The familiar shift and clink of loose, red paving bricks underfoot, or a painted tile on a stair. A gray sky made hazy by the promise of rain and the smog of millions of cars. Rows of magnolia trees lining the cracked sidewalks and littering them with their bright yellow blooms. Little houses enclosed by iron gates twined with roses, hibiscus, and ivy. The Minutos carts stocked with individual lollipops, cigarettes, and Chocoramos to be resold for pennies. The wandering tinteros cheerfully poking their heads into shops and asking the clerks if they’ve had their sugary black coffee yet, waving a red or white plastic thermos. Everything framed by the towering green of the Andes.

The constant juxtaposition of the old and the new here. Nuns in full cream-and-black habits gliding past heavily graffiti’d walls. Hip restaurants, crowding in among the ubiquitous fruterías and salones de onces, offering Colombian interpretations of high-low cuisine—waffles, mac n’cheese, and artisanal burgers. Principled baristas at small batch coffee roasters proffering beans, always ground to order, to your olfactory organ before brewing them.

Once, around noontime, I sat in our favorite neighborhood cafe, waiting for the electricity in our apartment to be restored. In response to the barista’s greeting, a middle-aged man passing by replied from the doorway that his little cat, his gatico, who had accompanied him and his wife for the last 22 years, had passed away that morning. The barista was very sorry to hear it, asked what the cat was like, and shared that he’d miss his own senior dogs terribly when they go. A group of older men seated at another table, all with cafecito y torta and all wearing variations on the theme of polyester slacks, leather bomber jackets, and fedoras adorned with little speckled feathers, also chimed in about their own fallen pets, and how they’d never forget them.

✻

Our five month sojourn in Bogotá has officially come to an end. It seems impossible that we lived there for almost as long as it took us to arrive there. It also seems impossible that our time in the land of the Rolos had been our most conventional living arrangement yet—it was our first time living together on land, in an apartment with hot, running water and other modern conveniences. It had been our longest stretch of doing completely normal, non-notable things together, like cooking meals that involve more than one pot, going out for coffee, watching “Narcos” in the evening, and making friends that we’ll never forget. We enjoyed time together and enjoyed personal space too—in fact, it was our first time having the opportunity to occupy separate rooms at home in three years. When we lived on our little fish boat on Richardson Bay, delivery drivers would frequently threaten to return our orders to the restaurants because our address seemed sketchy or because our parking lot was knee-deep in the salt water a king tide. If only we had a Rappi courier from Bogotá back then. They’re made of some strong stuff.

✻

Having arrived by plane from Cartagena and awaiting Horace’s arrival by moving truck, we were bowled over by the change in landscape, climate, and pace of life in Bogotá. Who were these people stomping down Aveninda Septima in Doc Martens, artfully ripped jeans, and oversized flannel shirts, shoulders drawn up against the cold? How were we to decipher the change in accent or navigate the biggest city either of us had ever lived in? And who was this Marika to whom everyone referred?

The traffic was TERRIBLE. Vehicles entered and exited the highway from nearly every direction. There was so much honking, so many motorcycles and cyclists colliding with each other, and no one was willing to stop before driving or riding through the intersections where we waited for what seemed like ages to cross.

Even coming from Central America, it seemed like Bedlam. But very soon, we were struck by how strongly Rolos adhere to a social contract, despite the chaotic bustle. I think it’s safe to say that, given the high standard of hospitality across Latin America and especially in Colombia, Rolos were the warmest and most welcoming people we’d met thus far. (And we’d met some really, really warm and welcoming folks.) While we were slightly disappointed to discover that, in Bogotá, one didn’t bother to greet strangers passing by, we also discovered that when Rolos were given any reason to converse, the salutations and farewells that followed seemed to go on forever—How are you? What are you up to? And what else has been going on? And what about with your auntie? Ok, have a great day. I hope you’re well. Take care. God bless you. Goodbye. Ciao. Goodbye.

You’ll notice poverty everywhere and prostitutes young and old lounging in doorways if you take a wrong turn and cross one of many invisible frontiers. But if you look closely, you’ll also notice young women holding hands or linking arms with their mothers as they run errands. You’ll hear people striding down the sidewalk—smartphones glued to their ears, punctuating their conversations with pet names like Amorcito, Mi Cielo, Mi Vida—coordinating where to have lunch. Lunch lasts two hours and almost always includes a little, one-to-two-bite postre, a dessert. You’ll have rollicking conversations with the technically illegal Uber drivers, and when you inevitably tell them that people from Bogotá are really nice, they’ll respond, without missing a beat, Not everyone. They’ll then warn you of the Paseo Millionario, during which a taxi driver hailed off the street will pick you up and drive you to all the ATMs until you’ve drained your bank account. So, you’ll promise them that you’ll never hail a cab off the street, and then they’ll want to know what Bogotá slang you’ve piked up.

