Heat mixes with sewer gases as I
finish fighting over the fare with a taxi driver. I find it surprising that I
still live in Cartagena, Colombia. Cartagena has all the trimmings of a great
tourist spot; all wrapped up in a pretty travel website, filled with vibrant
Latin-Afro-Caribbean culture. Drumbeats and rapid-fire Spanish penetrate the
air. Seafood is caught right off a fortress wall the Spanish built 300 years
ago. Fishermen in wooden canoes with tattered sheets for sails are straight out
of a scene from Hemingway´s Old Man and
the Sea. Sipping cocktails at sunset from a former Spanish guard’s perch
inspires even the most seasoned traveler.The glare of the sun on the ocean can only conceal the crime, poverty, and
corruption for so long. The city’s barnacles start to cut and scrape at any
long-term visitor’s feet. In 2010, I arrived to Cartagena
as a Peace Corps volunteer and never left. After working in all sort of schools
and marrying a Colombian, I am still stricken by the co-e…
Learning Spanish in Cartagena is difficult. Its Caribbean nuisances puzzle even fluent speakers. My advice: have Spanish for dinner and every other meal. Here is a reflection on how I finally learned:
Dining 101
In 1994, I went to Quito, Ecuador as an exchange student to study Spanish and Anthropology. I lived at the Fernandez family home in Barrio Miraflores, an upper-middle-class neighborhood. Gladys and Johnny, heads of the household, made sure I had everything I needed. They assigned their maid, Maria, to clean my room, cook my meals, and wash my clothes, which did by hand. Gladys oversaw my menu and social life. Johnny, a tire salesman, and patient Spanish professor answered my poorly constructed questions while reading the newspaper. I ate all my meals with the family even though I thought about skipping out a few times. Maria was not the best cook. I didn’t know how politely mention that I despised soggy Corn Flakes with hot milk and uncuttable grey meat with a vein down the mi…
Dining 101
In 1994, I went to Quito, Ecuador as an exchange student to study Spanish and Anthropology. I lived at the Fernandez family home in Barrio Miraflores, an upper-middle-class neighborhood. Gladys and Johnny, heads of the household, made sure I had everything I needed. They assigned their maid, Maria, to clean my room, cook my meals, and wash my clothes, which did by hand. Gladys oversaw my menu and social life. Johnny, a tire salesman, and patient Spanish professor answered my poorly constructed questions while reading the newspaper. I ate all my meals with the family even though I thought about skipping out a few times. Maria was not the best cook. I didn’t know how politely mention that I despised soggy Corn Flakes with hot milk and uncuttable grey meat with a vein down the mi…