I put my hands up in the air sometime, saying... YEEEEEEEHAAAAAW!

After seeing the real Bogota, Felipe was so kind as to take us to his hometown, Villavicencio, three hours outside of Bogota.  Nothing like a trip within a trip.  And I was relieved to be traveling by any means besides airplane (haven’t had the best luck with those).  Our plan was to take a bus.  And by bus, I mean 12 passenger van.  Felipe and I discussed our future life plans in depth for three hours and also he explained to me that I pronounce the entire Spanish language incorrectly.  Better late than never.

Yenny + Felipe 

I'm well versed in the hand shaped heart pictures.  This was taken in Shanghai May 2009 when James and Sarah had first met, and now, two years later, they're still dating.  You're welcome.

Felipe’s house was gorgeous and bustling with family.  Lots of people, lots of activity.  I quickly ingratiated myself with his younger siblings and cousins with the classic pato, pato, pollo.  And his dad’s business is none other than POPSICLES! What a treat! Especially because Villavicencio is hot – sweaty, humid hot.  Although only three hours from Bogota, it’s down the mountain and is considered the “llano” or plains, so the weather is vastly different.

One of our biggest reasons for going to Villeciencios was the nightlife.  We had already gone out once in Bogota, and it went splendidly.  In Bogota, we met up with some of Felipe and Cristian’s friends: two boys and two girls.  These girls were insanely attractive, petite, Latinas who exude sex appeal from every pore.  They were dressed very fashionably and their dance moves turned heads.  I turned heads for another reason.   Let me a paint a picture for you:

No suitcase = No clothes. No makeup. No hairbrush. No nothing.

There I am – in my mom jeans that I bought at the clothes warehouse, Yenny’s shirt that didn’t fit, Yenny’s bra that really didn’t fit, my New Balance tennis shoes with paint splatters from painting the school in Piura, no makeup, bird's nest hair, vampire pale skin, towering over everyone by at least six inches, and flailing about like a crazy person despite Felipe and Cristian’s best efforts to teach me how to dance.

And I was sober.

Normally, this doesn’t sound like my ideal night but it was surprisingly really, REALLY fun.  There were some La Hora Loca aspects, a live performance, and they played Lou Bega’s classic Mambo Number Five.

I put hands up in the air sometime, saying...

YEEEEEEE HAAAAAAAAW!

We once again put on our dancing shoes (read: paint covered sneakers), and repeated the process in Villavicencio.  We went out with the four regulars + Felipe's cousin, Juan David.  The odds were in our favor (well more so than the tango class).  We danced and laughed until four in the morning and had a gay ol' time.

Felipe’s dad treated us to lunch on Sunday after Mass.  We went to a typical restaurant of the area (I can just hear Alberto from Valencia: typico).  This was a restaurant I could get on board with.  The choices were: beef or pork.  We ordered both.  They come out with a MASSIVE plate of meat, yucca, and plantains.  The meat had been slow cooked for hours.  The best part: we ate with our hands.  Katherine would have been appalled, especially after her grueling Cotillion (cataaaallion) lessons in junior high.  Our beverage of choice was like a clara, but Colombian style.  It was a mix of Aguila (Colombian beer) and Colombiana (Colombian soda).  Me gusta.

 Forks were optional.

The restaurant featured a live, traditional band sporting traditional attire, which included cowboy boots.

I remarked that although Felipe claims we’re in Colombia, I’m pretty sure we’re in Oklahoma: cowboys and barbecue – not to mention there was a photo of an oilrig on the wall.  Said live, traditional band had a singer que atrevido (bold).  He waltzed right up to me, mid song, stuck the microphone in my face and expected me to finish the lyrics.  There were many things wrong with this situation:  First of all, I don’t sing… EVER (except when I’m drunk at O’Connell’s).  Secondly, I don’t speak Spanish in public if I can help it.  Thirdly, and most obviously, I don’t know the song.  No hard feelings – the singer still wanted me to buy his CD.

If Peru and Colombia were competing for best singer that makes me extremely uncomfortable… Danffer wins hands down.  Besides, he wrote a song for me (“Lorita” = instant classic) and serenaded me last summer and he gave (no purchase necessary) me his CD.  It wasn’t a fair fight.

Colombia.  Wow Lorita, lookin fly.

Peru.  I don’t make a habit of hugging large, sweaty men (in sequined shirts) – only on request.

After lunch, we made a stop at this hole in the wall restaurant for my favorite thing I ate on the entire trip (besides San Jacinto lunch in Piura – I really can’t top that), but more than Inca Kola, more than Sublimes, more than Argentine steak, more than chifa, more than pasta with whole squid (that one was a bust), more than ceviche, more than medialunas, more than the absolutely delicious guacamole the cooks make at Santisimo (I am so embarrassed.  My mouth jus started watering)… EVEN MORE THAN CHIFLES.

Queso sietecueros con bocadillo: A delicious cheese with candy (and here I was thinking that bocadillo meant sandwich).  They were delectable separate, but eaten together, the combination of flavors were truly spectacular.  I think Felipe’s dad was a little put off by my enthusiasm.

We took the "bus" (this time the vehicle was only slightly larger than an SUV) back to Bogota and finally it was time for our tear filled departure...

The four best friends that anyone could have.

(Spotted: MOM JEANS)

But wait, what about my suitcase?!

Luggage lost: January 12, 2011

When we had to fly back to Oklahoma on the 17th, I was still sans luggage.  After droppin some f bombs with the LAN representative and threatening to call the CIA on them, I finally accepted defeat.  Because I didn't have a suitcase, my checked luggage was a GIANT stuffed caterpillar that Cristian's mom had made for his girlfriend in Oklahoma.  So my only belongings were my backpack, the Mario pillow, and the caterpillar.  I travel light (and plush).

Upon arriving in Houston, we had to claim our luggage for customs.  As Yenny and I stood in line, I didn't look sketch at all holding my huge, slightly torn trash bag.

The customs official said, "Next!".  I handed him my form...

Official: (in a heavy Texas accent) What's in the bag, ma'am?

Lori:  (very sheepishly) A giant, stuffed caterpillar.

He takes a look at the bag, looks at me, and then takes another look at the bag.

Official:  Welcome back.

Luggage found:  January 23, 2011

Yes, my friends, after 11 days of despair, I was finally reunited with my precious suitcase.  But not after LAN gone one final gag in:

I received an email saying that my luggage would arrive to Will Rogers World Airport (haha world airport. More like – hey, you can maybe catch a flight to Dallas) on an American Airlines flight.  I rise bright and early Saturday morning and trek all the way to Oklahoma City with a sparkle in my eye and a bounce in my step.  And then I waited.  The all too familiar feeling returned when the baggage claim conveyor spouted out unfamiliar suitcases.  As you probably guessed, it didn’t come.  LAN, you did it again, you little bastards.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, I will never fly your airline again.  Fortunately, it arrived the next day.  It was like a mother reuniting with her child…

I missed you.

So now I’m back in Oklahoma, my leg has healed from my run in with shelf at the market, my tan lines are fading, I’m back to facebooking my Peruvian friends with “te extraño mucho,” I'm finally showering on a regular basis, and I’m looking forward to the next travel adventure...

 Ash and Lorz Do Europe May 2011.

This should be good.