I got lost on the way to Paola’s place on the other side of Medellin; ended up buying fruit in lieu of any real purpose in life, unaware of my next step or where I was being taken; purchasing questionable fruit from eager, bored people seemed like the thing to do. They let me sit under their umbrella and tell tired travel talk, ultimately sending me on my way with an armful of mysterious juice and confusing directions.
It’s a justifiable act to be vague in the Colombian heat. You just stare at the traffic and mumble half-hearted instructions that seep downward like sweat into the flammable black tar creating underground maps for an emotional city to get lost in.
Later that day, finally arriving in Paola’s garage, she asks if there’s anything else I need.
“Yeah, do you know where I can get a home pregnancy test?”