There is something voyeuristic about a morning run through urban streets. On weekdays, once can witness the manner in which a metropolis rises, passing white-collar commuters, wage earners waiting to catch the bus, and small business owners rolling up the metal, garage-like exteriors of their cafés to welcome the former two groups. If you start around 7:30 and stay at it for an hour, you’ll witness a city center’s first full inhale and exhale.
I paid someone to run with me this morning. An unconventional tour style, but a method as old as the Niña, Pinta, and Santa Maria. Give someone cash to show you things that would be too arduous to find on your own. Luckily, we’ve progressed past killing our tour guides with smallpox or gunpowder after they’ve provided a service.
Santiago picked me up in Zona T before 8, and drove us to El Centro. I was a little annoyed that he had exclusively been sending voice messages over WhatsApp to nail down logistics, but he quickly charmed me with immense knowledge of the city, and a curiosity as to what the hell I was doing here.
I learned that this would be his last running tour—he was quitting to focus on his own tourism business. What luck! Santiago speaks fluent (and I mean the kind of prep school, unaccented-type fluent) English, Italian and French. I told him we could just converse in Spanish, but if I got stuck on something, he’d read my mind with the English phrase I was trying to translate in my head.
We ran by beautiful churches, Afro-Carribean and indigenous street art, and colonial cobblestone avenues. I decided about halfway through to start testing him, see if we could get a little out of our comfort zones with mid-stride conversation. What did Colombia’s indigenous groups think about their artifacts being displayed in the Museo de Oro? How did he think President Petro’s healthcare and criminal justice reforms were coming along? How about that candidate for mayor I heard about yesterday, Oviedo? For each of these, Santiago gave a thoughtful response while guiding us through the city at a brisk pace. Oviedo: good candidate, weird upper-class Bogotan accent. Reforms: probably doomed in the legislature. Indigenous issues: quite complex. We were back at his car before I knew it, and parted ways after a selfie.
I decided to walk to the Museo de Oro from the parking lot, now properly informed of the tension inherent to its existence. Along the way, I refreshed myself with some freshly-squeezed jugo de mandarina from one of the city’s countless street vendors. It was better than Tropicana, I can assure you of that.
I hate to say this, because everyone I’ve met in Bogotá has insisted that the Museo de Oro is an unforgettable experience, but it just wasn’t for me. I can appreciate the historical significance of the pre-Columbian archeological discoveries, and to be sure, it is an important institution for all of the formerly-named region of Nueva Granada. I felt, though, that it lacked the historical explanations necessary to keep my interest, focusing on the implied “primitive” traditions of indigenous society. How did these priceless artifacts come to be owned and displayed by the Colombian government? With humility, I recognize this was probably explained, but I must confess I was not dialed in while ascending the museum’s four levels. My favorite part of the visit was seeing an overly-exuberant pack of elementary-aged students lined up for what I can only assume was a thrilling field trip. I much prefer the Museo de Botero.
On my way to catch a cab back to the apartment, I waded through a large crowd of mostly old men in a town square, standing in place and not really doing much of anything. This piqued my curiosity, and I stood among them for a while trying to figure out what was going on. The answer, I think was nothing. It was a seemingly spontaneous gathering of elders, enjoying a Tuesday afternoon of socialization. Un saludo, caballeros.
Tonight, I am planning to attend a conceptual get-together known as “Gringo Tuesdays,” which is a structured language exchange at a bar called Vintrash. Maybe I’ll opt for the beginners Italian table to see if I can learn to decipher some of the trap music that served as a soundtrack to my ascent up Monserrate yesterday. Te avisaré mañana, loyal readers.