Estoy Solo

The sounds of Medellin hit differently. Cars rumbled by, mopeds honked their salutations, and only the occasional blare of neighborhood music could sheathe them. Normally, I wear headphones when I travel. Like always. But not that day. On my first solo trip, jetlagged and in an unfamiliar place, I was spooked. Netflix ‘Narcos’ being at its height, didn’t help.

I stared at my phone’s GPS (roaming charges be damned) and kept peeking at my taxi driver. Was he legit? No clue. At the airport, they all had ‘Taxi’ on them, but none had medallions or name placards. Uber wasn’t a thing yet in Columbia, so he was my guy. But I didn’t know this guy. My paranoia spiked, and I was oblivious to the sights as we climbed the Andes mountains. But I kept reminding myself, this should would be different. I knew I would be scared, and that was a big reason I came to Columbia. To challenge myself and get out of my comfort zone. Breathe, Tommy J, breathe.

Then we hit the top of the Andes and started our slow descent into the Aburra Valley. I’m very blessed to have seen a lot of beautiful things in my life, but nothing, I mean nothing, compared to coming down that mountain. In a moment, the whole lush metropolis of Medellin consumed me. I let out a quiet ‘whoa’ as we weaved down the 1600-meter serpent of a road. One turn would reveal packed high-rises, next a vibrant neighborhood, and then a gorgeous park. The Andes caressed it all.

First lesson in solo traveling: be selfish. Don’t get me wrong, traveling with friends is the bees’ knees, but there are some great upsides to doing it solo. I could revel in the magnificence of it by myself. Sure, if a buddy was around, we’d enjoy it together. But, when you’re all alone, there’s no distraction, no social contract that says ‘hey, let’s talk about this.’ I just got to take it in. A childish smile never left my face.

Plus, I can eat where I want. No coordination needed for festival departure time. I pick the neighborhoods to get lost in. You get my point. But on that ride down that valley, that notion really hit me. It was all me. I had a soccer game and music festival planned. Besides that, just let the Medallion breeze blow me where it shall.

I cruised to a weird market tucked on a side street. I got some juice I’d never seen before, cause why the heck not? But the highlight was the empanada shop. Throughout my travels, there has always been one cardinal rule - with food, always follow the crowd. People waiting in line blocked the entire sidewalk for a literal hole in the wall. No indoor seating and just a crescent opening for customers to order their delicious pastries and get on their merry way. Oh, and they only have one type of empanada - carne y papas. That’s it. For the whopping price of forty cents, I had one of the best foods I’ve ever eaten. I ate those empanadas twice more before leaving Medellin. Don’t get me wrong, mixing it up is key travelling. But the Beatles are the Beatles, man. Catch my drift? Don’t pass up on the genuine article when it’s right next door.

Next up, Nacional Football Club soccer game. The equivalent of Manchester United (in their heyday anyway). The second city acting as top dog for the nation’s most beloved sport of soccer (I really feel like a schmoe when I call it football). Their stadium and fans had quite the reputation for rowdiness - to put it mildly. So the old butterflies were swimming in me as I took the Metro (quick tangent, but Medellin has the coolest ‘subway’ in the world. It’s a train in some places, but a ski-lift-like gondola in others. Those gondolas climb the side of the mountain and you hear the city below as the cart chugs up. Really cool. Ok, back to the game!). I was nervous. I was anxious. But excited too. 

I can still remember getting off the Metro and the blanket of noises that hit me. I’ve been to my share of sporting events, so most of it was familiar: vendors hawking grub, fans singing, and thirteen inch TVs blaring from the bars. But it was all in Spanish (I know, duh, right?), but there is a completely different vibe when it’s in a different language. It adds voltage to the moment. 

Leaving the station, that’s when I knew I was in for a treat. It opened to a square where sixteen-year-old kids were getting tuned up on ‘Jonnie Walker Black’ while singing their hearts out. Hundreds of them going crazy. Then some beautiful soul started a chant that everybody knew. The mob exiting the train went nuts. Scarfs swung, whistles blared, and I bobbed my head. Vamos Nacional!

Time to get involved. I ordered a cocktail from a vendor (I use that term loosely; wasn’t like the guy wore a name tag) and cruised down the corridor to the stadium. It got more and more packed. The buzz grew. Tingle city was developing. 

But then we go to the entryways. Fifty lines, each with at least one hundred people. My Spanish is trash, and I didn’t know what line to get in. Finally, I approached an attendee and pointed at my ticket. She rattled off a couple of sentences in Spanish and my blank face was all she needed. With a giggle, she waved me toward a closed door and opened it. My Colombian angel to save this poor, confused Gringo. 

