Cravings for Solitude

It was a long week, and knew we were both in trouble when at 4:30 Friday afternoon, Dee came home bearing gifts—a bottle of coke and a bottle of Ron Medillion. Sure it was only a half a litre, but the afternoon was just turning to evening, and most bars don’t close till morning.

We were well through a good part of the bottle when our neighbour came over to join us, with his bottle in tow. A few hours passed, our bottle was done, and his was cracked. Conversations drifted in a combination of Spanish, French and English, which to the drunk ear sounded like a brilliant combination and had a lovely ring to it. The meaning, surprisingly enough, wasn’t lost.

The neighbour dashed off to get some food prepared for us, Dee was on a phone call, and I was left to ponder and listen to some great Colombian music.

I will be honest, the past few weeks have been rough—rougher than I would have liked, but the one thing that I can say has really gotten me through this rough patch, besides inhumane quantities of rum is our neighbour—Juan Carlos, and his wife and kids.

They have opened their home, their hearts and have shown amazing hospitality and kindness. It has been the simple invitations to their house for dinner, the Saturday afternoon cruising the river, a day at a farm, Chinese food for lunch…they really have their eye out for us, and for this I have been incredibly thankful. There have been some great conversations about the mentality of the costena people, although Juan Carlos is one, he has lived overseas for a prolonged period of time and truly has a different perspective on things. Despite the language barrier, we get by and have this incredible understanding and passion for the insane and off the cuff behaviour. I guess in some way he is like my male shit-disturbing counterpart.

My thoughts and my personal thanks faded as both Dee reappeared, and then Juan Carlos with an invitation for dinner. We dashed across the hall for some dinner, and then Maria (the wife) came home from school, and the 4 of us headed out to celebrate one of their friend’s birthdays.

It wasn’t our original plan, but, hey, we weren’t too stuck on that anyway.

We headed to the plaza with our bellies full of cheese, arapas and soup. Once there the martinis overfloweth to tunes from the 70s and 80s. I never imagined at all that I would be sitting in a small little restaurant with old English tunes being drowned out by dirty Spanish jokes that had to be translated for me to truly get the punch line.

We sat around, drank more, laughed harder, grooved to the tunes and by the time 1am hit, we were ready to head out for a night on the town. Juan and Maria went back home, the others around the table were done in with the martinis, but we were raring to go.

First stop—Don Divino—a funky outdoor restaurant with an indoor nightclub built around an outdoor pool. This place, where we have had a few fun and entertaining evenings, was dead. We walked in, did the circuit around the place and the pool, and then left taking the short cut to get to Sabannah—another indoor place with heavenly AC.
We propped ourselves up at the bar and debated ordering a bottle of rum, but decided on 2 beer. We chatted through the loud music and watched the wanna-be Shakira’s take the dance floor when Tortura was played. Our beers were starting to be drained when 2 more appeared in front of us. The drunken old man beside us had bought them. I didn’t feel like talking to him, nor did Dee, so we said our Gracias’ in brutal gringo speak and we were off the hook once he asked where we came from and that yes, we spoke English.

We sat back, enjoyed the atmosphere when a server came over and decided that I needed some ice in my beer. I almost reached over and slapped him. But instead, smiled, and said I don’t like ice, please get rid of this mess you have created. I turned to Dee, and said, “Don’t fuck with a Canadian and her beer.” She laughed, but added that she doesn’t mind ice in her beer. I shook my head and figured that since she has been living in Colombia for 3 years, it disqualifies her as being a true beer drinking Canadian girl.

A minute later, my glass was back and the bartender/owner’s friend was refilling my drink and trying his best to carry on a conversation in English. The ice was broken, so to speak, and thus started our long evening. The owner came over and started chatting up Dee in Spanish, and I continued the conversation in a mix of English and Spanish with the friend. The friend took off and suddenly I was in the company of the owner’s body guard. He pissed me off a few too many times, and was getting bored with his bullshit. I motioned to Dee that I was taking my cigarette outside for a bit of breather. I pulled open the door to see the most magnificent rain storm. I stood outside under the apparent cover a tree and was soaked within a minute. My smoke fizzled out with the wetness dripping from my arms and hands, and I gave up on the smoking idea, but was outside for a few minutes longer, enjoying the feeling of hard warm rain when I heard the door behind me open.

