Proud to say that my first night in Bogotà was uneventful. Save for my friend and her 3rd World communication skills.
I’ll highlight the lowlights and we can get on with this:
- Interrogation
- No luggage
- No pick up
- No money
- No working cash machines
- No toiletries
- No bueno
After quick sleeps and crawling back into my stiff socks and even stiffer undies, we were back at the airport the next morning to catch a flight out west to Armenia. The coffee capital of your shameful morning addiction and apparently home to the finest women in South America. No shit. That’s what they say.
Nonetheless, it’s afternoon of Day 3 and I still have no luggage. I’ve retired my undergarments and have them standing atop the television set. A vivid reminder of the potential biohazards of international travel. Also, I need to send them to laundry today. But lucky me. I have two Colombian women to take me shopping. Which almost didn’t happen because of Claudia's Soviet Era box powered by a lawn mower engine that required pulling of the string at every stop light and a complete inability to climb hills greater than a 3% Grade. Which means we had to get a running start to even get out of the hotel parking garage.
Most everything turned out ok. Except one vital part of my wardrobe. Colombia’s interpretation of so called, “Boxer Shorts.” Depending on various atmospheric variables and Taiwanese clothes designers, I swing between a 34 and a 36. So, I purchased a pair of what looked like rather comfy Boxer Briefs. 36/38. Clean. Cotton. Dark Navy Blue.
And 12 sizes too short.
Also, there was no slotted access to my junk which as you know, is an integral part of the public restroom urinal experience. How you can overlook such an important part of engineering is beyond me. But my bigger problem was asphyxiation. Which was, unbeknownst to me, adversely affecting my gait. And after a few hazy moments of lower cerebral level problem solving, (and some socially unacceptable manual exploration which may get you arrested in some countries for public restroom disturbance), I realized that the upper level of the waist band was below the lower level of my pants zipper. And with a little effort, I was able to break the vacuum seal of my waist band and lower the barometric pressure of the room a few points. Below is a scale model of what we’re going through. Approximately 6 inches above the beer can is where my navel sits. And to put this into further perspective, I'm 6'5" and my upper thighs are bigger than 2 beer cans in girth. Also, I had no pants on when I took this photo.
I’ll highlight the lowlights and we can get on with this:
- Interrogation
- No luggage
- No pick up
- No money
- No working cash machines
- No toiletries
- No bueno
After quick sleeps and crawling back into my stiff socks and even stiffer undies, we were back at the airport the next morning to catch a flight out west to Armenia. The coffee capital of your shameful morning addiction and apparently home to the finest women in South America. No shit. That’s what they say.
Nonetheless, it’s afternoon of Day 3 and I still have no luggage. I’ve retired my undergarments and have them standing atop the television set. A vivid reminder of the potential biohazards of international travel. Also, I need to send them to laundry today. But lucky me. I have two Colombian women to take me shopping. Which almost didn’t happen because of Claudia's Soviet Era box powered by a lawn mower engine that required pulling of the string at every stop light and a complete inability to climb hills greater than a 3% Grade. Which means we had to get a running start to even get out of the hotel parking garage.
Most everything turned out ok. Except one vital part of my wardrobe. Colombia’s interpretation of so called, “Boxer Shorts.” Depending on various atmospheric variables and Taiwanese clothes designers, I swing between a 34 and a 36. So, I purchased a pair of what looked like rather comfy Boxer Briefs. 36/38. Clean. Cotton. Dark Navy Blue.
And 12 sizes too short.
Also, there was no slotted access to my junk which as you know, is an integral part of the public restroom urinal experience. How you can overlook such an important part of engineering is beyond me. But my bigger problem was asphyxiation. Which was, unbeknownst to me, adversely affecting my gait. And after a few hazy moments of lower cerebral level problem solving, (and some socially unacceptable manual exploration which may get you arrested in some countries for public restroom disturbance), I realized that the upper level of the waist band was below the lower level of my pants zipper. And with a little effort, I was able to break the vacuum seal of my waist band and lower the barometric pressure of the room a few points. Below is a scale model of what we’re going through. Approximately 6 inches above the beer can is where my navel sits. And to put this into further perspective, I'm 6'5" and my upper thighs are bigger than 2 beer cans in girth. Also, I had no pants on when I took this photo.
