Final Day

I had another encounter with the Bogota police today...

But before that I had a productive day of shopping and eating. It would be burdensome to lug around as much stuff as I always end up buying. Therefore, I shop at the end. After bargaining, comparing prices, and taking two trips to the ATM I have provided a substantial contribution to the Colombian economy. No, I didnt buy the gold accessories pictured here.

This being my last day I succumbed to entering the famous Museo de Oro here. I had refrained until today, but broke down assuming that this could be a place about which someone might inquire. Gold must be the longest running joke in the history of man. This is what so many cultures held precious? I look at the boring metal and cant help but laugh at how humans value it. Are we serious? I am now the record holder for the quickest tour through the museum.


I ate a quesadilla at a restaurant arbitrarily named Chicanos. I guess you could say that it was named so because it serves Mexican food. It is certainly not because the owner is Chicano. I know this, I asked. There isnt even a discount for Chicanos who dine-in, again I asked. On a similar point, more people in Colombia have been introduced to the term Chicano than those who actually constitute the group. It is how I have self-identified while here, after proudly claiming Los Estados Unidos.

In keeping with the food theme, I would like to introduce my readers to Arepas. This is the typical food of Colombia and Venezuela. They are made of maiz and filled with different kinds of ingredients including: ham, cheese, chorizo, chicken, mushrooms, etc. When not splurging on food this was the staple.

Now to the police. I must preface by writing that I am touting a really bad beard right now. It was an aesthetic effort to keep safe in Venezuela. Evidently I succceeded in looking haggard. In the nicest area of Bogota two policeman stopped to frisk me on a random check. These police do this from time to time at their discretion - I have stopped to watch on many an occasion. The situation became a satisfying culmination to my trip.


I tried to give the impression I was Colombian for as long as possible to get the full experience. They were firm and really thought I was a local. Only when they asked me to empy my pockets and out came my navy blue American passport did they realize I was foreign. We immediately became friends after that. One by one a new officer would come over to join the conversation and ask me questions. Eventually we had an entire group meeting in the middle of the bar area of the Zona Rosa. I am sure the affluent spectators must have been completely confused. Had these guys not been on duty we would have taken a few shots of Aguardiente together. We finished with handshakes and a picture (frankly, the worst I have taken on the trip).

And thats it. I walked away smiling, proud of my street spanish and of the people of this country. I will likely end the evening back at one of those bars and then waking up for my flight. I promise two more posts, one of a few observations and one of my arrival home.