Everywhere
by Omar Alvarado
Twenty minutes till take-off, c’mon already, it is twenty minutes till take-off—just say last call all ready. I look at my watch again and it’s past the time for them to say last call and I start to freak out and worry that I missed my plane. Did they say it and I missed it? See, the damn screeners won’t allow you to pass security with drinks any more—any drinks—the bastards and my Sprite bottle is mostly full of vodka and I need to chug it right before I board the plane. It’s not my fault, I’m just really scared of flying and the flight to Colombia is over six hours and I need to be on the plane before all that alcohol hits me; I can’t risk walking around the airport loaded, trust me it’s not a good idea; once I almost got hit by a passenger cart. Besides, I don’t want to buy drinks on the plane; they’re expensive and I’m poor and who knows how many they’ll let me have before they start to give me dirty looks or cut me off. And I need to be really loaded before takeoff. Damn it, just say last call already.
A female announcer with a monotone voice says, “Last call for AeroSur flight 815 to Medellin, Columbia, all passengers please board immediately.”
I chug. It’s decent vodka since I shelled out a bit extra, so it doesn’t burn too much going down my throat or hurt my stomach any more than usual. I pop a couple of pieces of mint gum, throw the bottle away, and walk down the terminal to a nearby checkpoint, passport and ticket in hand.
A fat TSA agent wearing a cheap uniform with ironed-on badges checks my ticket and passport. He nods me forward and I place my bag onto the x-ray machine. Next, a skinny agent in front of the metal detectors takes my ticket, stamps it and yells, “secondary check”. He tells me to, “please sit down and wait for additional screening”. I nod and give him the most submissive smile I can muster. Now, another agent grabs my backpack and swabs it. The machine rings it clean; he then makes me spread my arms and legs and pats me down. I start to feel the booze hit me; I feel lightheaded and try to focus on the lights in the ceiling. Don’t sway, don’t start swaying. Luckily, it ends quickly and I grab my stuff and run towards the plane.
At the gate the stupid girl behind the counter looks annoyed. She sees I got extra screening but lets me pass without saying a word. I’m kind of sauced now, walking down the empty, humid jet way, and I want to get to my seat. Quickly, I’m at the door of the plane. Time starts to move differently. Now someone tells me a row and seat number and now I’m by my seat—the alcohol won’t let me make new memories and I’m already forgetting each step, each moment, as it happens, and it’s kind of cool being totally aware of every moment and knowing you’ll soon forget it. I always enjoy this part. Next, I hit a guy on the head when I shove my backpack into the overhead compartment and mumble something like sorry. Then I sit down, and take out my ipod, putting it on shuffle, trusting that a good song will come on cause I never fill it with crap. Now I’m pretty gone—drunk—and loving it. I really get into the music, mouthing lyrics and maybe singing but I’m not sure cause the music is so loud in my headphones. I remind myself to take it easy and not make a scene. We speed down the runway and I’m swaying and pretending to play guitar, and laughing at how unafraid I am, how I’m ready for anything: a bird strike, an engine fire, a god damn UFO. Luckily, the guy next to me ignores me. Takeoff! Things, moments, all start to blur: I sleep, stumble to the bathroom a couple of times, order three more drinks and space them out to maximize my drunkenness, then I eat, sleep and wake up when we land in Medellin, Colombia.
When we disembark I’m only buzzed. Medellin feels cooler and less humid than New York in the late summer and I remember it’s high in the Andes. I’m thirsty, but I don’t drink from the fountains even though the airport looks new—is there an Athahualpa’s Revenge? It would suck to get sick during my vacation. I follow the group disembarking and see the signs are in both English and Spanish. At customs a pretty girl smiles at me when she stamps my American passport.
“Have a nice stay,” she says in English but with a thick Spanish accent.
“Gracias,” I say and try to force myself to switch everything in my brain to Spanish but it’s not easy and I got bored trying to watch Spanish television back in New York.
I think about asking for her number, feeling confident from the buzz but still chicken out. No, not yet, you got time, I think, don’t blow your vacation confidence too early.
My brother Diego is waiting for me outside the baggage pickup area; he looks trim and tall—the bastard—and he gives me a big smile before hugging me and I can smell a bit of wine in his breath. Ugh, I don’t enjoy the closeness too much.
“Glad you finally made it, bro,” Diego says in English.
“Yeah, sorry I didn’t come sooner,” I say.
Nearby, a girl is looking at us and it hits me that she’s with my brother. She’s pretty and thin and has light-brown hair and a shy but pleasant smile. She’s a bit short but it makes her look cuter. She also looks like she’s in her early twenties, a bit younger than me but close to a decade younger than Diego.
