Rain clouds tumble across the Andes and thunder booms, echoing down 71 Circular. From my apartment balcony Red-lored Amazon parrots and Tropical Kingbirds cackle from the trees. It’s the rainy season in Medellin, Columbia and I’m relieved I chose November and December for my month here. With the mostly cloudy skies, the temperature stays at a perfect 65–70 degrees and the humidity is not as intense.
My fourth-floor apartment is considered “luxury” for both its location on the strip of Medellin and for its amenities — doorman, maids, full laundry service, and a secure entry. In Medellin, “luxury” also denotes security.
The apartment is small but perfect for long stays. It features a full kitchen and a wonderful space to write — plus my little balcony overlooking Circular supplies me with eclectic sites. A digital nomad’s dream city, I also intended to visit the myriad cafes around the corner.
I see the window to the restaurant kitchen across the street and it’s a bustling scene with clashing pans and chefs furiously chopping and cooking and shouting Spanish banter. Another restaurant below (BifTek) is a popular destination and along the umbrella-lined sidewalk people come and go and couples kiss under their umbrellas in the rain.
Arriving at Medellin airport was a chaotic bliss. When I travel to a new country, especially one where I’m not fluent, it’s a rush to be immersed in the culture and to have to find my way geographically and in language.
I’d neglected to set my phone up for the journey, so I had no phone service, except for Wi-Fi. After nearly two hours in immigration, I attempted to call an Uber using the airport’s Wi-Fi. It worked, albeit only while I stood in the confines of door one.
Local taxi drivers circled like mad roosters. “Taxi? I drive you,” they shouted.
“Uber?” I said.
“I Uber. I drive.”
Every one of them repeated that. It was as though they were all friendly clones, identical dress, some with beards, some with fancy shirts with the logo Safe Driver, but they were all Uber. “Cuanto?” I asked (how much). I’d travelled all day so was exhausted. How bad could a cab be?
One punched his thumbs into his phone after I supplied the address. It took some time, this negotiating in his head. He squinted and tapped with rapid acuity.
He looked at me sternly. “I take you to address for this amount.”
I looked at his phone. $55. More than double of an Uber. “No, gracias. My Uber is there.” I lied.
But she wasn’t. Where the hell was she? It said door one. Walk across the street. Easy and precarious. There was no crosswalk and only drop offs on every part of the curb. Pedestrians did not have the right of way anywhere in Columbia. Cross and die. Maybe.
I stepped into the airport again, canceled the first Uber, and ordered another. The taxi drivers circled. “Taxi, taxi, taxi. I Uber. I drive.”
This Uber driver was gold. “Jhon” texted that he was at door two, Nissan truck with bike racks. I dodged traffic and gleefully said hello as he tossed my luggage into the back seat. I’d read that they preferred you ride in the front seat when taking an Uber because of no regulation in the city. Essentially, it was illegal for them to drive as an Uber driver but law enforcement often looked the other way.
Jhon, like most Columbians, spoke no English and my (Mexican) Spanish was a work in progress. I tried to explain how I had no service, no Wi-Fi like a bumbling gringo, that I, a US citizen, was deprived of what I expect. It was embarrassing, and I quickly reassembled my brain.
Jhon was in his early thirties with a kind, babylike face and a soft, rapid-fire vernacular. As we left the airport, he played elevator Muzak, I think to appease me, of artists singing copies of famous songs. The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Boss, Bette Davis Eyes (whoever sang that). We shot through concrete tunnels that I thought might never end as car fumes filled the car. He must have sensed my discomfort because he reached to adjust the air control and it seemed better.
Finally, open highway and the Andes mountains appeared and the lights from the valley reminded me of Los Angles. I did a peripheral glare at Jhon and damn he was destined to compete this mission and get gringo to his apartment with both hands strangling the life out of the steering wheel.
Crowded party buses passed us blearing Cuban music, the buses lit up like Latin Christmas trees. When we left the highway and entered the Medellin area, streets narrowed and curved.
Colorful stucco bungalows cut into the hillside and jutted out into the fractured streets, each one different, and at stop lights a weathered “street light musician” appeared out of nowhere to play a handmade wood instrument that sounded better than anything I’ve ever heard. He plucked and sang and smiled until the light turned green and I wanted to toss pesos out the window to thank his soul, thank him for spreading joy into the streets of Medellin and calming my travel-frazzled mind.
Jhon stepped on it. He took curves and bumps as though in a war zone escaping land mines. He ran stop signs and leaned into curves, his face lit up in an eternal smile. Get gringo to address. He was destined to win Uber driver of the year.
We circled and slowed and stopped. He studied the address and shook his head. “De ninguna manera.” No way. “Cual.” Which one?
Which one, indeed, my dear friend, Jhon. Somehow, the address I had given him was wrong. We were close, but the building was nowhere in sight. I dug through my dead phone and found what the host at Airbnb had sent me and that I had not seen. “Por favor,” I said, showing him the address.
Jhon studied my phone intently. This gringo is taking up my entire night. He smiled. “Si. Ya se’ como.” I know how.
Jhon remained patient. We surged on. This time we were nearly airborne over hills in streets that seemed to narrow as we drove. Was Jhon upset? What had I done? Silly gringo. But no, not Jhon. He is smiling!
At last, we circled once more and stopped in front of a building that I recognized from my emails. We were here! Jhon stepped out, Un minute. I watched him examine the building and return to the car and realized not only was he checking the address, but checking for my safety. “Luxury Life,” he said, pointing to the sign on the apartment building. I recognized it and nodded.
“Muchas gracias,” I said, stepping out. I pulled the code to the front entrance up on my phone and keyed in the number. I was in. When I turned around, Jhon was still standing behind me with his child-like face, now assured that the gringo could get into his apartment. He could have left. He had other pick ups. In the United States, this would not have happened. But not here. I could have hugged the guy. After eight hours of travel, he stood there and made certain I was safe before driving away.
It was 1:30 AM. My first day in Medellin, Columbia, had begun.
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