You see: With brown hair / brown eyes / strong brows, I am juuuust swarthy enough to pass as a kooky librarian of a number of ethnic backgrounds. & y'all know that I love every second, because my being mistaken as Persian, Argentinian, Jewish, Portuguese, Filipina, Tunisian, etc = INFINITELY preferable to my true, tragic Ukrainian reality! (Oh the native food options I could be eating if I was not grandfathered into the world's least loved legacy of cabbage and horseradish!!)
ALAS. This blog has probably indicated to you at some point, dear readership, what's really up in this ethnically-ambiguous gal's bloodline (Read: %$#%DISASTER).
But it is still my least-rational of personal joys: every time I am mistaken as Pakistani / Mexican / Turkish, my heart swells two sizes!!! A girl can dream!
And so: on my first day in Bogota, I have once again been able to revel in my ability to (((blend in))). Within 20 minutes on the street in the Candelaria district, I transformed into La Liza de Bogota - everyone's fave, slightly-less-goth-than-expected, bespectacled, eyebrows-fer-dayz native-Bogotana computer technician.
In the past, my major issues with my status as an ambiguously-ethnic iguana was that I was not (a heh.) actually very capable to fulfill the linguistic-side of my disguise (Sorry, Catalan....).
Lucky for me: I speak Spanish! And Colombian Spanish is so incredibly clear that I can understand what these crazy kids are trying to chat me up about! And Colombians are generally really friendly so it's usually something pleasant!!! (True tales: while consuming a delicious empanada in a cafe, a crew of Bogota females began to chat me up because they loved my "beautiful Cartagena Spanish (dialect)" .... La Liza de Cartagena.... ?????? I'LL TAKE IT; HELL YUS.)
And yet, language aside: there will always be a nonverbal, very large asterisk next to my ethnic-iguana status. Namely: when the folks in your given travel destination think you are one of them, they will speak / interact with you as if you are one of them.
... i.e. they will think you are not a tourist.
... i.e. they will assume you are a person that knows what they are doing in their not-supposed-to-be-foreign surroundings.
... i.e. they will not expect you to fail miserably at quotidian tasks like paying at a cash register or entering a bus. (Note: failing at basic core deliverables of life has been a cherished Ukrainian pasttime for centuries; therefore my own people would consider this tendency towards defeat to be a clear marker of my true Ukrainian spirit ohhh heyyyyy##)
This time around, my fake-local cover has been blown multiple times through one unmistakeable visual signifier: I can JUST barely walk down the streets of Bogota without entering peril at literally EVERY STEP.
(Disclaimer: Admittedly, the one Uke-pride activity (and I do mean, the ONE) that my parents did not choose for me was beautiful Ukrainian folk dancing. Hashtag I am very bitter. Thus I have never been coordinated and have lived a life of running into shit / tripping / falling / etc. That is just my ///FUN truth.)
Or perhaps it is my deep familiarity with tripping on my face that has given me an internal barometer for when the streetz really are notably critical(?!). I testify here: I never fallen with such frequency as I did on day 1 in Bogota.
Why are the streetz of Bogota so very very critical, you wonder? Read more, after the jump.
1) Sidewalk = entropy
Bogota is on the side of a mountain. It is also, like my lovely homeland Detroit, a city that struggles to fund street maintenance. It happens.
But Bogota streets have a notable tendency to integrate dramatic and unexpected dips/steps/potholes when you least expect it.
It does not help that you–oh, spritely, ambiguously-ethnic, American tourist–were already distracted because:
Step 1) you were actively struggling to walk down an uneven, 45-degree-slant-downward cobblestone street
Step 2) you were ALSO soaking in the beautiful city sights around you!!
Therefore, step 1 + step 2 = no way that a person would notice the inexplicable, oddly-literal step 3: an unnecessary single step/giant pothole -combo platter in the middle of an otherwise flat walkway! WUT YYYYY>>>>>>
Let it be on the record that this WTF-street-elevation-change realization most typically occurs at the same time that your ankle turns a full 90-degrees. Therefore, your are left to flail in the air helplessly for balance like a beautiful, graceful swan that is definitely definitely definitely Ukrainian. BAH.
