like the same type of guys who might want to wear a hat like this:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">In addition to this, the country was also filled with women who favored man pants, orthopedic shoes, and toe socks who liked to remind me that I was really, really big. It never really felt like an atmosphere where anyone was about to up the sexy. Especially, not when I stopped wearing make up and usually found myself covered in a mixture of perspiration and bug spray. At times I would catch sight of myself in a mirror while out to dinner and think "Dear God".</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Now of course I was prepared for Colombia to be a little different. I've seen that video with Shakira where she manages to make being covered in oil and dirt look really erotic and does those things with her tummy that don't really look like they should be possible. I also knew it was a place where even your average joes and geeks can do all these dances that I am pretty sure my body could never learn how to do. I don't mean to sound pessimistic, but I do hail from a people who are, in general, much better at guzzling beers and eating potatoes than dancing. I believe there is a pretty good reason why the Irish invented these to wear while doing dances where no part of your body above the knee moves AT ALL:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I've only been out a couple of times at night and I have to admit that I've been having some staring problems. On my behalf, it did look like every women at the restaurant I was at had been allowed to choose the most perfect bum and had then thrown on a very tiny, very bright, lycra skirt for a night of sexy dancing. Make no mistake, I was not having any sort of sexual identity crisis (I'm not that hip), nor was I on the verge of turning into some sort of old time-y masher. I was just very, very impressed. The thought of wearing a hot pink mini skirt has never even crossed my mine, however, I saw clearly why this is not the case for everyone. Maybe it had something to do with their lack of muffin tops and saddlebags. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">There is something a little overwhelming about being surrounded by so many hotties with perfect bums who also have their hair and nails did, and killer moves on the dance floor. It sorta makes me want to just throw on some yoga pants and put my hair up in a ponytail (like I did my first Friday here when I went to the mall in a sweatsuit in search of a McFlurry because nothing says glamorous, international traveler like a trip to a food court in order to do some solo TGIF-ing). I mean, how could you even begin to compete with ladies who can probably actually do the <i>lambada</i>? It almost makes me miss the Hawaiian shirts and man pants of Indo just a little bit.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I knew I was in for a little bit of trouble even before I left when I picked up a copy of Culture Shock Colombia during a bathroom stop at Barnes and Nobles when I was still in NYC. I opened the book to the dating section. It spent several pages explaining how gorgeous, aggressive, and flirtatious Colombian women are and how this leads to foreign dudes instantly finding bodacious girlfriends who fill their social calendars up and give them lots of kisses and good times. The following paragraph was pretty short. It said this:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Colombian men do not feel this way about foreign women.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Super. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">But then I got in the taxi to head to work this morning. The driver kept telling me how pretty I was (which is not exactly what you want to hear when you are stuck in traffic in a foreign city with a stranger who looks looks like he may or may not be winking at you in the rearview mirror). It seemed like a good time to admit that, yes, I did live with my imaginary husband who also teaches English. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that I must be a terrible liar in 8th grade Spanish just like I am in my native tongue because I'm pretty sure the driver threw me a side eye. He asked if Colombian men bothered me all the time. I said no, because I'm old. I thought it was a good time to be honest so I told him my age. He looked shocked. At first I was a little flattered and then I realized he was probably shocked because I had just told him I was 56.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> He asked why my husband didn't go to work with me to which I smoothly replied "Ummm.... He school no same of him". Apparently, this did not fool my sly cabbie because he then asked me how to say "hacer amor" (make love) in English and he did a little something with his tongue. I figured it was best to just shrug and say "no entiendo". I guess I'm a real Johnny No Fun, but I didn't really feel like discussing love making with my 50 something year old driver at 9 am. I hadn't even had any coffee yet. But, at least this could mean I have a niche, right? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</div>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-3354770693466763512012-03-03T08:40:00.003-08:002012-03-03T09:00:27.500-08:00Devil's Breath?!?!?!? Aye Dios Mio!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Y8o7-DI8h4ZtSClj6odyn1NP8aLu38cmrl9SKSQosYYzAIhHpaQPf_P2e1uDD-jyGhBPwKnbbujyMlE64a7hyphenhyphenK2DYT7pGymzWd6orfCCcG-ursxzcBStS6N9HOFA24qZin09TE5ejtA/s1600/IMG_0821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Y8o7-DI8h4ZtSClj6odyn1NP8aLu38cmrl9SKSQosYYzAIhHpaQPf_P2e1uDD-jyGhBPwKnbbujyMlE64a7hyphenhyphenK2DYT7pGymzWd6orfCCcG-ursxzcBStS6N9HOFA24qZin09TE5ejtA/s320/IMG_0821.