“Bro, this is my friend, Annabel,” my brother says in Spanish, switching back and forth with ease; he’s had time to practice.
“Hello,” I say in Spanish too.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Alex. Your brother has been talking about you since I met him.”
“How was your flight bro?” my brother says, switching back to English. We always speak in English with each other but in Spanish with our parents.
“Uneventful,” I say.
We head to the parking lot and on the way my brother puts his arms over my shoulder. “You’ve put on some weight, bro,” he says in English and pats me on my belly. I can tell he’s a bit buzzed. But he’s right I’ve put on some pounds recently. I try to laugh it off but can see Annabel is embarrassed for me. So I guess she understands some English. Afterwards, we get in her car and take a highway out of the airport.
“Bro, Annabel is going to give us a ride to the hostel. If you’re up for it we could go to Parque Lleras tonight. It’s near the hostal and there are some cool bars and clubs there,” my brother says.
I read in a guide book at a bookstore that Parque Lleras is a park in the red light district of the city.
“There are always a lot of people there. I think you’ll like it, Alex,” Annabel says. “Lots of pretty girls too.”
I am tired but figure I shouldn’t waste any time. I only have a week here and promised myself I’d try to get lucky with as many different girls as possible. That way I’ll get plenty of memories to jerk off to back home.
“Okay,” I say.
“Bro, a friend of mine flew in earlier today too; he is going to meet us there too,” Diego says.
I want to ask him why he invited someone else to visit while I’m here but I let it go even though most of his friends have always been douchebags.
“Where’s he from?” I say.
“From Sweden. His name is Matt. I met him in Europe a few years ago but he’s been living all over Latin America for the last few years.”
So Matt wasn’t much different from my brother Diego, who bounces around from city to city in South America. Diego has already been to Colombia before, unlike me, and he told me he wants to settle down here for a while.
As we drive to the city from the airport I see a crowded skyline in the distance. Medellin is teeming with buildings and glass towers and they illuminate the valley below as we descend into the city from the airport. It takes us nearly an hour to get there but soon we’re stopping at traffic lights, making turns, and honking and being honked at in crowded urban streets. We decide, or my brother decides that we should to the Parque Lleras and when we finally arrive my brother hands me a bottle from beneath his seat.
“Here bro, in case you want to drink before we go to the park,” he says.
It tastes like sweet rum, shitty, but I take a few big swigs. It’s an old trick: get drunk before you go out so you don’t need to buy more than a drink or two to keep your buzzed.
“Do you guys have any water?” I say. “I didn’t want to drink from the fountains at the airport.”
“You can drink the water here, Alex,” Annabel says.
“Really?” I say. “Cool”
“I told you Medellin was a good place, bro,” my brother says.
Parque Lleras is about the size of a small city block: the park in the center has a couple of fountains, some scattered trees and benches, and a sitting area that looks like a small amphitheater; bars and restaurants surround the park on all sides and they’re full of people, most of whom sit in outdoor tables. However, the park seems to be the main hangout: it’s full of young people—mostly college age people and some even younger, standing around or sitting in groups. Many smoke and drink openly.
“Bro, the park is crowded every weekend but it’s going to be really full on Sunday. Medellin is going to play for the national championship and if they win it’s going to be crazy here,” my brother says.
“The soccer championship?” I say.
“Yeah, what else?”
The three of us tussle through the crowd and find a place to sit by a fountain. People surround us on all sides and a few look at us curiously when they hear us speaking English—my brother is chatty and tells everyone we are from New York City. I chug more of the sweet rum that my brother bought. The bottle says “aguardiente” but I’ve never heard of it. There’s no sign of Matt and my brother decides to go look for him and he asks Annabel to stay with me. After he leaves the rum kicks in and I feel drunk again and I begin to notice just how pretty Annabel really is. It’s cute: how her brown eyes match her hair and light brown lipstick. I try not to stare and focus on another group of girls nearby.
“You should go talk to them,” Annabel says in English when she sees me staring. So she does know English.
“Maybe in a minute.” I say but I need to be drunker.
“Your brother tells me you are a professor?” Annabel says.
“A schoolteacher but I do have a master’s degree,” I say
“He said you teach in a really poor neighborhood.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s really great, Alex. That must be difficult,” she says.
But I don’t want to talk or even think about my life back home, not while I’m here. Besides, I doubt she’d be interested—I find that women are only nominally interested in do-gooders, more talk than action and besides I don’t know what my brother has told her so I don’t want to say too much.
“What do you do?” I ask.
“I work for an NGO.” Annabel says “But I’m also getting my Masters in Social Services.”