I’m in the stadium now, and the hairs are rising on my arms. A dark pathway, essentially under the seats, led me forward. I could hear the whir of the crowd, but it’s just a whiff of the excitement. When I made it to the actual pitch, it was something to behold. I knew the fans were passionate, and I knew it would be nuts. But pictures on the internet didn’t do it justice. It was chaotic, orchestrated magic. Everybody, and I mean everybody, was standing and singing. Flags the size of movie screens swung everywhere. My arms prickle just thinking about it.

But I still had a problem. I didn’t know exactly where my seat was. I figured out the section, but the seat number on the ticket didn’t mean jack to me, Jack. Another lesson I learned quickly. Don’t talk to cops in Medellin (or do your homework on the local fuzz). I asked one of them and pointed at my ticket. He didn’t say a word. He just gave me that look, ‘Like you seriously asking me this pal?’ Luckily, a fan ran over and gave me the international wave of hands. Don’t do that. He pulled me aside, and I showed him my ticket. He gave me a little laugh and then waved to the section below us. His eyes mused, ‘Bro, that number on there is a suggestion.’ Worked for me and I found an open spot.  

I took the obligatory, touristy video of the crowd going bonkers. Two locals took pictures of me pitch side (in my new knock off jersey, of course). Then asked where I was from in broken English, and I responded in my shattered Espanol. It was awesome. But for me, that was kind of it. I stayed for a half and cruised around the stadium. The fans never stopped singing. I mean, the entire half, song after song. But I realized I’d gotten what I wanted. Time to go. That’s the beauty of traveling solo.

Next stop, the Breakfast music festival to see my favorite band, the Foals. The catalyst for me coming to Medellin. Quick background - my new job sucked, and I thought, ‘where are the Foals playing?’ Maybe a quick trip somewhere will help break the funk. Hmm, they’re playing on a Friday in Medellin in two weeks. Hmm, the flights are pretty cheap, actually. The hotels are really cheap. F it and I pulled the trigger.

The festival started with another visit from my good friend, Language Barrier (the combination of Google Translate and cheapish international roaming didn’t exist yet). Anywho, I needed to pick up my ticket first. I went to five incorrect booths, had eight people point me somewhere (I hit them with that crisp ‘Gracias’), before I got the right person. But it was incoherent chatter and confusion for five minutes. Then a local, who spoke great English, translated for me.  

“Show your credit card and passport, then sign here,” my new bestie instructed. 

In my extreme gratitude, I got a little too jazzed and dropped my credit card into a drain. This thing was huge. But homeboy, without skipping a beat, said, “On the count of three?”  

We lifted it; I grabbed my card, and everything got sorted out. This guy helped a rando from America just because he was a good dude. That simple. I promised him a beer if I saw him at the festival.  

The Foals and the festival were just what I needed. I listened to some great tunes, met a couple of people, and we drank and danced like fools. Only stopping to communicate in charades, laughing at everything we couldn’t understand. Which was pretty much anything outside of ‘Mi nombre es Tom.’ It was awesome. When traveling really hits the spot, I feel content. It’s also a kind of buzz (or maybe that was the Aguardiente talking). That night in Medellin was that night. 

Traveling solo taught me a huge lesson. Most people are good folks. They want to help, especially if you are by your lonesome. Sure, it’s not one hundred percent. I’m looking at you, Istanbul. But mostly it’s true. If you’re not a jackass, then people want to be friendly. As for Istanbul, I’m not saying all Istabulites are mean. I’m saying it’s a numbers game. I ran into some less than hospitable people in Istanbul, but that’s like the one time it’s happened. It could have happened anywhere. Sometimes you get lemons, but mostly, people are lemonade. Which is pretty rad.  

The biggest lesson of traveling alone: let go. First, I was so worried about the Taxi driver. Was he taking me somewhere nefarious? Did he even understand where I asked him to go? In the end, I was fine. Guy did a wonderful job getting me to my hotel. I was also stressed the week before the trip. Stoked, but stressed. Will I make it to the game alright? What if I get lost? Is the ghost of Pablo Escabor going to get me? Just dumb stuff. Every time I just went with it, and figured it out (with the help of some amazing people), amazing things happened. So, in parting, just let go. Yeah, I’ve had some fun run-ins traveling alone, but they’re edge cases. Plus, they can make for some darn good stories.