You never know quite what you’re going to get when you Couchsurf, and in my latest CS stay, I really wasn’t sure what to expect as I was to stay with the parents of a member of CS and not the CSer himself.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d written to Alexander in Cartagena seeking a couch, and he’d responded that although he was studying in Germany, he was sure his parents would love to have me.  His mother was waiting for my call.

And so it was that I ended up in la casa de Gloria y Albero, the best people I’ve met in Colombia–and, in fact, maybe in all of South America, with a few exceptions.

The sweet, happy couple welcomed me into their home, the first morning following an overnight bus ride from Medellin, invited me to join them for el almuerzo (pescado frito, patacones, cerveza y gaseosa), and told me repeatedly that I was a part of their family during my stay.  “Como una hija (like a daughter),” they said.

One day, Albero and I biked fifteen kilometers to Playa Blanca (where we met two vacationing Italian couples), a beach with blue, clear waters (much unlike the grey tones of Cartagena’s sea) and straw huts offering accommodations in hammocks and plates of fresh fish and arroz con coco, cold beer, and the opportunity to enjoy the freedom of doing not much at all.

And then after enjoying several days of Gloria and Albero’s hospitality (cafe tinto in the afternoons, ensalada de fruta one afternoon, almuerzos deliciosas, desayunos), and Spanish lessons (they corrected me often, and I embraced the corrections, intent upon learning the right way of speaking and not just speaking to be understood mas o menos), I said that I would like to prepare an almuerzo on my final day with them, and I said that I wanted to make pescado frito y patacone (a type of platano that is cooked in oil and then smashed and sprinkled with salt and lime juice before meeting the oil again) and a salad.  The latter I had covered, but for the former two, I’d need Gloria’s assistance.

Gloria readily agreeing, we set out for la pescaderia en la manana (she said it was best to go in the morning, very early), and on our way we passed fish vendor after fish vendor, scraping scales, chopping heads off, calling out to potential buyers.  But Gloria advised me that buying from these vendors was not a good idea, and she pointed out the pelicans that hovered above, waiting for a chance to descend.  She always, she informed me, went to the same pescaderia, and so on we walked, past Colombianos selling papayas and yucas and bananas, past breakfast stands where I smelled fresh fried things like arepas con huevos (two maize tortillas filled with an egg and deep-fried to a golden perfection) and buneulos, another deep-fried delicious treat.

We hadn’t eaten yet, Gloria nor I.  But when I suggested arepas con huevos, she made a little face, and I could see that eating in the market was not her thing (in spite of the fact that she enjoyed living with Albero simply, as she herself had told me, not having the taste for the expensive and often pretentious way of doing things).  But the market in Cartagena was the most disorganized, dirty market in the whole country, she’d shared.

“Pero, siempre como en los mercados y nunca estoy enferma (But, I always eat in the markets, and I’m never sick),” I said, and after buying the fish, Gloria agreed to meet my desire and said that we would look for arepas con huevos.  She walked past a couple of kiosks that looked acceptable to me and finally stopped at one, still looking skeptical but willing.

Moments later, as we walked through the disorganized, chaotic market with our bag of fish and a small bag of limes, Gloria confirmed what my taste buds were shouting, “Esta rico.  Mmmm.  Frescita y caliente.”

“Si, con carne!” I said.

Gloria and I cooked together and when Albero came home for lunch, he was pleased with our efforts, and I was happy to hear Gloria tell him about the arepas, even going so far as to recommend that he go the following morning!

Later, when I wanted to go to the market again to purchase fruit for my trip to Taganga, a small fishing village full of backpackers and, therefore, over-priced food, Gloria steered me in the direction of a grocery store.  Because she needed cafe, I dutifully went, but as I found no fruit to my liking, I arrived back at the house, announcing that in the morning before my trip, I was going to go to the market.

By this time, Gloria was smiling, Albero was wanting to hear what I thought of the market, and I was hoping to explain clearly the pleasure I derive from my market visits.

Sure, we have farmers’ markets back in NYC, grand, open-air spaces touting fresh fruits and vegetables, homemade pies and breads and cakes, flowers and crafts too, but there’s nothing that can compare to the markets of South America.  Nada.

And while in some places, notably Cartagena where the tourists all attach themselves to the old city and where I saw not a single extranjero in the market, I must call upon my courage to face the intense stares, the murmurs of appreciation (“Ah, mami.  Mona.  Que linda!  Ay, hermosa), and the lingering glances of desire I meet as I walk purposefully looking for something to eat or searching for the fruit stand that has everything I want, it’s all worth it to experience the local flavor.

I should note that I am keen on heeding the advice of locals who steer me away from places that they consider unsafe (as in Pisco, Peru, where I was practically forbidden to go to the market by myself), but as Gloria’s reasons for directing me away from the market didn’t involve issues of security, I felt comfortable going on my own, satisfied in knowing that I was seeing the real Cartagena and not just the stuff in the movies or the guidebooks.

And in the end, after our arepa experience, I think Gloria was happy to have had a little taste of the Cartagena market as well.  And maybe she’ll return and take a chance on another arepa.

I hope so.

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