“So that’s why your English is so good. You know I’ve been thinking about getting another masters degree, maybe in literature; I’d like to write.”
Now I can’t help but stare and everything about her seems perfect: the dimples in her smile—has she been smiling the whole time? The way she sits with her arms wrapped around her knees—it makes her look younger and cuter; her faded jeans and the worn silver rings on her fingers—they remind me of ones my teenage girlfriend gave me and I ask to see one of them.
“My first souvenir,” I say and squeeze it onto my pinky finger.
“You can have it,” she says.
“I was just joking.”
“I mean it, keep it,” she says and sounds sincere.
“Uhm...thanks.”
Unfortunately, my brother and his friend Matt arrive. Matt doesn’t look like what I’d imagine. He’s blonde, but short and older—probably in his late thirties or early forties—and up close his sun-damaged skin looks like old leather. He is also wearing a really tight shirt, and despite a muscular torso, he still has a round potbelly.
We all greet each other and I wonder if I’ll get a chance to be alone with Annabel again. Unfortunately soon Diego asks Annabel to go for a walk and I’m stuck with Matt. But at least Diego leaves me the bottle of rum, which is good because quickly I realize that Matt loves to talk about himself and I let him while I drink the rum. But what makes it worse, is that his English is very formal British English which he probably learned in school.
“I used to be a pilot back in Sweden,” he says. “Now I am a consultant with a small airline that conducts business throughout Latin America. They assign me to different locations often and I have lived in a half a dozen cities over the last two years.”
“Cool,” I say.
Matt goes on and on, talking about all the differences he’s seen in Latin America: which cities and countries are the best, safest, which have the most friendly people, and of course, which has the hottest girls. He also rambles about his various treks: hiking and climbing in the Andes, seeing glaciers, exploring ancient ruins, indigenous towns, jungles, and visiting beautiful beaches on the Pacific and the Atlantic—Matt says the best ones are the furthest from tourists.
“But it’s definitely easier to get girls in Asia and cheaper if that is your interest,” Matt says.
“I’ve never been to Asia,” I say.
“You should go; It is an interesting part of the world,” Matt says.
Now, as I get drunker I start to imagine Matt not as an expatriate and tourist but as a modern day Viking. Yes, a short pot bellied Viking. He is not Matt, whatever the fuck he said was his last name, but he is Matt the Horrible, who travels the world, raping and pillaging in foreign lands.
My brother finally comes back alone and says Annabel got mad because he asked her if she could drop off my suitcase at the hostel before going home.
“You didn’t offer to go with her?” Matt says.
“What for? All she had to do was leave the bag with the attendant; I didn’t want my brother to walk around with a suitcase,” my brother says.
“Thanks,” I say but I’m sad Annabel has left. I could have let her take me to the hostel.
“Still the same old Diego,” Matt says.
Since the park is full we decide to stay and not go to any bars or clubs. Diego starts to talk to another girl and soon is tonguing her as Matt the Horrible and I troll and wander around the park. The memories are forming and disappearing quickly now: soon we are talking to two girls and I’m sitting next to one but I can’t focus on her face. I hear her speak; the words are intelligible but she doesn’t make any sense because by the time she gets to the end of a sentence I can’t remember the beginning of it. Still, she has a pretty smile though not as pretty as Annabels.
“You have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen,” I say.
“Blah, blah, blah...New York,” she says.
“It is so perfect, so straight.”
“Blah, blah, blah...Sunday,” she says.
“Annabel...” I say.
Time has passed. I don’t know how long the girl has been gone or what time it is but the park is pretty empty. We are headed to the hostel now and Matt and Diego walk ahead of me, talking, while I lag behind, but at least they turn around periodically to check on me and see if I am still following them. We walk to a residential neighborhood and to a house that looks like a Spanish villa; an older man opens the gate. Diego and I go to our double room; I told Diego I couldn’t afford a single and he obliged since I was not staying long. I take off my shoes and pants but keep my shirt on. I don’t want my brother seeing my fat. I chug tons of water from the sink and stumble to the bed and sleep but I don’t dream cause I never dream when I sleep drunk.
***
“Bro, you better get up if we’re gonna make it on time,” my brother says.
“What?” I mumble.
“The bus tour, did you forget? I told you about it last night. We have to meet Matt at noon—but if you don’t want to go, that’s fine,” he says.
Tour? Yeah, he did mention something about that I think.
“Just give me a minute,” I say.
“And I talked to Annabel. She’s gonna bring your bag this afternoon,” he says. “She says she was too tired to drop it off last night.”
