Downtown Medellin, Colombia is where you will find the Botero Plaza with those wonderful eponymous, enormous statues, a major tourist attraction during the day. But in the evening the streets return to the locals.

My hostel, however, was only two blocks away so I took this opportunity to walk around. I was the only foreigner in sight.

The atmosphere was lively.  Just beyond the plaza there were street vendors hawking fruits, vegetables, clothing, toys, and household goods  along  a pedestrian mall with shops on each side. The residents were bargaining and strolling: families, couples, teens.

I was thirsty and bought a papaya drink. It was quite large, too large,  and with the cup -half empty- I threw it in a trash can.

Within seconds, the drink was snatched up by a thin young man who clearly lived on the streets. The color of his clothing was indistinguishable from the color of his skin.  Dirt was so deeply embedded into both.

He quickly took a sip from this cup -half full- said one word, “papaya”, gave me the biggest smile and, cup in hand, continued on his way.

A number of years ago, I read of an acclaimed restaurant located a couple of hours from where I was visiting. I saw it as an opportunity to eat some delicious food, discover the countryside of Portugal and go by rail, my favorite means of travel.

The passage was pleasant. I arrived and found the restaurant, meters from the train station, perched on a hill with a verdant valley below. It was the only place in “town” to eat.  I could see a few homes a little ways off and not much else.

The staff was gracious and the view was splendid. I enjoyed my lunch, although I can not recall what it was. Afterwards I attempted a stroll, but the very steep terrain made it difficult to explore. After another hour of admiring the vista, I thought, “Ok, that was pleasant, time to head back.”

The schedule, something I had not bothered to look at beforehand,  indicated that the return train would arrive in six hours!

Six more hours here?!

I noticed a small cafe on the other side of the tracks,but it was closed. The area was as quiet as one might suspect during siesta hours. Fortunately it had a few outdoor tables on a shaded terrace.

I always travel with at least two books; one to read and one to write in. I had brought both. I settled in for a long wait…. But was soon distracted. Birds alighted beside me on grapevines heavy with fruit. Butterflies were too shy to linger but entertained me with their erratic flight. The proprietário, after an hour or so, opened the doors exposing the intimate interior of the cafe. We exchanged greetings, I ordered a drink and fumbled with a mixture of romance languages to engage in some pleasantries. It was not long before he was chatting with the regulars. Most went directly inside to escape the sun.

I relaxed, reflected, observed, read, walked a distance beside the tracks then read, relaxed, reflected, observed. The terrace light evolved from an oppressive glare to a softer glow. One or two trains rumbled by.  Time was passing much more quickly than I could have imagined. Subtle activities wove a unique fabric of interest as the day progressed.

This afternoon comes back to me often; a chance to appreciate time, travel anew.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Welcome to the tales of a woman solo traveler and thoughts to make today the start of something new. I hope you find information and inspiration in the text and images and join me in my quest for growth, wonderment and self-improvement.