Certainly, warnings from locals are not to be taken lightly and Bogotá sees lots of crime every day. Perhaps it’s for having grown up in a country where many of its regions were ravaged by violence and instability for decades that the good people of Bogotá don’t quite see how admirably they look after each other. But we see it.

✻

There are innumerable districts for the repair of backpacks, automotives, furniture, apparel, electronics, and the like; and countless alleys and streets unofficially designated for the sale of new commodities, like puppies and kittens, home furnishings, books, butchered meats, fresh produce, wood crafts, weaving arts, robotics, compression garments and corsetry, and surgical supplies. When in need of any of these items, you won’t find these districts on google. But if you set out with good walking shoes and a bit of time to spare, and ask a few locals, you will eventually find them.

Once, our friend Eugenio took us gallivanting around the automotive electrical parts district, with Horace’s busted stater in tow, in search of a replacement. We had spent the morning at Eugenio’s home, diagnosing the bike’s electrical issues and feeding bananas to his three noisy, rescued beagles. Before the three of us piled into a cab, he let us in on his plan—we were all going to pretend that the stater was not from a BMW and that it belonged to him.

You’ll get scalped if you go on your own, he said. Everyone’s going to be like, ‘Oh! Mi patron! Mucha plata!’ Understand?

We understood and certainly appreciated his efforts to save us from being charged the gringo price. However, we didn’t have any luck finding a replacement. We scouted out workshop after workshop with staters of all different sizes heaped up in their glass display cases. After chatting with the shop guys for a bit, Eugenio would pull the stater out of the wadded up plastic grocery bag and hand it over, casually remarking that he was looking for something similar.

The shop guys and technicians would turn our stater over in their hands and admire the compact, orderly winding of it’s copper wires. Whistling softly, they’d then hand it back to Eugenio. Shaking their heads, they’d say, their voices distinctly tinged with remorse,

No, no, nothing like that. Try asking so and so… But it’s a beautiful piece—where’d you get it?

Eugenio would just shrug and say something along the lines of, Oh, it’s from a stove, or Oh, it’s off a Kawasaki.

This exchange would begin again at each shop. Each time Eugenio pulled the stater out, the shop guys would sigh at the the sight of it’s exquisite craftsmanship, as if to say, Are you kidding me?

✻

On Calle 42, a street awash in yellow and located just south of our apartment in La Soledad, 50 neighborhood taxi drivers park their dimpled, dented taxis. They stand around in clusters on the sidewalk, drinking tinto, smoking, and chatting, or toss buckets of soapy water over the hoods of their cars. Just ahead, at an intersection where motorists seem to have personal vendettas against pedestrians, our favorite Chorizos del Mono sausage and arepa cart rests under its rainbow umbrella, smoking and sizzling into the evening.

✻

Nathan and I rode up to the Parque Nacional Natural de Chingaza to see the páramo with our friend Mark and several other riders. We asked how muddy the road would be.

Oh, a little muddy. Go slow and you’ll be fine, Andres, the group leader, answered.

Don’t worry, he has a wife and kids, Mark cut in, jokingly. He’ll make sure we survive.

The road was a five-hour winding carpet of deep, slippery clay-mush. We had a blast riding it. In fact, while it was our most challenging ride, it was the first off-roading experience that I actually enjoyed. Sliding around in the mud up the mountain to the high, flat plain was liberating. And I felt no fear of falling—that we would fall seemed a given, yet it only happened once, after I had dismounted and as Nathan was trying to dismount. I am reminded that when our trip first began nearly a year ago, the longest I had ever ridden was 6 hours on a highway. I had never jostled down a country or dirt road in the US, not to mention in Baja, Central America, or Colombia. But here I was, climbing up to Chingaza, sneaking past trucks loaded with livestock, lodged in the mud, and falling in love with the strange landscape around us. With the undulating alpine plain dotted with white-leaved frailejon, and the heavy, liquid air. With the bright rivulets of water reflecting the white sky as they snaked around clumps of moss and scattered stones. With a truly magnificent country. And there we were, throttling between the clouds, in the birthplace of its water.

✻

Inside Bogotá’s DIAN office, the Colombian National Directorate of Taxes and Customs, by the airport, I watched a blind man shine Nathan’s boots. Having our boots shined is a cheap thrill which can be obtained in almost any public space in Latin America—from metro stations to central plazas to shopping malls to border crossings—and we’ve had our stompers shined in almost every country. DIAN staff leaving their offices for lunch called to him as they passed to make sure that he’d be available during their break. He carefully traced over the stitches of Nathan’s boot with his fingers, always keeping a mother hand on the boot to orient himself. He asked for the color of the leather, and counted off the tins of polish stacked neatly in their ordained place within in a scuffed wooden box. Small clouds of dust rose from the boots as he rhythmically scumbled over them with a small brush, scrubbed them with saddle soap, and then buffed black polish into the leather with a red rag. With a softer, clean rag that he kept tied to the handle of the box, he rubbed them into a soft glow.

He asked us a question which neither of us understood. I apologized, explaining that we were foreigners.

I noticed, he laughed.