I try to stand but everything turns dark and fuzzy and I have to catch myself against the wall. My stomach also feels like shit, as if a drill were boring through my guts—but it’s felt like this for years now whenever I drink. I try to rehydrate and then take a shower, putting on the same clothes and brushing my teeth with my finger.
We race to the nearby bus stop under a painfully bright sun: we pass through a residential area and then on a main avenue, full of restaurants, food stalls, internet cafes, travel agencies, and lots of boutiques. Everywhere there’s an endless parade of beautiful women and I regret being a hungover mess. We make it on time but the bus is late anyway; a tour guide tells us it will arrive shortly. However, Matt the Horrible is already there and looks tanner.
“You look red,” I say.
“It is because I have been hiking all morning. I woke up before seven o’clock and walked all around the city. But I see the two of you decided to sleep in.”
“I don’t have your constitution,” my brother says.
Since we have time, my brother and I walk to a nearby empanada stand. I eat four of them and only feel guilty after the third one—they don’t have diet coke so I drink regular soda and try not to look at the calories.
“So was Annabel angry last night?” I say.
My words feel strange. I never ask him about his relationships but I’m curious about Annabel: how long he’s been seeing her and more importantly if he’s had sex with her already. That would disqualify her right away. But something tells me he hasn’t.
“You know how women are. I told her that the three of us wanted to hang out but I think she wanted to stay. Annabel’s a little more jealous than most girls I’ve met here.”
“How long have you been seeing her, anyway?” I say.
“A couple of weeks—since I arrived here. You have to be careful this week bro, some girls here expect you to take them out and romance them for a while. It’s not like back home you know, where the only question is whether the girl will give it up on the first date or the third date.”
“Okay,” I say. Now I definitely suspect he hasn’t slept with her.
On the bus there are a half-dozen other people with us. We drive through many parts of Medellin and even through some poor neighborhoods. Still, I don’t see any shanties or stray dogs and wonder if the driver is deliberately avoiding the worst parts of the city. The tour guide says Medellin has over four million people and is one of the fastest growing, and safest cities in Colombia—I laugh when a lady from Argentina asks where Pablo Escobar lived.
At the top of a hill everyone disembarks. From here, Medellin spreads out before us and I can’t see where the city ends. A river divides the city in two and an elevated metro runs alongside it. In the distance a cable car glides high above the city and almost everywhere there are new buildings and construction.
“Is that Parque Lleras?” I ask my brother and point to a green patch in the distance.
“Yeah, I think so,” he says.
“Can you see where your new apartment is going to be?” I say.
Diego points to a group of buildings near the park.
“I think it’s that gray building over there.”
“Mom told me you borrowed more money from her to pay for it,” I say.
“A little bit but I’ll pay her back.”
“Another loan?” I say.
“You’re gonna start again,” my brother says.
“Don’t you think you’ve gotten enough?”
“At least I do something with the money she lends me and don’t just leech off her and get worthless degrees.”
We are interrupted when Matt comes over and I take a few pictures for him. But I decline when he offers to take my picture. I don’t want any while I’m overweight. Afterwards, the bus heads downtown and we pass buildings and shopping districts and then stop by a park in front of a small, gothic church.
“This park is known in Medellin for its prostitutes. If you look around you might be able to see some,” the tour-guide says as several passengers chuckle.
Did he really just say that? I quickly look out the window. Five or six girls are standing throughout the rundown park: one girl is wearing a pink skirt that barely goes below her hips; another wears a bikini top and tight shorts. And all of them are attractive, not what you’d expect for a streetwalker in the middle of the afternoon.
“Unfortunately, we don’t stop here. So you will have to make your own arrangements,” the tour guide says and nearly everyone laughs.
“You should never go to a streetwalker, Diego,” Matt says in English to my brother. “Remember what I told you happened to me in Brazil?”
“But at least it made you more careful,” my brother says.
“That is certainly true. I have been a lot more careful since that incident.”
“You know, since I got here the owner of the hostal keeps recommending a brothel to me. He says it’s the best in Medellin. He told me he sent another American there and that he came back with the biggest smile he’s even seen,” Diego says.
“Really?” Matt says. “Would you want to go there?”
“I don’t know. But I just wanted to tell you in case you wanted to go or if my brother is interested too.”
“Thank-you,” Matt says. “I think I will see how this week goes before I decide on anything.”
I try to look oblivious to their conversation.
“Alex, would you be interested in going?” Matt the Horrible says.
“Uhm...I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never really thought about it...maybe. I guess I’ll see how this week goes too.”
Back at the hostel, when the tour is over, I’m happy to see my passport is still in the room. I lay down on the bed while my brother chats on his laptop; Matt goes to his room but says he will go on another self-guided walking tour and meet up with us later.
