Falling in Love with Imperfection in Colombia

Sometimes I wonder how many tomatoes I’ll cut in my life and the number of tomatoes I’ve already cut. It’s one of those ordinary life events that feel like a ritual to me. The bamboo cutting board, the steel knife. The tiny seeds and the jelly flesh. I feel connected to humans across our world, past and present. I think about the grandmother in Sicily, the samosa street vendor in India, an auntie stirring a pot of jollof in Lagos.

Sentimentalism aside, it was a tomato that gave me my first experience with food poisoning a week ago or at least I think it was. I can still see the traitor, the Judas nestled amongst the other tomatoes in the plastic container. It had a bit of mold on the stem area so I decided to use it first before it was unredeemable. It took two slices to rid the tomato of the mold which made me raise an eyebrow. The rest looked perfect though, so in it went into the hot oil and garlic for my sautéed rice and eggs. You may shake your head ‘No’ with me.

As one could guess, a couple hours later the pit of my stomach was volatile like lightning on a stormy night. I still attended the Corazón y Alma yoga class that evening as planned, praying that all stayed quiet on the western front as my body twisted in different positions during the slow flow class. By the next evening, I had a fever and chills and my skin felt sore to the touch. The mere thought of food was beginning to make me feel nauseous. Yet I figured with some rest and ginger capsules, I’d be okay. A week long vacation in paradise awaited me after all.

Pink powdery Pepto Bismol tablets pulled me through my early morning hour flight and I arrived in Taganga. A sleepy fishing village nestled in lush mountains on Colombia’s Caribbean coast. My body craved nature after walking the perfectly manicured streets of the Laureles neighborhood in Medellín for the past month. Exiting my taxi, I managed to walk up three flights of stairs to get to my room with majestic views of the bay and surrounding greenery. It was breakfast time and despite having no appetite, I willed myself to the grocery store that was a short walk down a winding hill. Of course at the bottom of the hill, a group of local men sat waiting on the curb and a crescendo of catcalls ensued. Like any and every woman before me, I put on my best poker face before passing them but it was in vain as I accidentally cracked a smile from the witty remarks thrown my way. “Necesitas un servicio de novio amor?”

Visions of eating freshly caught fried fish on the beach were replaced by me making a Thanksgiving side for one as only homemade mashed potatoes sounded appetizing. As the day went on, I could only stomach broth. All the Internet’s medical pages assured me within 48 hours, I’d most likely improve so I decided to not intervene in what my body needed to release. My body welcomed the permission as the next day my period arrived in full force and my stomach and uterus were in a cat fight to see who could cause the most cramps. Without much to do but lie in bed, I turned to technology to erase my boredom which transpired into heartache when I saw a summer lover was dating someone new. Then the fifth of November transpired and decisions were made and the world and my world further darkened like an eclipsed sky.

By the time I went to the doctor, it was day five in paradise. Patience is a virtue, but it can also be a crutch. I finally raised the white flag and found a clinic with a name I liked (doesn’t Capri sound classy?) and headed into Santa Marta, the city bordering Taganga. Looking out the window of my taxi, the world opened up around me like the first full body stretch of the morning. Roads bejeweled with trash and mangy stray dogs were a welcomed sight after being on the lonely island of my bed.

As I waited in the medical clinic, I felt grateful to the 14 year old who took her Spanish classes too seriously and followed through with her dream of fluency. It also helped that everyone in the clinic was warm, patient, and attentive. I peered around the waiting room imagining the stories of those who surrounded me. A father holding his teary little boy, his love palpable with that parental instinct of wanting to absorb their child’s pain. A baby sleeping in doting arms, an older couple whose time honored bond emanated from them. I wondered how they found each other and when. We craned our necks to a telenovela playing with the volume too low to be heard waiting for our healing.

“Tu tienes el color de piel hermooosaaa!”

“Your skin is a beautifulllll color!” Those were the words returned to me by la Doctora Gabriella. Even with food poisoning, there’s always time for romance or at least a little flirting. I couldn’t resist the chance to tell her she was muy guapa as I got up from the desk at the end of my consultation. Her eyelashes batted down as she took in the compliment being thrown her way and a smile broke across her red wine painted lips. I tried not to take too many glances at the beauty mark that adorned them. “Only in Colombia would I have a doctor this beautiful,” I thought to myself. She had a levity that made it surprisingly easy to share the unsavory details of my illness and we laughed at my fateful decision to eat the tomato. “Whyyyy would you do that??” she exclaimed, switching to English. She complimented my Spanish and I thanked the Universe for this bit of sweetness in the midst of a less than ideal vacation.

My pastillas de anticuerpos in tow, I made my way back to my room, suddenly aware that I had only one full day left of my trip and feeling quite unpoetically bummed. I lamented over why it took me so long to go to the doctor and my mother reminded me to be easy on myself because I was doing what I thought was best. When I woke up the next day, I chose not to think of time lost but time remaining. I told myself it would be the most beautiful day ever. I shuffled down the hill to the beach, once again losing my poker face from the comical commentary of the catcallers waiting at the bottom. “Ayyy una sonrisa!” “Ella puede sonreír, ella puede sonreír!”

I ate breakfast next to the ocean despite not being trustworthy of food, but because la Doctora advised me to consume more than broth. I nibbled at warm tostones that were thin and crispy and looked like they were made with love. They rooted me as I made my way down the sandy boardwalk, passing the early morning crowds perched in front of the beachfront restaurants. A spiral of locals with shimmering brown skin the same color as mine surrounded me. I slowly peeled off the layers to reveal my brown bikini blending into the painting.

The sea felt like grace personified as I waded into her gentle waves. There were bits of litter and strange smells but I didn’t care. The cool breeze mimicked my exhale as I burrowed my toes in the sand peering at the shades of blue between the sky and the ocean meeting at the horizon. It was a journey, but I finally made it.

Some moments before entering the water, I overheard some English and turned toward two women who looked my age a few feet away. We ended up sitting closer after I asked if one of them could watch my belongings while swimming. They were friends from Switzerland. One friend was originally from the Netherlands whose golden blonde curls made her look like she belonged in a Rembrandt painting. The other was half-Swiss and half-Mexican and living in Cali, the salsa capital of Colombia. She was there writing her thesis on why it is empowering for women to dance salsa despite male artists being most dominant in salsa music. Her German tinged accent when speaking English and her perfect Mexican Spanish were an intriguing mixture as I soaked in the topic.

Our conversation effervesced effortlessly as we bonded over fleeting lovers and passion and dissected possible signs from the Universe. We bonded as women in our late 20s, searching for something more than what stability could give us, searching for a life that speaks the language of our souls. We took turns baptizing ourselves in the ocean and then made our way to one of the seaside restaurants ordering freshly grilled fish and quenching our thirst with un jugo natural. Our conversation winded to the topic of coincidences and if such a thing exists.

We decided it wasn’t a coincidence that we met each other that day. My last day in Taganga and their first and only. My heart was soothed by the kindness of spontaneous connection and from that gratitude flowed. The unfolding of my trip was nothing like expected, but I realized I was still able to do all that I had daydreamed about in the weeks leading up to it. I ate fresh fish, I read, I wrote. I felt my body open in the water and communed with my grandmother’s spirit in the ocean. There were sherbet sunsets and heart opening conversations. Nothing was perfect, but it was still beautiful.