And right in time: the kool crew of "we were checking you out, assumed-local female computer technician - but now we see you for the sadsack-tourist-american-princess that you are" -crew of 16 year-olds jeers from behind. Repeat this experience 5 or 6 times per hour; it's very uplifting.
But, following in the steps of my Cossack brethren before me, I will survive this great personal trial.... as long as I don't break my glasses! (La Liza de Bogota has to see in order to code some spooky shit, ya hear!!)
2) Cross-walks I barely knew thee
When I was in the taxi from the Bogota airport, I kept shuddering in terror as my driver swerved around random pedestrians. "What are these teenage fools doing crossing an eight-lane EXPRESSWAY with oncoming traffic??" I asked myself. "Why can't they channel their angst towards less perilous forms of rebellion, i.e. purchasing Happy Bunny products at Hot Topic... ??? GET WITH IT, GEEZ"
Then, once I entered the pedestrian Bogota fray myself, I realized: there are many places with crosswalks marked, but there are almost remarkably few stop signs / stop lights / walk signals anywhere. ANYWHERE.
I'm talking crazy-as-hell roundabouts; Broadway-sized avenues with two-way traffic; express-way exit ramps–not a true cross-walk in sight. Pedestrians wanting to basically cross the street are expected to just sprint for their lives, lest a car have to discontinue its forward momentum for 2 seconds to let walkers pass. (The struggle; it is real.)
And then I entered the Modern Art Museum; and my newfound insights into the psychological traumas of the crosswalk-free life became oh-so next-level.
You see: The major piece on display in the museum was a series of sculptures of traffic lights. Colombian sculptor Edgar Negret had visited NYC and found himself fascinated by how New Yorkers cross the street.
In essence: His sculptures were all amazing, deconstructed NYC WALK SIGNS. The very objects I had been pining for all day!
And since Spanish-language museum placards put every other langauge to shame with their deeply-felt sincerity and pages&pages&pages of text, I went on to read about how Negret was fascinated by ...CROSSWALKS... as a larger metaphor for humans feeling A-OK with the urban social contract.
The artist's spiel in the beginning of the exhibit went something like, "in this American city, they use the signals of red and green flashes of light to direct humans on the streets .... And it is this fundamental colored luminescense that informs the people to stop; others to go... a modern language of light that regulates the actions of others... and this crosswalk-light-system allows the disillusioned spirits in the great, harrowing American metropole to briefly but powerfully overcome their fear of other humans; their fear of death; and their basic fear of uncertainty that is really the core fear that rules ALL our lives....." etc etc etc
First - he is kind of right; my mind was kind of blown; cross-walks will never be the same ///ARTTTT OKAYY//////
Second - this dude, Negret. Did he know in 1959 that I, La Liza de Bogota, would one day encounter his crosswalk sculptures–not just on any old day, but rather on the very day that I learned how much I truly and deeply yearned for those flashing lights of hope? Did he know his words would stick in my pedestrian-death-fearing soul?? Did the gods send me a message of hope via abstraction?????
And in this way - 24 hours into this crazy excursion, I'm already forgetting the first-world-problemz/old-world-problemz/lonely-girl-problemz and growing the hell up. Only travel can unravel the pillars of identity within to make a saddo Slavic heart realize: I'm just another citizen of this weird and wonky world we live in; crossing the street and fearing for my life and wishing a little green light would put my heart at ease. The struggle is shared!
& there is no green light until you MAKE IT YOURSELF, son!
& there is no tourist/outsider angst unless you LET THAT SHIT in, friend!
& (PHEW) there is no Slavic ethnic identity that cannot be overcome by eating a large amount of empanadas and adopting optimism at all costs!!
And thus la Liza de Bogota enters the social fray! Cartagena accent on display and tripping like only a true computer technician can. Mind over matter! ////No shame y'all////
Another lesson learned.
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