medellín made my soul feel like a recycled powerpoint slide
okay, so i’m in medellín. i came here because a client vaguely mentioned ‘transformative urban renewal’ and my passport needed a stamp that wasn’t a sad airport carpet. the air here isn’t air, it’s a warm, wet blanket someone spilled cheap floral perfume on. i just checked the humidity-92 percent-and it’s the kind of weather where your thoughts get soggy and you forget what you were angry about. it’s…there, hope you like that kind of thing.
this city doesn’t sleep, it just does cocaine and stares at you. i’ve been walking for hours and i keep ending up back at this *plaza where a guy is selling arepas that taste like sadness and cheese. someone told me that if you get bored, Guatapé and its stupid colorful houses are just a short drive away. i’m bored, but the drive requires a functioning will to live.
the street art is incredible, sure. Comuna 13 is a visual scream into the void. but every tour group is shoving a selfie stick into my peripheral vision. i overheard a guy from boston on a free walking tour say, ‘it’s so authentic!’ as he bought a $15 empanada from a guy in a ‘local’ t-shirt. i heard that the real locals just want you to stop blocking the staircase with your drone.
food-wise, i had a bandeja paisa that could feed a small militia. the beans were perfect, the chicharrón was a cry for help. i checked yelp for a place called Entera-some ‘experiential dining’ buzzword fest-and the top review just said ‘overpriced soul.’ i believed it. the city’s energy is a 5am espresso shot that never wears off and leaves you jittery and weirdly nostalgic for a cubicle.
night here is a different beast. the lights of the aburrá valley look like someone scattered diamonds on black velvet. it’s almost worth the humidity. almost. i went to a botanical garden that was lush and quiet and then a bar that was loud and sticky. a woman Painting her nails at the bar told me, ‘you came for the transformation, but you’ll leave with the humidity.’ she’s not wrong.
this isn’t a ‘vibrant’ or ‘nestled’ place. it’s a gritty, singing, sweating, hopeful monster. the transformation is real, you can feel it in the cracked sidewalks and the new metro cables slicing through the sky. but it’s not your transformation. it’s theirs. you’re just a consultant with a notebook, trying to write a report on a feeling.
if you come, bring clothes that wick sweat and a sense of humor that’s already half-dead. skip the selfie sticks in comuna 13. just walk. listen. let the humidity absorb your cynicism. maybe it’ll grow something useful.
[p.s. someone on a tripadvisor forum swears by this hidden café* in el poblado that has air conditioning and zero english menus. i found it. it was just a bare room with a fan and a lady who gave me a look that said ‘you are the problem.’ i drank the tinto, it was bitter, i deserved it.]
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