Near Fusagasuga, Cundinamarca

We went to warm climate and stayed at a finca.

What is a finca? Well, it is a cross between a small farm and a country house. In Minnesota people have cabins, and here some people have fincas. The idea is to be away from the city, on a piece of land with fruit trees and such, and usually in warmer weather, though not necessarily so.

We went to one in warmer weather. I found a good place to read–so good I did all of Kidnapped. You wait for meals, you make notes and draw stuff, you read, and you stay up late talking. I stayed up late talking to old ladies, but I like old ladies fine.

Best part of it: reading a whole book. You know what my problem usually is? I can’t find a good place to read. A place with the comfort and out-of-the-wayness for one to stick to it for three hours at a time. Here I found more than one, and in this country, that is amazing. Another problem is when other people require me for activities: this instance had none of this.

Perhaps part of it was the crowd of old ladies made things generally peaceful. Being in the country certainly made things peaceful. The overgrownness of the place: rocks buried in parasites and ferns; mangos holding up orchids in the canopy, spanish moss; stands of the bamboo stuff (guaduas); the butterflies, the birds, the fact that for the first time since leaving the USA I saw a squirrel again; and the smells of cooking things, of the dampish smell of the permashade parts of a hot-weather building, of the grass and the breeze and the overripe fruit.

I live in the capital, the worst of Colombia. If I can get a residency and be a writer, my friend it’s a finca for me.


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