The summer I turned six, we took a family vacation to my father’s
homeland, Colombia. We were there for what
seemed to be months, but it couldn’t have been more than a few weeks. In the time we were there, we discovered the joys of obleas and edible ants, saw our
first panhandlers, and were warned to keep our earrings protected from thieves
who would snatch them right off your ears.
In Bogota, we marveled at the chips of emerald that were tossed into
the streets by jewelers who saw no value in these tiny treasures. In Cartagena, we saw our first (and only)
sloth.
We were introduced to family, so much family, who looked just like
me. I’ve been told I “look”
Colombian. All I know is that I look
like my father. Now that I’m older, I
can see that I do, in fact, look Colombian.
A glance at the old photos confirms that, in Colombia, I wouldn’t stand
out. After a lifetime of wishing I
looked different, I think I’m ambivalent about this revelation.
Our vacation was a whirl of sights, tastes, and sounds. Over 35 years later, I wish my parents had
waited until I was older, so that the memories would be more solidly etched in
my mind. Now, a stray scent or flavor
may trigger a memory of Colombia. Funny,
I remember drinking lots of Coca Cola on that trip. We weren’t soda drinkers growing up, so for
years after this trip, the taste of Coke would remind me of Colombia.
For the most part, this vacation was a little on the dull side. Being a six year old, dragged from family gathering
to family gathering, not speaking a word of Spanish, and eating food that
tasted like rose buds was not my idea of a summer vacation.
Except for the beach trips.
My dad made sure to take us to the beach a few times. I can recall my brother getting fried to the
point of blisters and my sister getting stung by jelly fish. It was all very exciting for me (and slightly
inconvenient, truth be told). But so
much fun. At six years old, these
beaches seemed exotic and tropical, full of jellyfish and sloths. Not like the beaches in boring old
California. And the people were so
friendly too. Coming back to our hotel
room one day, two youngish women asked me where I was from. In my best fake Spanish, I said, “Soy de los
Estados Unidos.” They said something
else, but my fake Spanish could only carry me so far, and the conversation quickly
faded to gestures and smiles. My parents
were nowhere to be found, because in those days, people thought nothing of
letting a kindergartener wander around a resort in a foreign country, unattended.
My brother and I are close in age, so we spent most of the time playing
together on these beaches. Here we are,
playing together in Cartagena. It’s one
of my favorite pictures, because a) I remember loving that silly green terry
cloth bathing suit, and b) it captured our relationship perfectly.
Occasionally, I think it would be nice to take BH and the kids
for a trip to visit my dad. But
then he says stuff like, “You and the boys would be safe, but we’d have to be
careful with BH, because he looks American and someone might try to kidnap
him.”
I still haven’t decided if he’s joking.
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