EST. 2011

I don’t remember how old I was when my parents told me that I was adopted.  I was young enough to where the details seem vague but old enough to never have forgotten how I felt. I was in elementary school and on my way home with Michael Sydorko, my childhood best friend. We had stopped just outside my house to sit and talk before he would continue on his way home.  It was here, sitting on the rock formation across from my house, where Mike said “Hey, I hear that your parents aren't your real parents”. I remember saying something like “Yeah right, whatever” in an attempt to quell, what I believed to be, an obvious lie.  I remember thinking that he was out of his mind, yet, at the same time, a seed of wonder had been planted. Could it be that my parents weren’t in fact my real parents? No! It couldn’t be, could it? I returned home and Mike went on his way to his house. That night, over dinner, I asked my mother and father whether in fact they were my real parents. Their r...

Since arriving in mid June, I’ve done my best to get to know modern day Colombia through time spent sharing coastal culture with the beautiful people of Barranquilla .  In the entry entitled The Playa Es Hot , I gave a brief introduction into how my Barranquilla life was shaping up. Since then a lot has happened and saying that I’ve adapted to the heat would be a fabrication of the truth, as I’ve only got more use to sweating. In my quest to understand Barranquilla, I’ve started to see that it’s the details of my daily routine that make up what this port city will always be to me. Barranquilla is slowly being defined by the little things like my host sister’s smile, the not so little cockroaches, the contagious rhythms of salsa on every corner, the rain , the sun, the coastal spanish, and everything else in between.  It’s hot. I wish I could start by writing about something else but I can’t. I’m currently sitting on my bed, in front of my fan, it’s 9:33 PM and I’m sweati...