October 7, 2012, Colombia. I ended up making friends with a young Mexican man from Mexico City named Le (short for Alejandro) who worked at the Musicology Hostel. Over the next week in Bogotá, we hung out together, visiting a few museums and hiking up to Guadalupe Hill, which overlooks the city and is marked by a towering statue of the Virgin de Guadalupe. On one of our walks out of the historic center, a police officer picked us up and warned that we were about to be robbed by a particular individual. Whether or not that was true, I’ll never know—but we were definitely grateful for the ride.

I really enjoyed visiting Bolívar’s house, where he lived with his lover and famously escaped through a window. The historic downtown was beautiful, and I even wandered into the swanky upscale shopping district just to see the contrast.

After a week in Bogotá, I caught a shuttle to Medellín. The wait was nearly four hours, so I felt lucky just to get on board. We stopped a couple of times along the way—once in a small village, and once at the edge of a stunning, forested canyon.

In Medellín, I stayed in Zona Rosa and spent a week exploring the city. I visited the Jardín Botánico and took the tram up to Piedras Blancas Ecological Park, where I saw a Blue Morpho butterfly fluttering through the forest. I rode the metro all over the city, including the gondola that glides over the favelas. Though I had been warned not to go alone, I ended up walking through one of those neighborhoods, climbing its main street and watching everyday life unfold.

I made friends with a local Couchsurfer who took me on long walks and introduced me to his family. His father and I had some thoughtful conversations about Colombia’s history, hegemony, and the struggles of the people. It was one of the most meaningful parts of my time there.

From Medellín, I took a colectivo (shared taxi) to the coffee-growing region and stopped in Salento, where I stayed at a hostel connected on a small coffee plantation owned by a friendly Australian. These were no ordinary beans, but original coffee plants from Ethiopia, and he wanted to sell them as single origin beans. On a tour of his farm, I helped translate the particulars for non-Spanish speakers. That felt good. I met some hip travelers who boasted of another lodging nearby set in a lovely setting. I moved there for a few nights, and was invited to join an ayahuasca ceremony but felt too physically and emotionally exhausted to commit to an all-night ritual.

One day, I took a shuttle to a hummingbird preserve in the mountains. Near the trailhead, tall native palms swayed in the wind. It seemed that every tourist who came to hike the steep trail to the preserve was accompanied by a dog. In my case it was a Beagle. He was friendly and quick, and although I was a fast walker, he was a faster trotter. I wondered where he’d come from, as there didn’t appear to be any human habitation nearby.

About an hour up the trail, an older woman passed me as if I were standing still. I am always amazed when this happens, since in the US, almost no one can keep up with me. I have been passed countless times in small villages all over the world, often by people much older than myself. Something to strive for.

I loved Salento, but only had a few more weeks before my plane from Cancun to SFO on November 7. I decided to head to Santa Fe de Antioquia, a place full of history—Simón Bolívar passed through here too. At one point it was even the capital. The main square was beautiful, lined with colonial architecture. I didn’t climb the famous stone mountain nearby, but the view from the base was spectacular. During a long walk, I spoke with a man who remembered the drug wars vividly. He shared stories of violence—of neighbors and family members being shot. It was chilling. At my lodging in Santa Fe, I ran into James, a guy I’d met while staying in Chile. What a weird, serendipitous occasion. He was a kind person and I was glad to reconnect.

Sadly, I was running out of time. I had a plane to catch from Cancun on November 7, and decided to make my way north. I had a week and half before I’d be heading home.