Greetings from Bogotá
We drove down from Mykanos yesterday in preparation of a jaunt. Correction, Adriano drove down yesterday with me in the passenger seat as co-pilot, although ‘co’ wasn’t called for.
Adriano gained his licence earlier this year, learning to drive in our Jeep and taxi. It had never interested him before and he preferred to be driven. Me too. After 50 years of driving, I was more than happy to be chauffeured, especially with the scenery we go through every time we are on the road. But he felt it was time to have a car that he liked to drive, which was a new automatic, having suffered hill starts in a 50 year old, atrociously seated, manual transmission, unassisted everything, Jeep.
So at age 55 Adriano acquired his first car. It is in fact our car, but I only got to drive it from the dealership in Pereira three quarters of the long way home before Adriano decided he wanted a go. He loves it. I have not been in the driver’s seat since. But then I haven’t really been in the driver’s seat since we met in 1985.
I won’t describe the trip to Bogotá, other to say that if any of you have ever seen such impressive mountain, valley, rain-forest, plains, farming and riverside scenery of unbelievable grandeur and beauty, and experienced such repeatedly varying temperatures and climates within the space of an hour, I can only assume that you have driven in Colombia already.
It was a busy month in Mykanos; well a busy month in Colombia as well.
We had Pope Francisco visiting Colombia for four days, during which he held four Masses that averaged an attendance of one million people at each. Apparently many came from every country in South and Central America as well as from Colombia.
He said a couple of things that were very ‘radical’ for the church in Latin America. For a start he advised not putting off the best things in life until the future, or even further, until the life after life. Don’t save the best pots and pans or best perfume for the future. Enjoy them now. And the future? God will look after that. Moreover he advised against saving money to leave to the children. It could do more harm than good. Everyone should make his or her own fortune. Use it to improve and enrich your life, and of those you love, now.
My favourite, was that women are not here to wash, clean and cook. They are here to harmonise the Universe.
His final Mass, in Cartagena, was performed with a black eye and gashed eyebrow, the result of a man throwing himself in front of the Popemobile, forcing an emergency stop and the Pontiff bumping his face against the glass screen in front of him. He eschews side screens, as they make it more difficult for him to communicate, greet, grasp and embrace the punters, much to the worry of his Swiss Guard security team.
By the way, here the Pope is called El Papa, which translates roughly as the Big Potato. (He is the only masculine potato i.e. la papa / las papas are feminine)
Our morning routine at Mykanos has changed a bit since our last visitors departed. They very generously presented us with a Nespresso machine so we usually start the day with a lungo, espresso or ristretto. Adriano has since augmented it with a milk frothing attachment as he likes cappuccinos too.
And it seems he is not the only one.
Years ago we did a home exchange between Paris and Sydney with Robert and Beverley, a lovely couple with a house in Martin Road, facing onto Centennial Park.
Each morning Adriano and I would do several circuits of the Park’s walking track, going in the opposite direct to the masses, as it is always better to see a whole range of different faces approaching rather then the same backsides. The Yummy Mummies with their little ones in strollers would gather in the coffee shop afterwards to sip and chat, and that is where we saw our first Babyccinos, cappuccinos with no coffee, just frothed milk, so that the toddlers could be as sophisticated as their Mum, at almost the same price.
At Mykanos, we have own spoilt madam, Pispirispis, and as soon as we get out of bed she is demanding, very vocally, her morning beverage … a Pispiccino.
The Pispiccino is served in the same cups we use, and Pispirispis laps up the frothy milk with great enthusiasm until she can’t get her nose any further into the cup, at which point she sits up and asks Adriano to empty the rest into a saucer … which he does.
Last Sunday week we were invited to celebrate 50 years of the Coffee Co Coffee Co-Op in Anserma.
Attendance was limited to card carrying coffee-growing members of the Co-Op, and some 1500 attended, almost filling the Anserma Stadium. Sponsors were in attendance too providing door prizes, along with a legion of Co-Op employees and various worthies who duly made overly long speeches.
The entertainment was horrendous … very poor bands, a bad singing contest … the door prizes included fumigators and fertiliser … and the lunch was a styrene pack containing an arepa and rice with the flavour, or at least the aroma, of lechona (suckling pig). That is not to suggest it was short of meat. With a magnifying glass and tweezers the bits of pork could be found quite easily.
The highlight was the attendance of Juan Valdez, the personification of Colombian Coffee, and we duly had our photo taken with him.
I always think it is a pity that the Co-Op (the Federación Nacional de Cafeteros de Colombia) are so mean with their members, without whom none of the people who work in and for the Co-Op would have jobs or pensions or anything else. They split up the cake, we get the crumbs … or a bit of rice in this case.
As we were driving from Pereira, just as we went through the hairpin bend over the rather optimistically and incorrectly named Rio Lazaro (Lazarus River) we passed Rosita’s, a small, unpretentious, simple local restaurant much favoured by trucks drivers. Set in the middles of nowhere it is open for breakfasts, lunches and early dinners. We have eaten there a number of times on the way home.
The waiter was Rosita’s son, a gay boy of about 19, who always looked as though he would rather be somewhere, anywhere, else. When not carrying or clearing plates he would be slouched in a corner texting or WhatsApping. When we were ate there he would hang around closer to our table listening to the English being spoken. He seemed to find us exotic and interesting.
As we came past this time I reminded Adriano of the last time we were and he told me there had been a big change. It seems a middle aged American stopped there for lunch on his way to somewhere else. He was captivated by Rosita’s son, and they stayed in touch by WhatsApp and email, and eventually the man invited Rosita’s son to New York, where he now lives happily and studies.
Who says fairy stories don’t come true?
Love from him and me
Baz