An hour later my brother wakes me.
“Bro, I’m going out for a while,” he says. “Annabel called and said she’d be here with you bag in half an hour.”
“Okay, but you won’t be here?” I say, secretly glad he won’t be around.
“No, but if she asks, just tell her I had to go check on my new apartment. To see how it’s coming along.”
Diego bought an apartment in a new building and is waiting for it to be ready.
“But where are you going?” I say.
“Just to meet some other, ho.”
He doesn’t mean a prostitute, that is just what he calls most girls. I’ve done the same as well so I can’t blame him but I don’t think I’d like to call Annabel a ho or if he did it too.
From the corner of my eye, I watch as he shaves, brushes his teeth, and then douses himself with cologne. The whole process kind of grosses me out and I go to the common room where Matt is back and on the common computer.
“You guys spend a lot of time online,” I say.
“It is a very popular way to meet people in South America,” Matt says. “Do you want to see a picture of my girlfriend?”
“Sure,” I say.
Matt maximizes a picture and it fills the screen. The girl is Latin and very attractive; she has full lips and long hair and is around my age, late twenties. I don’t know her but I hate her guts for some reason. I hate the girl who would hook up with an old prick, whoremonger like him, and wonder if she would even look at him and his fat belly if he weren’t a foreigner with money.
My brother comes out with a bottle of wine, sits down in front of the television, and drinks a couple of glasses in quick succession as if they were shots. Once he told me why he drinks before a date: “It’s not about confidence,” Diego said. “It’s just that women aren’t interesting. I don’t know how anyone could tolerate a first date without drinking.”
I grab the bottle and pour myself a glass.
“Why are you drinking so early?” Diego says.
“I don’t know. I just feel like it,” I say.
Diego grabs the bottle, quickly finishes the rest, so I can’t have more, and leaves shortly thereafter.
Fifteen minutes later Annabel is at the gate of the hostel. She’s holding my bag and I rush to let her in before the clerk can even get up. Annabel looks better than I remember, more made up somehow though she’s only dressed in jeans and a t-shirt again. She kisses me hello on the cheek but only nods a quick hello to Matt, who is busy chatting on the computer.
“Thanks for bringing my suitcase,” I say.
“It was nothing,” Annabel says. “Sorry I didn’t bring it last night. I just wanted to get home.”
“No problem,” I say.
I drag my bag to my room and I’m surprised when Annabel follows me.
“Yeah so what happened to you last night?” I say in Spanish, using the formal “you”. I’m not even sure why since she is younger than me. I think it is because I am nervous.
“Uhm...nothing.”
“I thought you were going to stay with us. Was my brother being a jerk?”
“I think you know how your brother can be.”
I smile but still wish I had another glass of wine; I feel nervous so I sit on the bed.
“Make sure Diego makes it up to you, okay?” I say.
“I will,” she says. “Did Diego tell you about tonight? I’m bringing my friend Monica to meet you and I think you’ll like her. She’s really pretty.”
“No, he didn’t mention that but Diego usually doesn’t really tell me anything,” I say.
“We’re all supposed to be going to a club called Mangos. Matt too,”
“Okay...Cool.”
“You know Alex, you don’t seem anything like your brother.”
“I hope that’s a compliment,” I say.
“It is. I mean...it suits you.”
Annabel sits on the other bed.
“Do you two not get along?” she says. “I know I fight with my brothers a lot too.”
“We get along, I guess. Actually, it’s kind of strange sharing a room with him again,” I say.
It was something we did briefly after I finished college and lasted longer than I had wanted.
“Who do you live with now?” she says.
“With my mom—at home.”
“Me too.”
“Yeah, but that’s common in Latin America. It’s kind of different in the US—at least at my age.”
“I love living with my parents.”
“Then you’re lucky,” I say.
I tell her about how I moved back home after returning to study and get my masters degree and became a schoolteacher. And how now I was starting to regret my decision and kind of hated my job.
“Why don’t you like it?” she says.
“I don’t know: stupid students, stupid teachers, stupid parents, stupid bureaucrats. And hardly any money.”
“Wow, you really don’t sound happy. Maybe you really should think about quitting.”
“Yeah. But I don’t know what else I could do.”
Annabel tells me about her NGO. How it helps indigenous people find and train for work and helps their kids stay in school and adapt to life in they city. She says she can’t imagine doing anything else and cannot wait to complete her masters since it will open up even more opportunities for her. Annabel sounds so enthusiastic, so happy, but strangely I don’t feel jealous. I realize I don’t want what she feels; I just want her and with every word I feel like I could fall harder and harder for her.