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">This is my friend Sofia (a member of the BFF trifecta that made me vote). She likes to do really helpful things like email me articles about the most terrifying parts of a place I am about to visit. To provide the optimum amount of helpfulness she always sends these articles either just before I leave or just after I arrive. For example, a few hours after landing on Flores Island in Indonesia last year to see the Komodo Dragons she sent me this:</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2001/06/10/MN156967.DTL">http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2001/06/10/MN156967.DTL</a></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">This article made me feel especially good since not only had I failed to research the dragons before I left, I had totally forgotten that one had nearly bitten off Sharon Stone's X hubby's foot. When I learned that the dragons were all out in the open, could digest bones, and the guides only carried a big stick for protection I felt even better.</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">Luckily, Sofia also decided to help me prepare for my ten months in Colombia by sending me this a few weeks before I left:</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">This Vice documentary (which scared the Bejeezuz out of me! Thanks, Sof ;)) looks at the use of a drug known as Devil's Breath, or Burundanga, in Colombia. It's called Devil's Breath because legend has it that this drug steals your soul and was used by ancient Colombian Indian tribes to convince the wives and slaves of fallen chiefs that they would really, really enjoy being buried alive. Some describe it as a form of "chemical hypnotism" because people under the influence of the drug have no free will and can easily be coerced into doing anything that they are told. Criminals sprinkle it on food, blow a powder form in victim's faces, or slip it into people's drinks. They then ask them to do things like take out large sums of cash from ATM machines, hand over their cars, or prostitute themselves for free. One victim reportedly even helped thieves empty out his apartment of all of his worldly possessions. The victims are alert and articulate the entire time, just unable to resist suggestion. Apparently, our free will is less related to any sort of inherent human quality we naturally possess and more related to the work of a neurotransmitter called acetycholine. Burundanga inhibits this neurotransmitter and also blocks the formation of memories, making it impossible for victims to identify their assailants. Yikes.</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPl-4Zch_Z1Up0-tsVb2F5NklTD8EpBi74_o1t1xhyXaMbr8cpiaGfCCCn04KHyGTlhLRWu3VVmGxr5-B-CJIPvk1nLeaXv4ds_Ud2foXXy91cRlA6Z1lsIGcZD9KJNstkcN2sqNjYeI/s1600/droga-burundanga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPl-4Zch_Z1Up0-tsVb2F5NklTD8EpBi74_o1t1xhyXaMbr8cpiaGfCCCn04KHyGTlhLRWu3VVmGxr5-B-CJIPvk1nLeaXv4ds_Ud2foXXy91cRlA6Z1lsIGcZD9KJNstkcN2sqNjYeI/s320/droga-burundanga.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">It comes from the flowers on the Borrachero ("get you drunk") Tree which is native to Colombia, Venezuela, and Ecuador (but, luck for me, it is only widely used as a crime drug in Colombia). Some claim that even sleeping under the tree can give you strange dreams. In addition to using it to turn people into wide awake zombies that can't wait to give thieves all of their money or have sex with large groups of strange men, it is also used to make a drug called Scopolamine. This drug is used to to treat nausea, motion sickness, and Parkinson's Disease. Some doctors think it might also help the symptoms of depression and bipolar disorder. Back in the day it was also used to create "Twilight Sleep" which knocked women out during childbirth like Betty Draper. Both the CIA and Josef "The Angel of Death" Mengele also did some experimenting with it years ago to see how it could aid in interrogations. </div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">After watching the documentary I decided to do a little research since this Burundanga seemed seriously scary. I first decided to forward the documentary to my one Colombian friend, a former student of mine, and ask him if it was real common. He replied: "I don't not". While his reply made me perhaps doubt my talents as an English teacher, it also made me fee like maybe it wasn't such a big thing and that the Vice crew had perhaps been a little bit dramatical in their depiction of how common the drug was. I felt better. If a native Colombian didn't even know about it, that had to be a good sign, right?</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">Then I decided to see what the Google world had to say, just to play it safe and double check. 500 victims in Bogota each month??? Burundanga is responsible for 1/2 of all Emergency Room admissions??? Aye Caramba! It started to feel as though maybe there was something being lost in translation between my former student and myself and this Devil's Breath actually was a big deal. Did I have another year of complete sobriety and DVD watching to look forward to? I did that last year and it proved to be a touch boring and just not the right fit for any Irish American.</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">However, then I got some good news. During a meeting about how to be safe in Colombia I was told that the Devil's Breath is usually used by super hot Colombian women to steal from gringos.I took this to mean that the drug was used more commonly for stealing and less for raping or forced prostituting. Apparently, they usually come up and ask some guy if they could buy him a drink. I can't help thinking that this method must be extremely effective.