It was the body guard coming to retrieve me. He thought I was insane to be standing in the rain, and tried his best to convince me to come inside. I said I would in a few moments but all I really wanted was some peace and some downtime in the rain. He grew more persistent, telling me that I would become sick, that it wasn’t good, and that he was going to get sick standing out there waiting for me to come in.

“Fine, go inside,” I said, “Don’t get sick for me.”

“No!” he uttered with almost perfect English, and began some incomprehensible Spanish diatribe. He placed his hands on my shoulders, looking straight at me and with a firm voice said, “Go inside crazy lady.”

I started laughing, and no matter how much I wanted to be alone in the rain, and no matter how much he pissed me off earlier, I couldn’t stay mad or even maintain the serious aloofness anymore.

“Ok, Ok, but the rain is great,” I added as we headed for the door.

I found Dee still taking to the owner and she looked at me with a ‘what the hell’ kind of expression.

“It’s pissing outside,” I said.
“Obviously,” she responded, “You are soaked.”

The lights to the bar came on for closing time, and we watched people file out. We didn’t know if we were staying or if we were going, but another round of rum shots placed in front of us answered our question. Besides the staff, there were about 10 others staying behind for the after hour party. The music continued, and the next thing I know is that the bodyguard was giving me self-defense classes in the bar.

Between her chat with owner boy, she got a glimpse of me in a throat hold, trying like mad to get out of it with the maneuvers I had just learned. She had no idea of my lessons, and thought I was being detained. But the funny thing is, it didn’t even faze her. She just gave a typical Colombian head lift, the one that means, ‘you OK?’ and with a stupid grin I returned, she knew that I was fine. She turned back around to continue her chat, and I slowly wrangled my way free with a few mock jabs and twists.

My lessons were done, and so was I. I grabbed a stool beside Dee and I started talking to owner boy and got the lecture that this was his house and in his house we would be treated like the queens we are. I started laughing to myself, wondering if a queen would try to take on a black belt karate guy. But the gesture was there, and he seemed sincere about it.

The rum kept coming until I looked at my watch—5:30am. Dee and I would be up and out of the house 3 hours or so to head to a farm with a friend. There was no way we were going to make it if we at least didn’t try to get some sleep. I could feel myself fading and mentioned that we should get going. Dee agreed, we mentioned it to our hosts, but nothing was happening. At this point, it was in my head, I must go home now. A few more shots were poured and I said screw it. I had made up my mind that I was out of here. It was only a 10 minute walk home, and I was leaving. I told Dee, and she said she was going to wait and catch a ride with the boys.

I said good-bye, did the cheek-cheek kiss thing, and was out the door into the rain. I got about 15 steps down the street when bodyguard came chasing and yelling, “Crazy lady, no walking…we drive home.”

“Now?” I asked.

“Jes, now we go.”

I waited as he ran back inside to get owner boy and Dee, and we were off. The thought of my bed was so appealing now and it was the only thing I could think of. We piled into the truck and drove down the familiar road that leads home, but suddenly we were stopped outside of the Gastro Factory.

“We go inside eating, then take you home,” said the bodyguard. We piled out of the truck and I was livid.

I just wanted to go home. My mind was made up and it pissed me off that someone else was controlling the situation. In fact, it pissed me off that it was always like this. There was no question posed to even inquire if we were hungry, or if we would like to stop. I was getting sick of the assumptions always made—and made by the men. It pissed me off that I had no say, or my opinion didn’t count even if I did.

I was standing under the covered patio when Dee came up beside me, “They just want to eat, and then we will go.”

“But I don’t want to. I’ve wanted to go home for the past half hour, so I am going now.”

“How?” she asked.

“Fuck it, it is a great night to walk.” The rain was still coming down in torrents, and the streets were flooded, but I didn’t care. Perhaps I was just too drunk to even care, but I truly think it comes down to the solitude that I crave so much.

