Accepting the Fear, Embracing the Unknown
One Woman’s Solo Travel in South America — 21: Last Days in Medellin
Last Days in Medellin
In 1980, two college students with a vision opened their first “Crêpes & Waffles” restaurant in Bogotá, a small rustic French creperie. The simple menu included many types of crêpes, waffles and ice creams. The founders, Beatríz and Macía, were studying abroad in Montreal and in Switzerland respectively when their fascination with crêpe culture prompted them to bring the French treat back to Bogotá.
After a few good years, their stroke of genius was to lower their prices even as they maintained their top-notch quality and, in so doing, they fueled their growth exponentially. Since then, they expanded their brand not only to Ecuador, but also to Spain, Peru, Brazil and a few other countries. I first discovered one of their eateries in Cartagena and they soon became one of my favorite restaurants in Latin America because of their delectable food, reasonable pricing, and pleasant decor.
In Poblado, I looked up their success story after my Medellin-loving friend, commenting on one of my posts, told me that in Colombia and Ecuador, the chain was also well known for only hiring single mothers and women-in-need. In Cartagena, I had indeed noticed that all their staff was female, but I had no idea that it had been their policy all along. In an article I googled, Beatríz was quoted saying: “When we create something with love, it just flows.” I couldn’t help a big knowing smile. This was a woman after my own heart! I had felt that special energy every time. I felt their love!
My tranquil days in Medellin were coming to an end. I had binged on grand slam tennis and managed my restful stay to perfection. For my last Friday, I planned to go to the Pueblito Paisa and dine at La Fonda Del Pueblo with Carmenza, another co-occupant of my Airbnb and a resident of Miami. But she was running so late, I decided to sample their famous specialty, “la Bandeja Paisa” on my own.
The dish was not terribly different from the cazuela I had had in Plaza Botero in the historic center of Medellin on my first day. It was composed of beans, fried pork, blood sausage, and chorizo, topped with a fried egg, with sides of avocado, white rice, shredded meat, fried plantain, and a small arepa. This time, it failed to impress me, and I barely touched it. Luckily, Carmenza arrived and, being a hungry native Colombian, she had a feast. The food we grow up with is always a treat, but it often remains an acquired taste at best for the rest of us.
Another Airport Drama
Sunday, July 16th, was to be my last day in Colombia. I left my accommodation in Poblado in the early afternoon, after a fantastic Wimbledon final that crowned the world’s all-time champion, Roger Federer. Vanessa, a pretty twenty-three-year-old Uber driver with decent English, picked me up at 2:00 pm as scheduled. The airport was a fifty-minute drive and the weather was pleasant. Most of the way Vanessa and I engaged in a lively bilingual conversation until about two miles from the airport when the traffic came to a complete stand-still.
After thirty long minutes of no progress at all, my driver and I decided that I had no choice but walk with my luggage if I stood a chance to catch my flight to Bogota and my connection to Quito. I had a heavy suitcase with good wheels, a wonky wheeled carry-on-luggage, a small pocketbook and a heavy backpack.
All around us, people were jumping out of their taxis and buses and heading off and up the hill toward the airport. The road was already jam-packed with bumper-to-bumper cars, buses, motorcycles and people on foot with luggage. I could only imagine how tough this was going to be. Google predicted a thirty-minute walk; but that was without luggage and under normal conditions. These were quite different circumstances.
At that moment, I told myself that I could do it. I only had to give up my mental resistance, accept what was, stop thinking, and ask my angels for help. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Then I paid Vanessa, got out of the car, grabbed my luggage out of the trunk, and started pushing and pulling, panting and puffing, sweating and grinding away all while repeating my Ho’oponopono mantra together with “I can do it!”. People were passing me right and left without a glance.
After about ten minutes, a man with a small suitcase awkwardly wedged between his head and shoulder, glanced at me and stopped short. He pointed at my big suitcase and offered to pull it for me. I looked at him in disbelief and, gesturing at his carry-on luggage up on his shoulder, I urged him:
“Muchas gracias, pero por favor, dame tu maleta.” (Thank you very much, but please, give me your suitcase)
He shook his head, “No, las ruedas están rotas,”(the wheels are broken) he said and seizing the handle of my hefty suitcase from me, began to walk, fast and resolute.
I scrambled after him, shouting: “Gracias, muchas gracias!” then silently mouthed my mantra under my breath.
Suddenly, it was as if blinders came on and with that, total mental stillness. Dragging my carry-on and my backpack securely on my shoulders, I scuttled as fast as I could through roadblocks and obstacles, desperate to keep pace with the man doing the heavy lifting. I never looked at the time, thinking whatever happened now happened. My legs hurt but I could only think of HIS pain. He was panting heavily, sweat dripping from his brows. Still, he stopped only a couple of times to catch his breath and switch his bag to the other shoulder.
“Voy a pagarte!” I gasped (I will pay you). He winced and said: no, you don’t need to and charged off again. He cut through long patches of grass and dirt when the road was just too jammed to pass through. I prayed the wheels on my suitcase could take the abuse, not because I cared about it, but because I cared about him.
“Yes, yes,” I kept thinking, “I’ll give you all the cash I have left and that’s not even enough.”
When we made it to the departure terminal, we were both drenched and relieved. I reached in my purse, pulled all the cash I had and stuffed it in his shirt pocket despite his protest, then gave him a big hug. He laughed gently. I was beyond grateful to him.
By then, our trek had taken close to forty-five minutes and I was certain my flight was gone. Only it wasn’t, and the adventure was far from being over.
The whole airport was marred with substantial delays and the check-in attendant who registered my suitcase said she wasn’t sure I would make my connection. The reason for the mayhem was that the Colombian Air Force had closed the only civilian airport for hours in the morning and again in the afternoon for a public Air Show. In the process, they inconvenienced thousands of travelers and drivers without any concern or advance notice to passengers. That was quite unbelievable!