<br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">I think that if a lady who looked this hot(and it's totally possible because I saw several ladies that looked almost this hot at the SUPERMARKET. What they look like when they are all gussied up for a night out on the town I don't even want to know)came up and offered to buy me a drink I would have a pretty hard time telling her to hit the bricks and I don't even like girls that way. I imagine that men must just get sort of discombobulated and forget that sometimes bandits and thieves are really, really sexy.<br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">So, I figured that the only way I could be in any real danger of having any Devil's Breath slipped into my cerveza is if I suddenly became interested in becoming a Drag King (the opposite of a dude that looks like a lady).</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_Hdtnn5y7wYsHEH2bRlSLopNtp5-Hmeg7Vke_afVEG5xKiFErpjc0DWV5gdD18nvjhm71JOlpznNHhEi7N4tyw1jmuUl7QPy_H3YW5dK3zsiSVWJRpxAVl5PXpifvjOGCOIrdrMYLsg/s1600/Murrayweb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_Hdtnn5y7wYsHEH2bRlSLopNtp5-Hmeg7Vke_afVEG5xKiFErpjc0DWV5gdD18nvjhm71JOlpznNHhEi7N4tyw1jmuUl7QPy_H3YW5dK3zsiSVWJRpxAVl5PXpifvjOGCOIrdrMYLsg/s320/Murrayweb.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: center;">Murray Hill, NYC Drag King (Yes, it's a chick)</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">Luckily, I have never felt even the slightest desire to wear a double breasted suit or sport either a John Waters or Magnum PI style stache, so I would probably not be in too, too much danger. I could focus my fears on the fact that I currently reside in the kidnapping capitol of the world. </div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"> Then I had another thought. In very, very itsy bitsy daily doses would it be possible to convince some nice Colombian man that what he really, really wanted was a housewife in her mid 30s who would greet him after a hard day's work by saying something like this:</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: left;">It was just a thought. If it can make a Colombian diplomat disappear after a function and come to under arrest in Chile for attempting to smuggle drugs, I think it might be possible.</div>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-74944003254557742622012-02-29T18:46:00.006-08:002012-03-03T11:27:50.726-08:00Could I Like A Man in a Uniform?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/5fbXfk51R1o?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">This song has been totally going through my head since I started work. I think it's because I have been experiencing a little bit of culture shock having nothing to do with having just moved to South America and seeing lots of bomb sniffing dogs at the mall and men in fatigues with automatic weapons guarding the banks and the streets. It's more that my new office is a little more conservative than I'm used to.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Let me explain. After spending the majority of the past ten years in San Francisco and Brooklyn living in neighborhoods filled mainly with young bohemians, most of the guys I know fall into one of these three categories:</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> Homosexuals</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifYST7BPUhKV_xmbw3odbSAtiM2YaeOnEv2Jq60s_-2yy8eZE2JEcBtxZT-A0stQmXnIsX6t7ZqalmgJF764fU7qfm_QOHZ6QXy2zcXNJNBA-_04FlN7N2iK4AvSHqcsmCY2ihewUEQl8/s1600/HughHollandLocalsOnly70sSkatingCapturedAmmoBooksDogtownZBoys_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifYST7BPUhKV_xmbw3odbSAtiM2YaeOnEv2Jq60s_-2yy8eZE2JEcBtxZT-A0stQmXnIsX6t7ZqalmgJF764fU7qfm_QOHZ6QXy2zcXNJNBA-_04FlN7N2iK4AvSHqcsmCY2ihewUEQl8/s320/HughHollandLocalsOnly70sSkatingCapturedAmmoBooksDogtownZBoys_2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> Skaters</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">At my new place of business most of the guys I see look a lot more like this:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJEa3FWCyCP5zGW-UpS4ioPSBRlIMG8R57rcCr281uB3k_DDM-T0uGW68EWujiURamsZ-2S4FPw9zMdnq0DyAYQmg5iTo0v6PMAHO_zFz2lMpFZnN2-kKXAT7agr1aFePsH2biLlsBRbQ/s1600/Men-in-Black.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJEa3FWCyCP5zGW-UpS4ioPSBRlIMG8R57rcCr281uB3k_DDM-T0uGW68EWujiURamsZ-2S4FPw9zMdnq0DyAYQmg5iTo0v6PMAHO_zFz2lMpFZnN2-kKXAT7agr1aFePsH2biLlsBRbQ/s400/Men-in-Black.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">This leaves me with all sorts of questions. Mainly, I am going to get in trouble? Is a guy in dark glasses going to corner me and start asking me a series of questions only to reveal that I get most of my news from The Onion and The Daily Show, have a very shaky understanding of what the three branches of government actually do, and that I don't actually know most of the lyrics to the Star Spangled Banner? Or even worse, will they be able to look in my eyes and know that I have only voted ONCE and that was only because my BFF trifecta all banded together and threatened to break up with me as friends if I did not vote in the last Presidential Election? Mister Obama, you owe Carley, Matt, and Sofia a very big thank you.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> I am also concerned that I might forget myself and somehow mention that I am seriously considering defecting to Canada if Rick Santorum wins the Republican nomination and have been spending a lot of time wondering why more people aren't discussing Mitt Romney's magic Mormon underpants (Google it people! Google it!). If I do, will I be branded some sort of Communist of Libertarian and treated with suspicion? Or will they somehow get in touch with my amiga, Professor Hardy, and learn what my favorite track on Straight Outta Compton was back in the 90's and consider me subversive.