“Alex, have you thought of moving here, like your brother? You know I think he’d help you if you wanted to.”
“I don’t know...maybe. Maybe I’ll meet a nice girl and move down here to be with her.”
“Yes, it could happen. Maybe you and Monica will hit it off.”
I point to her ring; the one I’m wearing on my pinky finger.
“You know in the U.S. this ring would mean we are engaged.”
“Really?”
“No, not really.”
I’m glad I had that glass of wine. It’s helping me relax now.
“Do you have a girlfriend back home?” she says.
“No. I haven’t met anyone in a while. And I’ve kind of let myself go a bit,” I say and chuckle.
“You look fine,” she says.
I hear a door slam and stand up. But it’s only another guest. Still, Annabel notices that I’m anxious.
“I should get going Alex but I’ll see you later tonight. okay. And remember to be nice to Monica. I really think she’ll like you.”
***
A few hours later Annabel and Monica are at the door of the hostel.
“Alex, this is my friend Monica,” Annabel says when she introduces me to her friend.
“Hello,” I say.
Monica is tall and has a distinct, indigenous look: slanted eyes, straight black hair, and tan skinned. She’s pretty but I don’t like her blue eye shadow, or all her gold jewelry, or the sleazy looking dress she’s wearing. I also don’t like her tattoos, something few women have down here, not like back home in the US where all the hos have them. After the introductions we decided to get some drinks at Parque Lleras before going to the club. On the way Monica decides to walk besides Matt and I tag along next to my brother and Annabel. Everyone speaks Spanish since Monice doesn’t speak English.
At the bar Diego orders two large pitchers of sangria—I also drank most of a box of wine before Annabel and Monica arrived so I’m feeling pretty good and sauced, but soon I realize I’m the middle of two couples. On one side my brother repeatedly touches Annabel on her face, while she alternates from looking demurely at the floor and gazing intently at him. Meanwhile Matt has moved his chair so close to Monica he’s practically on top of her. I go for the Sangria and just listen, trying to decide who I hate the least.
“My brother was surprised to see prostitutes on the bus tour today. You should have seen his face,” Diego says. “He didn’t know prostitution was legal in Colombia.”
“I thought every foreigner knew prostitution was legal here?” Monica says. “Isn’t that why they all come here and for the drugs too of course.”
“Unfortunately,” Annabel says.
“You know they say Colombian prostitutes are the best in of South America,” Monica says.
Is she bragging about the prostitutes in her country? I pour myself another drink.
“I don’t think that’s something to be proud of, Monica,” Annabel says.
She read my mind. I close my eyes and blow her an imaginary kiss.
“But maybe it says something about Colombian women. About how passionate we are,” Monica says.
“I would never date a guy who’s been to a prostitute,” Annabel says.
“Oh C’mon, Annabel, I’m sure every guy has been with a prostitute at least once. It’s like a rite of passage.”
“I’ve never been to a prostitute,” I say; it’s the truth.
They all look at me as if they had forgotten I was there.
I continue, “I think a lot foreigners here—tourists and expatriates—are really just losers looking for prostitutes. Either that or they are just trying to find higher caliber women, the type of women they can’t get back home.”
They stare at me, without agreeing or disagreeing.
“Matt, doesn’t Medellin remind you of Spain? Sometimes I imagine it’s what Barcelona or Madrid was like twenty years ago,” Diego says.
“Yes, I think you are right. But I do hope Colombia does not get too modern or else I think it will lose its charm and the best parts of its culture. The other Andean countries, Peru, Ecuador and Bolivia may be poorer, but I think the people in those countries are happier. And there is a beauty in them because of that. Those people enjoy the simpler parts of life and don’t get caught up in consumerism and materialism.”
“Plus, everything is cheaper,” Diego says.
“Yes, well, that definitely helps too,” Matt says and chuckles.
“If things get too good here you’ll have to try living in Southeast Asia or Africa, huh, Viking,” I say. “Women are still really inexpensive and easy to exploit over there.”
“I’m sorry? What do you mean?” Matt says.
“Bro, don’t say stupid shit like that,” Diego says in English.
“Or what? Like you’re any better,” I say in English as well. “Do they all know you practically absconded down here?”
Diego just stares at me.
“What is ‘abs-con-ded’?” Annabel says in English, struggling with the word.
“You really want to know, Annabel?” I say, returning to speaking in Spanish.
Annabel says, “Yes”.
“You should look it up,” I say. “It will be very informative.”
“You really want to start this shit right now; you want to go right here,” Diego says in English and leans forward aggressively. I try but can’t match his gaze and back down. No one speaks for a minute. I have another drink and thankfully I start to drift off. I stare at the Parque Lleras while it slowly fills up with people.