I’ve been in this city for the close to two months now where privacy is almost non-existent. I am constantly surrounded by people and really have no time for uninterrupted me time. At work, I am with students and when I try to escape from people on my break, I am usually spied on my other employees, for it seems just way to interesting to know what the foreigner is typing or reading. I try to sneak out for a smoke, but am found by the caretaker or the roommate or even the employee of the corner store. And when I am in a place where I think no one will recognize me, someone I know stops by to say hi, or a stranger will want to become someone I should know. I go home to type or cook and the space is shared by my roommate. I suppose almost 2 months of no time alone was getting to me. For those that know the loner quality in me, you understand and for those that have the same feelings, I know you are nodding your head.

Before I made my quick departure or escape, Dee and I quickly made sure that both of us had a key to the apartment, that I had her cell number, and that we were clear about tomorrow’s plans.

She went inside the restaurant and I took off down the road. The water was at least 3 inches high in the street and within seconds my shoes were full. My shirt clung to me after a minute and my jeans were growing heavy with the water soaking into them. I started kicking the water as I walked, and started grinning from ear to ear. My hair was soaked and I slicked it back. I kept walking down the street and made a quick left turn to the plaza, up the stairs and got a momentary reprieve from the rain. But that is when I saw ownerboy’s SUV pull up. He parked and ran up the steps to corner me.

“Wait,” he yelled over the thunder as he scurried in front of me to stop me from going.

“Why you go?” he asked in Spanish. From our previous conversations, he knew very little English, and I knew that I would have to try my best in broken Spanish.

“I want to go home.”

“Please, wait, I drive you.”

“No, you eat, I don’t want to eat, I only want to go to my house, my bed. Sleeping.”

“But you are queen, you are my responsibility to take you home, please let me do this.”

And his kindest gesture was heartfelt. I could see it in his eyes. But I had had enough of Colombian men, I had had enough of their controlling bullshit, I had had enough of being someone without an opinion, or an opinion that didn’t matter, I was sick of being around people and just really needed to be alone. I felt trapped, confined, in the eye of too many people and I just needed to be alone and get to my bed, my sanctuary.

“Yes, I understand. But you understand, please, it is important for me to walk. It is important for only me,” I tried my best to say, and not even sure he understood. Hell, I am not even sure I understood what I was saying at this point.

“But…” he faded as he saw me shake me head and open my mouth to add more.

“Look, I am very independent, I am not woman Colombian, I need to be freedom, please,” I begged.

I tried to slip away, but he placed his hands on my shoulders.

“But rain tonight. You don’t walk.”

“Yes, I walk. Calm down, no problem for to walk. Please. I go now. You go now. OK?”

His hands grasped my shoulders a bit tighter, and I was starting to grow impatient and annoyed once more. I pushed his hands from my shoulders and started walking. His one hand slid down my arm and caught my wrist. He grasped it, trying to hold me back, but I twisted and turned, not looking back, shook his hand loose and started to march off mumbling in English a string of profanities about the complexities and bullshit of Colombian men along with a few growls and frustrated moans, which I am sure sounded more like deafening roars to the untrained ear.

I was on the main road, cruising along, still pissed off, but enjoying the rain and the sheet lighting overhead. I was soaked and loving every minute of it. I did a few hops and skips that could have been worthy to be incorporated into Gene Kelly’s Singing in the Rain routine. Busses and cars passed, and usually I dodge and time my route to theirs to avoid the splashes, but tonight I didn’t care. I was about 50 metres from the plaza when I could hear honks across the street. I didn’t want to look over, but my curiosity got the best of me.

It was a white pick-up truck driven by a face I didn’t recognize, mind you my vision wasn’t exactly clear. I could hear him shout over the thunder and the passing cars 4 lanes over. He was offering a ride, but I declined, and kept walking. I was heading north on the west side of the street, he was also heading north on the east side of the street. I walked a bit more, when I could hear more honks and the same voice yelling at me. He was persistent, I would give him that. I will also give him the fact that it was a sweet gesture and I would have considered it on any other day…

It is funny though, thinking if the whole event happened in Vancouver, there would have been absolutely no consideration of taking him up on his offer day or night, rain or shine. It just would never cross my mind to do so, but here is different. People offer you rides all the time—it is just one of those cultural differences.