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">It's not like I haven't been curious about these other types of gentlemen. I have long suspected that perhaps the guys that wear suits and uniforms are better at things like paying bills and other adult type stuff. This is the exact stuff that I am terrible at. I have always feared that if I teamed up with another person who shared my lack of practical grown up skills it might not turn out so hot. And by not so hot I mean living in a van down by the river not so hot.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The thing of it is I have a feeling these uniform/suit guys might think I'm a little too coo coo and try to shoot me a side eye if I told any off color stories (which is known to happen every now and again). However, this is all pure conjecture on my part. My hipster/homosexual/skater social circle leaves me with very little to go on. I know lots of guys who still know how to shot gun a beer, but not many that would class themselves as patriots. Therefore, I could be basing my entire thesis on the elite liberal media conspiracy.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Luckily, I did overhear someone singing along to "Mamma Said Knock You Out" in their cubicle the other day. I'm pretty sure that even though he wears a suit and tie everyday , we could probably still bro down. I've been working on opening lines:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">"Hola! LL Cool J? Fantastico! Nosotros Amigos?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">or</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">"Me encanta LL Cool J tambien! Ayudame! Solo he votado una vez!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Do you think it will work?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvyOP7R_oioNcI6SjUSjFeyGI-LI7MQzTytChKn6eJ62BrLYMDnELKeXFbK558iJY4jvSw2m61-HtGd2JNgGdseO5yHby-q1GA2beE-lg9MZv4vBeSoI-cOl712jHSmy9lSBTqvTssmWw/s1600/LL_Cool_J_1986.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvyOP7R_oioNcI6SjUSjFeyGI-LI7MQzTytChKn6eJ62BrLYMDnELKeXFbK558iJY4jvSw2m61-HtGd2JNgGdseO5yHby-q1GA2beE-lg9MZv4vBeSoI-cOl712jHSmy9lSBTqvTssmWw/s320/LL_Cool_J_1986.jpg" width="238" /></span></a></div>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3614190376438345036.post-84337289231570499862012-02-29T17:46:00.001-08:002012-03-03T11:28:21.903-08:00I'm Baaaack!<div class="date-posts" style="border-top-color: rgb(0, 255, 0); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: -15px; margin-right: -15px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 15px; padding-right: 15px; padding-top: 8px;"><div class="post-outer" style="border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: initial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: -15px; margin-right: -15px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 10px; padding-left: 15px; padding-right: 15px; padding-top: 0px;"><div class="post hentry" style="min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="post-header" style="color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, FreeMono, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-4440414047391978875" style="color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, FreeMono, monospace; position: relative; width: 746px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8SJpzr55qFytjY9JhvdyOVms9oakiuxxrMYD180sMT4F7MKnSg6VL3QltuQLYI0n4VmgJNtd4AJjL2816-sEEVOEauBUgVbf0hwdpMiW_17BecSvRdh87DAN7WNqweVArGXcgV3uatY/s1600/IMG_1744.JPG" style="color: red; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703274856999263154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8SJpzr55qFytjY9JhvdyOVms9oakiuxxrMYD180sMT4F7MKnSg6VL3QltuQLYI0n4VmgJNtd4AJjL2816-sEEVOEauBUgVbf0hwdpMiW_17BecSvRdh87DAN7WNqweVArGXcgV3uatY/s320/IMG_1744.JPG" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.199219) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #141414; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-bottom-left-radius: 0px 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px 0px; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-color: initial; border-left-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-top-left-radius: 0px 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px 0px; border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.199219) 0px 0px 0px; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 237px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px; position: relative; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I arrived home in August after spending a a school year teaching in Indonesia and a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I arrived home in August after spending a a school year teaching in Indonesia and a summer traveling through Europe (I think the idea of having too much money in a savings account must have made me uneasy. Luckily, the dollar is extremely weak and even after their economic disaster Iceland is still extremely, extremely expensive.). While I was away I felt like I was on an adventure. I found I loved spending the year playing Margaret Mead in the </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bornean</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> jungle studying the mysteries of sobriety, celibacy, and Allah.