Three hours passed, and I was still wandering around the terminal without a clue as to when I would be leaving. Most gates were still closed, and the attendants on duty were of no help. A couple of flights departed, not mine. One attendant sent me back to Check-in to find out about my connection. Another forty minutes went by waiting online to speak with someone. Finally, I pleaded for help with an agent who did not speak English but swiftly rescheduled my departure to Quito via Bogota twenty-four hours later. She asked me to wait for an agent who spoke English and went on to the next passenger.
The man who showed up did not offer any solution as to where I was supposed to spend the night. The roads leading to and from the airport were still congested, he explained, and the closest hotels were all full. I told him that just minutes before, two men had informed me that they were given a hotel room in Medellin. But the attendant was adamant, insisting it was not possible since the delay was not the airline’s fault.
I was in full panic mode. “What should I do?” I uttered teary eyed.
I couldn’t go back to my Airbnb since it was no longer available and even so, the roads were still unpassable. It was unbearable for me to contemplate spending the night in the packed departure terminal. All seats were taken and already hundreds of people were lying directly on the floors. The only flight to Quito from Bogota was not until 11:00 pm the next day. It was only 8:00 pm and the night promised to be an endless nightmare. Fear was choking me.
“I’m sorry, this is all I can do,” the man mumbled in hesitant English.
“But you haven’t done anything,” I replied bitterly. “You just changed the flight number. You haven’t been of any help about staying the night in the airport.”
“I’m sorry, this is the only option,” he blurted again.
“Please stop saying you’re giving me an option, that is not an option at all. You’re forcing me to spend the next twenty-eight hours in an airport terminal.”
My frustration was mounting and I couldn’t help my tears. There were many people in the same predicament, he insisted. I knew he was going to step away at any time now and that would be it for me.
Calling On My Angels
“Stop it… Don’t panic… Be present!” I swiftly admonished myself, “You’re letting fear cloud your channels.” I closed my eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and silently asked my Higher Self for help again. Suddenly, it occurred to me to call on my Colombian friends in Bogota. How could I have forgotten them?
“I want to go to Bogota tonight.” I cried out looking straight in the eyes of the man helplessly standing in front of me. “I have friends there whom I can spend the night with.”
“Are you sure you want to spend the night in Bogota Airport?” He inquired incredulous.
“Yes… very sure! Not at the airport, with my friends. Please put me in a flight for Bogota tonight. Since my connection to Quito is not until late at night tomorrow, I want to be with my friends.”
He grabbed my revised ticket from my hand and hurried back behind the counter.
“Okay, I’m changing this right now, but I’m not sure your luggage will go.” He interjected.
I didn’t care. I was already texting Fabi-Lin:
“Lina, I’m in a tough situation right now and I need to ask for your help.”
Lina answered me on the spot:
“Wafa, where are you? What happened? Whatever you need, we can help.”
“I’m in Medellin airport. All Avianca flights were delayed and I missed my Quito connection out of Bogota. The next one is late tomorrow night. I asked them to put me in a flight to Bogota now. I need to spend the night with you.”
“Don’t worry,” she answered, “We’ll be at the airport. Just send me your flight number and the time of your arrival.”
The fear and anxiety were gone! I was going to be fine. I ran back to the gate from the Check-in counter with my new boarding pass, zoomed through security, which by then was completely lax.
At the gate, the attendant looked at me with exasperation and told me the flight was full and they were about to close the door. I handed her my pass and she went back to her computer screen still skeptical. At last, she pulled me by the arm and told me to hurry getting on the plane, which was already crammed. As soon as I settled in my middle seat, next to a fuming and loud swearing passenger, I got back to my phone to send my time of arrival and flight number to Lina.
“Okay Wafa,” she wrote back, “We’ll be at the airport and we’ll get you a hotel room. The Airline has to compensate you.”
“Thank you!” I replied just before switching my phone to Airplane Mode. The flight attendants had already closed the aircraft door. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and thanked my angels, even as my neighbor continued to curse furiously through the announcements. All was well. I was back being One with Source.
Their sweet smiles felt like a gift from heaven. In Bogota, the luggage area for domestic flights was just on the other side of a glass wall. Fabi-Lin and Fabian’s mother — who had insisted on coming along — were standing there waiting for me. I sent them air kisses and went looking for my suitcase in the slim chance it had made it with me. It had not.
After embracing them, I explained what happened in detail. Fabi-Lin asked for my boarding passes for both Bogota and Quito as well as my luggage stub. They assured me that I would be taken care of entirely and to just relax. There was not a hint of uncertainty in their voices, and I wanted to believe them despite my own lingering doubts.
They led me to the Avianca’s customer service desk where they spoke to a representative at length. In the meantime, I went to the ladies’ room to freshen up and let them handle it all as they had instructed.
When I made it back to the Avianca office, they had secured a five-star hotel room but were still not satisfied. After more unproductive haggling for additional monetary compensation for missing a day in Quito, they also obtained three meal vouchers and free hotel transportation to and from the airport. As to my suitcase, it was to be delivered to my hotel room in the early morning.
I was in awe of my friends. They were terrific problem solvers and determined to not take “no” for an answer. They drove me to my hotel themselves and had dinner with me before promising to return the following afternoon for some more time together.
My horrid adventure and twenty-four-hour flight postponement ended well after all. I was rescued from a sleepless night in a cold airport terminal. Vanessa, my unlucky Uber driver, on the other hand, did not get back home until past nine o’clock that night.
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Note: This is the 21st installment of a personal travelogue to South America, a solo journey I took in 2017 to countries I had never been to put to the test the emotional growth and spiritual expansion I had been cultivating since the spring of 2008.
