After rum on New Year's Eve, Mark decided he must really hate me because we headed out to El Peñól de Guatapé, where we commenced climbing 649 steps up very Hogwarts-esque staircases to the top of this monolith, two hours outside of Medellín.
I thought I was going to die. No, I was pretty sure of it. I was sweating so profusely that even my legs were saturated and my jeans were sticking to me. What's funny about all this (if it can be called funny) is that on the way up when you're insanely embarrassed-because you think this climb shouldn't be hard for someone who is technically young and yet old guys are passing you- you think you're the only person struggling. But then on the way down when you're glad you're not going up anymore and you're just making sure you don't tip and fall off the rock completely you start to notice all the other people who are stopping on the stairs, panting heavily, confused as to why they are doing this, and all the while trying to remain slightly graceful in their skin tight attire so common to Colombians. (There were quite a few English speakers and if consistency has taught us anything it is: if an American of Latin decent is visiting Colombia they most likely reside in Florida)
The top did have some nice views of the watery landscape below. Strangely enough it felt so Italian. It felt like I was overlooking Lake Cuomo. And I've never even been there! I've only seen pictures of it in PEOPLE magazine whenever George Clooney is at his villa (You know what I'm talking about Blair!).
After yet another crappy lunch of chicken (fried) and rice we waited around for a bus to take us back to Medellín. We were crammed into the cab with the driver and at first it wasn't so uncomfortable. But then the bus pulled over to pick up another couple and these two fatties sure made themselves at home. The guy full-on laid down on what could be called the dashboard and took a nap while Gigantor, his girlfriend, made sure she was nice and comfy- legs spread and belly hanging as Mark and I were squished into the corner behind the driver's seat. I hate buses.
I thought I was going to die. No, I was pretty sure of it. I was sweating so profusely that even my legs were saturated and my jeans were sticking to me. What's funny about all this (if it can be called funny) is that on the way up when you're insanely embarrassed-because you think this climb shouldn't be hard for someone who is technically young and yet old guys are passing you- you think you're the only person struggling. But then on the way down when you're glad you're not going up anymore and you're just making sure you don't tip and fall off the rock completely you start to notice all the other people who are stopping on the stairs, panting heavily, confused as to why they are doing this, and all the while trying to remain slightly graceful in their skin tight attire so common to Colombians. (There were quite a few English speakers and if consistency has taught us anything it is: if an American of Latin decent is visiting Colombia they most likely reside in Florida)The top did have some nice views of the watery landscape below. Strangely enough it felt so Italian. It felt like I was overlooking Lake Cuomo. And I've never even been there! I've only seen pictures of it in PEOPLE magazine whenever George Clooney is at his villa (You know what I'm talking about Blair!).
After yet another crappy lunch of chicken (fried) and rice we waited around for a bus to take us back to Medellín. We were crammed into the cab with the driver and at first it wasn't so uncomfortable. But then the bus pulled over to pick up another couple and these two fatties sure made themselves at home. The guy full-on laid down on what could be called the dashboard and took a nap while Gigantor, his girlfriend, made sure she was nice and comfy- legs spread and belly hanging as Mark and I were squished into the corner behind the driver's seat. I hate buses.
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