</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">However, it took about 72 hours for me to stop feeling like Indian Jones and start feeling very nervous. This was because something very strange happened while I was away. The one year I decided to dip out and move to the other side of planet Earth to experience life sans dive bars and rock shows, literally everyone I knew fell in love. They did not just fall into regular love. Nope. They fell madly and deeply in special, perfect love. They were planning to elope. They were planning to fill their wombs with</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">babies</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. They were planning on spending the rest of their lives with their</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">soul mates</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. Some of these people had been single for over a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">decade</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. It was like there had been some weird cosmic shift and I had missed it. I felt this even more strongly since not only had I been completely and totally out of the game while living in </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Indo (I would like to take this opportunity to point out that if you think you might enjoy a few days alone in Rome, the most romantic city in the world, sightseeing surrounded by honeymooners, after spending a year with no french kissing in the jungle, you probably won't) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, but there was also a disturbing lack of available bachelors hiding underneath my mom's sofa.</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: 22px;">Am I a horrible bitch who was begrudging my friends their newfound happiness? No. I firmly believe that everyone should have lots of sex and babies and that people are not meant to live alone with cats or decorate their desks with framed pictures of their dogs. But I did start feeling a little afraid for myself. And I did start feeling like less and less people were laughing or even giggling at my pretty funny stories about failed "romances" and instead began responding with the sort of "Ohs" and "Ahs" that I thought were reserved for stories about brain tumors as if only a year before they hadn't been making out with guys with bad tattoos and drinking problems.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> summer traveling through Europe (I think the idea of having too much money in a savings account must have made me uneasy. Luckily, the dollar is extremely weak and even after their economic disaster Iceland is still extremely, extremely expensive.). While I was away I felt like I was on an adventure. I found I loved spending the year playing Margaret Mead in the </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bornean</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> jungle studying the mysteries of sobriety, celibacy, and Allah.</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">However, it took about 72 hours for me to stop feeling like Indian Jones and start feeling very nervous. This was because something very strange happened while I was away. The one year I decided to dip out and move to the other side of planet Earth to experience life sans dive bars and rock shows, literally everyone I knew fell in love. They did not just fall into regular love. Nope. They fell madly and deeply in special, perfect love. They were planning to elope. They were planning to fill their wombs with</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">babies</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. They were planning on spending the rest of their lives with their</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">soul mates</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. Some of these people had been single for over a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">decade</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. It was like there had been some weird cosmic shift and I had missed it. I felt this even more strongly since not only had I been completely and totally out of the game while living in </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Indo (I would like to take this opportunity to point out that if you think you might enjoy a few days alone in Rome, the most romantic city in the world, sightseeing surrounded by honeymooners, after spending a year with no french kissing in the jungle, you probably won't) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, but there was also a disturbing lack of available bachelors hiding underneath my mom's sofa.</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Am I a horrible bitch who was begrudging my friends their newfound happiness? No. I firmly believe that everyone should have lots of sex and babies and that people are not meant to live alone with cats or decorate their desks with framed pictures of their dogs. But I did start feeling a little afraid for myself. And I did start feeling like less and less people were laughing or even giggling at my pretty funny stories about failed "romances" and instead began responding with the sort of "Ohs" and "Ahs" that I thought were reserved for stories about brain tumors as if only a year before they hadn't been making out with guys with bad tattoos and drinking problems.</span></div><div style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I wish that I could report that I handled my situation with a great amount of grace and positivity. But that would be a lie. Instead, I watched a lot of television (I highly recommend both The </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Borgias</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> and Bored to Death and to those of you who are a bit more open minded, Gigolos), dedicated a not small portion of each day to feeling sorry for myself, and spent a great deal of time drinking Vanilla Lattes at the local Starbucks wearing mismatched sweat suits. I'm pretty sure I was the victim of some sort of an Old Maid/Midlife Crisis. I was a real Johnny No Fun.