“So tell me about your new apartment Diego,” Matt says. “Was it very expensive?”
“It was but I really wanted to live in this area, near Parque Lleras, since it’s really the best part of the city.”
“You are very lucky. And I think it is a good investment as well,” Matt says.
“Well I guess since our Mom is paying for most of it, it was easy. And how did you get the rest? Credit card advances? Bank loans? Must be fun to skip out on all your debts and never look back. Did Mom tell you we have collection agencies calling everyday looking for you?”
“You’re a little asshole. You know that,” Diego says in Spanish so everyone understands. “At least I’m not wasting my life. What about you? Mom told me she wants to throw you out because all you do is complain and drink. I would slap you now if I didn’t feel sorry for you.”
I want to hit him too but I can’t move.
“Forget about him. Let’s just go,” my brother says to everyone else.
They start to get up but Annabel insists I come too so I’m tagging along again. They are talking about the club but my brother wants to drop me off at the hostel, saying I’m probably too drunk to get in. At least Annabel sticks up for me.
“He’ll be okay, just don’t let him drink more,” she says and I blow her another kiss. Maybe it’s not too late, I think. As I walk behind her and my brother, I notice that their steps, their rhythm, it doesn’t really mesh, as if nothing between them really does. Maybe he’ll get bored waiting for her and maybe she’ll realize he only wants one thing.
My brother hails a cab and I sit next to the driver who talks and asks me about New York City but I focus on the lines of the road, trying to keep them straight. Now, I’m on a line with pretty girls and prim and polished men. We are at Mangos, one of the more famous clubs here, according to the guide. Outside, the club looks like a casino with colored strobe lights that all point to the sky. I get it together before a bouncer pats me down and then I hand over my cover admission—it’s four, no, maybe five dollars. I can’t do the exact conversion in my head.
Inside, the club is full of Western themed paraphernalia: mounted bullhorns, cacti, saddles, and crumbled paper made to look like sagebrush. There are also tons of posters from old American Western movies and even the waitresses have little, tight, cowgirl outfits on. It’s crowded and loud so it’s easy to lose the four of them. I order some more drinks and since I’m drunk I don’t worry about my budget; then I walk to a stage where girls in bikinis and cowgirl hats are dancing. I wave money at one of them and a big bouncer shakes his head and tells me to stop. So I wander and wander in the Old West and talk to some random girls. But my words are slurred and I don’t think they believe me when I say that I’m not drunk and that my Spanish isn’t too good. Instead they just look at me with contempt and trepidation.
I go to the bathroom—make it to a stall—and throw up in a toilet; then I throw in a roll of toilet paper for good measure. On the way out I trip on something and don’t feel like getting up, and now Matt and my brother are helping me up and are saying something to a bouncer. I’m in a cab again and I think we are heading back to the hostel, and my brother is yelling at me in English. What’s he saying? I don’t know; I don’t care. What’s he got to be upset about? Annabel wants him and not me. And then I’m on my bed and I remember to lie on my stomach before passing out so I won’t drown in my own puke. I don’t dream.
***
I wake up alone in the late afternoon. It feels like a helmet made of lead is on my head and the walls are still moving. I chug water and struggle to the desk to ask the hostel owner for some aspirin.
“I don’t have any but you can buy some at the store nearby...long night huh?” he says.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Let me know if you want to go to the special house tonight. Sunday is the best night to go. And I’ll take care of everything if you do. All you have to do is get into the cab,” he says.
He’s talking about that brothel; he’d mentioned once before.
“Okay. I’ll let you know,” I say. “Have you seen my brother?”
“Yes, he left earlier.”
I get some aspirin and some empanadas near the hostel. I don’t worry about how many I eat but I do worry about my brother and wonder what he’ll say about last night. I wish Annabel or anyone could take me away from this whole situation—maybe I could go to Cartagena or Cali or some other city in Colombia. No, I don’t have the budget for that. When I get back Matt is on the computer again.
“Is my brother here?” I say.
“Good afternoon,” Matt says. “I hope you are feeling better. Your brother is out and he said he would return later. He also told me he wants to watch the game here this evening with Annabel. And he asked us if we could go watch it elsewhere.”
I forgot that Medellin is playing for the National Championship today; he wants Matt to take me out so he can be alone with Annabel. Damn it.
A few hours later we are at a small bar near the hostel, a few blocks away from a very full Parque Lleras, where everyone is watching the soccer match.
“Diego said every place by the park will be crowded and charging more. So he suggested we celebrate with everyone after the game, in the park, where we can drink outside—that is if Medellin wins of course,” Matt says.