So, there I was soaked, and there was pick-up boy in his truck gesturing for me to catch a ride. I yelled across the street, “Thank you, but I walk.” I nodded my head to reaffirm my appreciation at the gesture, and continued forward. My apartment was less than 100 metres away. The guy drove off and I was sure he was gone.

But then he reappeared, this time driving south on the west side of the street. He pulled up beside me, passenger window rolled down, babbling Spanish, telling me that I was nuts to be walking and to get in. He would give me a ride home. I said thank you, once again and started walking. The guy put the truck in reverse and backed up as I moved forward. On an ordinary day, I would have given the guy credit for his persistence, but not tonight. It irritated me. I tried to keep my composure, “Thank you,” I said, “but no. I walk. Thank you very much. Very kind.” But I had had enough. I was exhausted trying to explain myself, I was frustrated with the pushiness and required me-time in a terrible way.

I started walking again, and he reversed, for yet another time. I thought if I just kept walking he would get the hint, but he didn’t. A frustrated English Arrrrggggghhhh came out of my mouth, my hands in the air as I turned to look at him in the eye. My hands grasped my head and I felt like pulling out my hair. And that is when the tears started flowing. “Por favor! Por favor, please just leave me alone,” I pleaded. I started to flail my arms pointing him away, “Va! Go! Go!” I was sobbing, but somehow my voice grew stronger, “Just go, get the fuck away from me. Just leave me the fuck alone. For the love of god, fuck off.” And I walked. I could hear the truck idling behind me, the guy who was just blasted in English didn’t know what to do and contemplated his next move. All I knew was not to look back and I soldiered on in the rain.

Tears mixed with the rain, sobs with the thunder and I still muttered aloud my annoyances, kicking the water, licking at the salty liquid collecting at the corners of my mouth. I made it home, completely soaked but dry of anymore tears. I am sure my makeup could have competed for a Tammy Fay look-alike contest, but I didn’t care. It was with the same attitude that I aimed and kicked off my boots to a satisfying thud as they hit the exterior wall and striped down to only my bra and underwear outside the apartment door. I figure I was a mess and no point creating more of a mess inside.

I opened the door to the ghetto, barefooted and mostly naked, when water poured over the threshold and onto my feet. I was baffled, and took a step inside and into an inch or two of water. The fucking apartment was flooded. Just my luck. Strip outside not to create a mess, but it was nothing compared to the disaster of a flooded livingroom. I took one look at it and my dog wading his way through to greet me and said fuck it--leave it till morning. Dee’s television was on and figured she had somehow beat me home. I dead-bolted the door, got changed and crawled into bed.

I was woken up to my name being called and an arm reaching into my bedroom window to pull back the curtains. I couldn’t figure out for the life of me what was going on. It ended up being Dee, who was dead-bolted out of the apartment, returning home with the sunrise. My brain couldn’t compute how the hell she was in the apartment watching TV and then being locked out. I let her in, and said nothing, but I could see she was just as confused about the water in the apartment as I was to her appearance. I crawled back to bed and crashed until the constant ding dong of the doorbell and raps on the door woke me up, yet again.

I got out of bed and stumbled to the door, hopping to avoid the puddle and found Jaime at the door.

“Whoa,” was the only thing he said as the door flung open.

I wasn’t sure if he was commenting on the dried up mascara tears, the raccoon eyes, or the wading pool now present in living room that looked far worse in daylight.

I stepped out of the apartment.

“I take it you are not ready,” he said.

I think I grunted through a forced laugh.

“Rough night huh?”

And that is when I wondered what the gossip was on the crazy gringa stumbling in the rain alone and screaming profanities and what he had heard.

“Hey, you know I am here to pick you up to go to the farm, but if you can’t make it, I am sure we can do it another time. You decide.”

And with that comment, as simple as it was, I put my paintbrush away—the one that I had painted all Colombian men with in one fall swoop and slosh; the one that dyed me shades of black from pushiness and deaf-ears, the one that tinted me with frustration and confusion. But the generalization all seemed to disappear, perhaps with the sobriety, or just that simple choice that was offered.