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Although I was plagued with visions of dying barren and alone, I still managed to enjoy being on unemployment. Even when I found myself drinking a glass of vino and watching an episode of Gigolos alone on Friday night hoping that nobody would walk in and force me to explain what I was doing, I couldn't help but admit that getting money each week for not working was just as exciting as I always dreamed it would be. I'm really good at being on unemployment because I can effectively fill up an entire day with a yoga class and some cable. I am also good at being on unemployment because I am not prone to </span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">existential</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> crises since I determined long ago that if there is some big important meaning of life I am neither smart enough or serious enough to figure out what it is and my sense of self worth is in no way connected to work.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Luckily, my Old Maid/Midlife Crises eventually passed and I was once again able to be a little bit more fun and stopped sending my poor friend Sofia messages that sounded a lot like </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Morrissey</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> had stolen both my cell phone and my laptop. I decided to try to find another position abroad since I knew that if I spent too much time watching TV alone in my mom's living room I could very possibly become a total weirdo and if I was going to be an Old Maid I'd rather be an Old Maid some place exotic.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDafUMQpOK4q2a3Nq6rsf5ghy4nly2nslt5ubFfQbaras-mGMczDY5Fp1g_BhAN-qI0cQaGlPNW5AdTgc8_DCyZFu86q9ID_2aDGl_tVI1JlUqcekfSd8c9nathumct863WppyKjsYKfA/s1600/bogotapanoram1-1.jpg" style="color: red; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703257630859450722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDafUMQpOK4q2a3Nq6rsf5ghy4nly2nslt5ubFfQbaras-mGMczDY5Fp1g_BhAN-qI0cQaGlPNW5AdTgc8_DCyZFu86q9ID_2aDGl_tVI1JlUqcekfSd8c9nathumct863WppyKjsYKfA/s320/bogotapanoram1-1.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.199219) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #141414; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-bottom-left-radius: 0px 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px 0px; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-color: initial; border-left-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-top-left-radius: 0px 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px 0px; border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.199219) 0px 0px 0px; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 219px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px; position: relative; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bogota, Colombia</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was originally supposed to head back to Asia, but due to some sort of miracle I got a position in Colombia. I did not just get a position in Colombia, but in Bogota. Therefore, I am heading to a capitol city with things to do and see and will not be forced to split my time between Pizza Hut and the Donut Shop like I was last year. I haven't done too much research since that usually makes me nervous and smacks of planning ahead which I usually shy away from. Since I speak fluent 8</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> grade Spanish, bought a copy of Lonely Planet, and plan to watch Romancing the Stone at least twice before departing, I'm not too worried.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I take off in a few weeks. I better do some shopping before then since I am pretty sure that the lesbian hobo look I rocked last year in Borneo will not fly in Bogota. Besides, I will also have to turn up the sexy to aid in my search for a hot </span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">tamale</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. This plan might be derailed if every woman in Colombia turns out to look like this:</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img height="584" src="http://cfoentertainment.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/sofia-vergara-maid-halloween-costume-02-480x595.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.199219) 0px 0px 0px; -webkit-user-select: none; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #141414; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-bottom-left-radius: 0px 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px 0px; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(255, 0, 255); border-top-left-radius: 0px 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px 0px; border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.199219) 0px 0px 0px; cursor: -webkit-zoom-in; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="471" /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This is Modern Family's Sofia </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Vergara</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> who is a native of </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Baranquilla</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, Colombia. I'm pretty sure she has never been the victim of an Old Maid Crisis</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm keeping my fingers crossed that Sofia proves to be an exception to the rule or my quest to find a baby daddy in Colombia to help me produce a child that looks like a hot American Apparel Model will be a pretty tough one. Wish me luck!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.4;"><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4097/4810688183_0b97bae97d.jpg" style="color: red; text-decoration: none;"></a></span></span><br />
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</div></div></div></div></div>Senorita Bogotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13255148664149355486noreply@blogger.com0