When I feel lost in a gray city far from the equator, I close my eyes and go back. I am six years old. I am barefoot on cool ceramic tiles. My abuela is humming a bambuco . The coffee is dripping. And the whole of Colombia—wild, wounded, and wildly beautiful—fits inside my small, open heart.
Because to have been a little girl in Colombia is to understand that life is beautiful precisely because it is hard. It is to know that the best arepa is the one made by hand, that the best dance is the one where you stumble, and that the best song is the one that makes you cry while you smile. as a little girl growing up in colombia
My father laughed. “That’s just the first hill, mija .” When I feel lost in a gray city