đź“ŤCartagena, Colombia, 3/20/22

A Colombian lady dressed in a traditional outfit was selling fresh fruit outside my hostel, and there was absolutely no way I could say no to that. I asked for a bowl before I even asked the price, which I have come to realize many times is a rookie travel mistake. Alas, I couldn’t bring myself to care enough. I’d give her whatever she wanted. She was adorable.

As I sat on a step in the park and ate the freshly cut fruit with a toothpick, the older man beside me turned my way. I stared blankly at him as he said something in a different language.

“What?” I asked.

“Oh, you’re not German?” He was surprised.

I get that a lot. German. Dutch. Swiss. American is rarely anyone’s first guess. I usually take that as a compliment. It’s not that I hate being American (wellllll), but any absurd amount of patriotism is bound to turn you a little anti-patriotic. Especially when there’s not a whole lot to be patriotic about.

The older man had to be about 60, or perhaps he was in his 50s and had just seen a whole lot of sun. I could tell he was the outdoorsy type. And by the sharp curve of his face and friendly eyes, you could tell he had once been a good-looking young fellow.

Our conversation flowed easily as we discussed where we had been traveling and where we were planning on going.

Even though he was older, he had a youthful energy. I found myself talking to him like I would to anyone my age.

But as he broke out in a jarring laugh at something I said that I didn’t think condoned a laugh like that, I couldn’t help but smile. He had that sort of nonchalance that only older people have mastered. The kind where little things don’t matter when your life has been full of so many big things.

He didn’t care if his laugh was too loud or out of place. He was just living as he saw fit and taking the maximum amount of joy out of sitting in the sunshine and eating some good fruit.

When we stood up, he took in my height. I smiled awkwardly as he made a comment about how I’d be perfect for his son, who is apparently 2 meters tall. Whatever that means.

But truth be told, I sorta enjoyed the thought of him as a father-in-law. We got along like friends get along, which I think is rare in that sort of relationship.

Parting ways, I wished him safe travels. Although I never got his name and his face will just become one in the hundreds that I have briefly passed by in my travels, I hope that writing him into existence will retain his memory–eternalize one short, albeit beautiful conversation that made me feel not lonely, even after being alone for so much time.