On Saturdays, my abuela would turn on the radio to Caracol while she shelled habas (fava beans) into a chipped ceramic bowl. I would sit at her feet, my small fingers trying to mimic her speed, and listen to the vallenato accordion weep about lost loves and wayward mules. “This,” she’d say, tapping her temple, “is the map of our soul. Never forget the rhythm.”
I never did. Our house in a small pueblo outside Bogotá had no central heating. It didn’t need it. The cold came straight from the páramo , biting my ears as I walked to school in a navy blue skirt and wool tights. But the cold was a friend. It meant my mother would make chocolate santafereño —thick, with cheese melted at the bottom of the mug and a chunk of almojábana floating like a treasure.
Silence was suspicious. Silence meant someone was sick, or the power was out, or—worst of all—that the coffee had run out.
So if you meet a Colombian woman today—if she offers you coffee even if you said no, if she talks about her mom like she’s a saint, if she tears up at the sound of a tiple —now you know why. She was that little girl once.
To paint a picture of that childhood is to dip a brush in colors that don’t exist anywhere else. It is not the Colombia of news headlines or Netflix narcoseries. It is the Colombia of foggy mornings in the altiplano , the scent of guava and wet earth, and the sound of my aunt’s voice singing while she ironed ruanas . As a little girl growing up in Colombia , my first lullabies weren’t soft. They were loud. Not violent—just vivo . The crack of a chiva bus backfiring on a cobblestone hill. The pock-pock-pock of my mother patting masa into arepas at 6 AM. The metallic cling of an aguardiente bottle cap hitting the floor during a parranda .
, I promised myself I would leave. I did. I’ve lived in three countries since. But here is the secret no one tells you: Colombia never leaves you. It follows you in your scent for ripe plantains. It follows you in the way you gesture with both hands when you talk. It follows you in the unreasonable amount of hogao (tomato-onion sauce) you keep in your fridge.
Every morning , I learned that comfort is not a temperature. It is a ritual.
On Saturdays, my abuela would turn on the radio to Caracol while she shelled habas (fava beans) into a chipped ceramic bowl. I would sit at her feet, my small fingers trying to mimic her speed, and listen to the vallenato accordion weep about lost loves and wayward mules. “This,” she’d say, tapping her temple, “is the map of our soul. Never forget the rhythm.”
I never did. Our house in a small pueblo outside Bogotá had no central heating. It didn’t need it. The cold came straight from the páramo , biting my ears as I walked to school in a navy blue skirt and wool tights. But the cold was a friend. It meant my mother would make chocolate santafereño —thick, with cheese melted at the bottom of the mug and a chunk of almojábana floating like a treasure. as a little girl growing up in colombia
Silence was suspicious. Silence meant someone was sick, or the power was out, or—worst of all—that the coffee had run out. On Saturdays, my abuela would turn on the
So if you meet a Colombian woman today—if she offers you coffee even if you said no, if she talks about her mom like she’s a saint, if she tears up at the sound of a tiple —now you know why. She was that little girl once. Never forget the rhythm
To paint a picture of that childhood is to dip a brush in colors that don’t exist anywhere else. It is not the Colombia of news headlines or Netflix narcoseries. It is the Colombia of foggy mornings in the altiplano , the scent of guava and wet earth, and the sound of my aunt’s voice singing while she ironed ruanas . As a little girl growing up in Colombia , my first lullabies weren’t soft. They were loud. Not violent—just vivo . The crack of a chiva bus backfiring on a cobblestone hill. The pock-pock-pock of my mother patting masa into arepas at 6 AM. The metallic cling of an aguardiente bottle cap hitting the floor during a parranda .
, I promised myself I would leave. I did. I’ve lived in three countries since. But here is the secret no one tells you: Colombia never leaves you. It follows you in your scent for ripe plantains. It follows you in the way you gesture with both hands when you talk. It follows you in the unreasonable amount of hogao (tomato-onion sauce) you keep in your fridge.
Every morning , I learned that comfort is not a temperature. It is a ritual.