Shasay! Shantay!

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. 

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.  

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:

and this:

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.

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.


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. 


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. 

Macho? I get it! No convincing needed!

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 hombre, 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!

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:

Hey! Who Forgot to Invite Me to the Make Out Party???

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.


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.

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".


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.


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.

It's clear that what Colombian really need is this guy:

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:

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.


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:

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.


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.

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.

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.


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.




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?

Straight Outta Bogota

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.


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!


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 miscarriage 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 

and watching many, many episodes of The Dukes of Hazzard and developing a very deep and very real hatred for Boss Hog.

 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. 


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.)


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. 


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.


 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! I vowed never to watch another episode of this show again:

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. 


Because of my feelings about Law and Order (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 WOAH.

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.




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).


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 Straight Outta Compton 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.


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.

But I'm Sooooo NOT a Millionaire!

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. 


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?

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.


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.


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:

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.):

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.)


       My own personal philosophy is something like this:

            Which has led to me doing a lot of this:

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? 

           It's really such a good show. How you doin'?








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 sum of cash. 


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.)

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.


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!


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.

Latin Lovers. Fact of Fiction?

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.

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.


What they were saying was shocking. 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.


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?


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? 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!




Was I picturing this sort of trip to South America?

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?  



 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.


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.

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.

Is the fact that Antonio Banderas is married to Melanie Griffith not so strange after all?

When the lights go out is the only difference between being with Diego Luna and being with Ryan Seacress the accent?

But more importantly, where do all the French dudes in Bogota hang out?

They Work Hard For the Money! (So You Better Treat Them Right)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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! 

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:

From what I remember Dee Dee McCall and the two ladycops from Miami were always having to go undercover in outfits like these:

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.

They should also be taught to watch out for both of these two types of shoes:

Lucite Heels

                                                                        White Boots

I am pretty sure that the only three types of people who are  allowed to wear them are strippers, prostitutes, and porn stars.
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.

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!

Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen Spoil the Soup

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.