When beer is cheaper than Coke...

Last night I visited the bar in the hostel on a search for some kind of blood sugar replenishment and I found that the cost of a bottle of Bud Light was cheaper than the Coke I wanted.  Honestly, I find Bud Light less than satisfying and went with the $2 Coke despite the slight draw saving .50 had.  Enjoying my empty calories I found Ryan in the hostel's theater room along with a nice (albeit surfer-hippie-ex-drugaddict 45 year old) man who was eating a massive amount of fried chicken from what looked like a grocery store-bought box.  Having offered Ryan a piece he turned to me, "hey you want a piece of chicken?"  How could I resist?!  "As a matter of fact I would love some free fried chicken."  I grabbed one of the hostels plates and sat down to enjoy a reminiscently KFC-like feast of 2 big wings and my Coke while watching Hancock on FX.  I was so overwhelmed with gratitude I wanted to wait until he finished and wash his plate but he beat me to it (I'm hoping karma doesn't kick me in the rear for that). ;)

Fast forward to present; I'm once again laying in my bunk bed, accompanied by my 40-something Brazilian roommate (who is also on her computer), $400 poorer, hungrier, and less sure about making the choice to go with the Coke.  Let me explain....

We made it to the Colombian Consulate by 9:20 this morning, and after wandering around like two gringos in a bullfight (always trying to figure out what's going on but never wanting to get in the way of the action) we entered the visa waiting room around 9:26.  Ryan went in first, lasted 4 minutes, and came out shaking his head.  "We're going to need a notarized copy of our Degrees, and a notarization of our contract."  We made our way to the convenintly located printing/notary/apostille/document translation place for those assholes who come unprepared to the Consulate (going to say 78% of people) where we nervously left $83 a piece and walked away with some more papers with stamps on them.  Thankfully the Visa Lady was friendly (after notifying me that I needed more stamped papers she smiled at me, put up the index finger of her latex gloved hand, and told me, "I wait for you").   By 11:25am we had also found out that we would need to return NOT Wednesday but Thursday with a $205 MONEY ORDER (what is that?!?!) and we would receive our handy little work visas to be able to teach some Colombians our Lingua Franca.  Thanks a bunch Colombia.

After having completed our Consulate date we had time to burn so we decided to find out how slowly we could get back to the hostel and the Miami Public Transportation System seemed like a great alternative to walking.  Turns out navigating the little colored lines and day/week/month/lifetime passes is easier than getting a visa!  As we made our way across town, first on a metrorail then on a bus, I began to feel like a tiny grain of sand in a universe filled with sand overwhelmed by my seemingly futile existence of invisible money and beach-fronted-cardboard-cut-out dreams.  Except that I was a grain of sand with an ipod, $220 cash, a pair of Christmas RayBans, and an American visa on my person in the middle of a sandstorm. Which is enough to make any sane grain nervous.

As I was entertaining thoughts of shouting at my boss (who neither told us that visas take longer than 2 days or that we'd need to cut the bottoms out of our pockets at the Consulate), I began to wonder why I was planning on going back to Colombia in the first place.  Why spend more than one month's wages just to GET a job?  Why deal with bureacracy and red tape and fines and taxes and flights and customs and language barriers just to get a job teaching English?  Did I make the right decision?  Was I really that bored making $13/hr, living in my parents beautiful house, taking yoga classes and playing racketball and seeing my family every day?  Why did I buy the Coke when the Bud Light was cheaper?

At this point I need to tighten the slack in my head and remember that the boat needs to be going fast for the waterskier to stand.  I am investing in my dreams of speaking Spanish, knowing the business culture of South America, establishing a network of friends and businesses and people, knowing how to salsa, and living by the ocean.  I spent 6 months living the same life that I lived in high school (down to the resarurants that I frequented) in order to grow a bank account that could handle the occasional pruning.  I practiced living with stress and a cultural pressure that was akin to altitude sickness in China.  For what?  To be here now.  I hate to say "to be here, spending money on things I don't get to physically see or touch or appreciate the value of yet" but it's true.  I'm in a mirage of limbo, the things I see aren't the way they'll be in a few minutes or hours or days.  Things are difficult right now.  It's raining in my dream projection and I'm trying so hard to do well; I'm wearing my best clothes and trying to stand up straight but the bus still doesn't drive around the puddle but instead splashes me on the sidewalk.  But instead of calling my mom to pick me up from work because the day is over and it's time to rest and try again tomorrow I now need to grab a towel and keep walking.

I've already paid for the Coke, now it's time to try to enjoy it.

Isn't it dangerous? You mean the cheese or the cocaine?

Today I woke up at 6:30am in Cartagena, Colombia to the sound of birds and salsa music and some guy whistling in the garage of the building I'm living in.  I had dust on the parts of my body that were outside the blanket and my skin was slightly damp from the pre-perspiration that glazes my body 99% of the time.  I made sure I had all the necessary things in my gym bag and computer bag, washed the dishes in Carmen's sink, and set off on foot to the airport 2 blocks away.  The streets were desserted because it was Sunday and Lord knows the Colombians found a reason to party Saturday night.  As we entered the airport all we had to do was look across the fieldhouse sized building that the Cartagena International Airport is to see the line in front of Avianca; everyone is flying to Miami today!  After repeated safety measures (I was frisked twice) we ended up in a "terminal lounge" consisting of wooden connected beach-like chairs.  I bought a coffee (Colombians do kid-sized coffee, but at least it's delicious) and a chicken and potato empanada for breakfast for $3 and sat down to await the final baggage check (as you leave the door to the stairs outside the airplane they take one last look in your carry-ons).  Two and a half hours, one delicious airplane meal, most of Whatever It Takes (movie), another coffee, cup of coke, and half cup of beer, and amazingly aircondidtioned trip through the warm and cuddly US Customs Check Point later, I'm in Miami, FL whizzing by canals and sky-scrapers and $15 NY Style Deli sandwiches.  After moving stuff into a pretty nice Hostel (South Beach Hostel in Miami Beach), Ryan and I took off walking to try to find a grocery store to purchase necessary food items (having deemed Miami too expensive for our meager budgets).  We took a detour to the beach (beautiful!) but eventually found some mostly Latin Food Marts.  And here I found my necessities: a bag of Cheetos, a Little Debbie snack, a large bottle of water, a giant pack of saltines, and a block of cheddar cheese.  While purchasing said necessities the man at the counter asked me "So where are you from?"  I replied that I was from MN but living in Colombia right now.  He opened his eyes wide and stared at me then asked, "isn't it like, dangerous there?"  I laughed and said "is it dangerous in Miami? Where are you from?"  He replied that he was from Puerto Rico.  Colombia's bad reputation beats even the most dangerous of US cities.  It's funny to think that most of the cocaine that people use in the crazy Miami nightlife probably originates in Colombia too. :p  However, I wouldn't know the first thing about that, and I was hungry as hell.

The walk back to the hostel was treacherous as I was nearly dying of hunger (which lately has been my MO, and a terribly terrible idea because I always get grumpy when there's not a bolus of sustainence in my belly).  When we returned we sat down in the lobby to enjoy the Lakers/Celtics game and eat.  What do you think I ate first?  The crackers and cheese of course, but without any cutting utinsil I was forced to take mini-bites of the cheese and chase them with the crackers.  I can only hope whoever saw me found some humor in a nice looking girl eating a block of cheese straight.  This is what visiting Miami for the sole purpose of a visa looks like. :)  A block of cheese.