Still, the bar we choose near the park is full too. Before the game starts, large groups of people pass us on the way to Parque Lleras. Many are dressed in yellow—the colors of the Medellin soccer team I think, and a few have even painted their faces and bodies, while others carry small team flags or have larger ones draped around themselves.
I can’t hear the television but can still make the teams out. We order a bottle of wine during the first half and another at the start of the second half. I order some rum for myself when Medellin takes the lead, and one more after the final whistle, when the bar explodes in celebration; I can even hear screams and fireworks coming from Parque Lleras a few blocks away.
“Do you want to go back to the hostel and get my brother?” I say.
“Your brother asked if we could pick him up perhaps an hour after the game,” Matt says.
I wait, and sip my wine, and I wonder and then wonder some more.
Back at the hostel Annabel is sitting alone in the lounge and an empty wine bottle is on the coffee table. On the television crowds are celebrating all over Medellin: flags are unfurled and fireworks of all kinds burst and sparkle. The newscast says tomorrow is a citywide holiday.
“Where is my brother?” I say.
“Hi Alex, hi Matt. Diego went to get more wine to take to the park,” Annabel says.
She looks flushed or maybe embarrassed. I sit on the couch next to her and she sits up, pulling her skirt down slightly. She’s dressed a bit slutty: short skirt, tight top.
“Are you okay?” I say.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she says.
She looks at no one and I catch her smile.
Does Annabel look different and smell different or am I just drunk again? It’s both! Yes, I am drunk and feel it deep down, so deep, as if no one could ever take it from me. No, no one will ever take that from me! And I also see it in her face, in her smile and I know, with such certainty and clarity. Yes, I have seen that face before—no regret—no regret on a woman’s face, no matter what she’s done, no matter who he is, and it brings back all my regrets, and how I have cried for my regrets, and have seen others cry without regret, and I’m tired of it and hate her bringing it to me here, even here and even now in Medellin.
“You must be really proud of yourself,” I say
“What?” Annabel says.
“You know how it will end right. Maybe you’ll get another phone call if you’re lucky. I mean, if you were anything special, which I doubt, and then he’ll completely forget you.”
Annabel looks at me with anger, anger at my gall and brazenness but I want to see more; I want to see sadness and regret.
I start yelling and say the most vulgar things I can think of, hoping to see her cry. Soon my voice starts cracking and I start shaking and I can’t even hear myself. Now Matt is telling me to shut up and then he pushes me to the ground and I want to hit him but don’t and I want to hit her but can’t.
I want to go home and want to go before Diego comes back. I rush to the room, grab my passport and run out of the hostel. On the way I see Matt comforting Annabel though she only looks angry, not hurt and with no regret or tears. I failed.
I jog in the direction of Parque Lleras and almost fall over a couple of times.
“I can leave tonight,” I say out loud. “Fuck, I’ll never get to see those prostitutes the hostel man recommended. Wait, I can go back to that church downtown. See, don’t worry Alex, there are always prostitutes. Yes, I’ll go back there tonight and then I’ll go home tomorrow. They’ll let me change my flight at the airport.”
Parque Lleras is much fuller than the previous couple of nights and the combined murmur of hundreds of people yelling and laughing and cheering hits me as I arrive. I don’t feel like squeezing through the crowds so I circle around them and look for people pouring drinks and passing them around, hoping to get some freebies before going downtown to the prostitute church. I approach a guy holding a liquor bottle and I want to grab it, but amazingly, he passes it to me; now I’m swallowing rum, and don’t stop until someone pulls the bottle away from my mouth. Then I push my way into the park and sit down on the grass; but the grass looks strange, and I have to touch it. It’s weird, the grass, the streets, and the sidewalks are all white. People everywhere are throwing bags of flour back and forth and flour has spilled everywhere; it’s even on people’s clothes and hair. There is a fine layer of white everywhere. Is this a local custom? Part of the celebration? I scoop some up and rub it all over my face and clothes.
“If they come they won’t recognize me,” I say.
Suddenly, I see a group of Americans, yes, Americans, like me, I’m sure of it: the clothes, the walk, everything. I walk towards them and they are even speaking in English. All of them sound really drunk too and they’re talking about going to Mangos but one of them wants to go to a brothel. “Fuck Mangos. Well go some other night! Let’s go to a whorehouse tonight! I want to fuck a whore,” he yells.
It is so loud in Parque Lleras that no one hears him, let alone understands him, but I do. He turns towards me, smiles, and asks me, probably thinking I won’t understand.
“Where are the whores, amigo? Where are the fucking whores? Where are they,” he yells and smiles.
“Everywhere,” I say.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUft6f50Hvy
