Villa de Leyva

From its founding in 1587, lovely Leyva has played host to fabulously wealthy Spaniards and then affluent Colombians seeking a weekend’s respite in the cool mountain air. Today, more and more visitors come from distant lands – North America, Europe and beyond – bewitched by the romance and the dazzling white. Often, disheveled and dreamy-eyed backpackers congregate on the plaza’s steps playing music, trading tales in a myriad of tongues, giving spiritual guidance and waxing poetic about the nomad’s lifestyle.

Sitting in front of the plaza’s humble church, at a safe distance from the dollar-store philosophers, I light a cigarette and watch a parade of young schoolgirls in blue dresses pass in front of me. I don’t know what day it is but I can assume it is a weekday. It takes me a moment to realize that Leyva still functions as a town; people live here. Children go to school. Parents work. A dread-locked man picks at his guitar. To my horror he musters the courage to sing. This is their home. I wonder what they must think of the hordes of tourists who sigh and awe at their history, who gawk at their architecture, who try to fashion an experience from their town. And as the bearded man continues to howl and his mates look-up in quiet approval, I understand that whatever happens to those girls at school today will be just as memorable and important to their lives and souls as whatever we take away from Villa de Leyva. Epiphany knows no nationality.

A woman nestles up to me. I don’t know where she is from but her Spanish is barely comprehensible to me. I have no desire to speak to her. I have no desire to perpetuate a non-existent solidarity. I smile. I try to answer her questions. I know she wants to impart some advice, some worldly nugget of unfathomable wisdom that would make my eyes water with realization and gratitude. Perhaps she senses I am not in a social space. Perhaps she senses I am not interested in her musings. Perhaps I give the impression that I no longer care about the well-trodden travelling cliches on self-discovery and having one’s eyes ripped open by enlightenment. Perhaps I exude a cool indifference about the validity of the whole project. Whatever her reason, she leaves me.

The Plaza still looms in front of me: fat clouds hanging above the uneven cobblestone, grey most of them, summoning the courage to break, momentarily turning a deep dark blue, with the sun fleeing away behind the Andes, and the lanterns brimming to life, washing the white walls in a translucent and sultry orange, illuminating the abandoned streets and the waiters setting tables and lighting candles under romantic archways, hoping for a lover or two and the two black silhouettes holding hands, their voices echoing over the stones and ricocheting off into the shadows, hands held, laughing behind the old church, an umbrella opening into the first perceptible drops.

I light another cigarette and the nicotine momentarily calms me. The rain picks-up and soon little puddles emerge. I will eat at one of those restaurants and return to my hostel bed. Tomorrow I will travel to San Gil and eventually make my way to the coastal cities of Santa Marta and Cartagena. I have learned a valuable lesson today, rocked from my privileged slumber. For once in my life, I want to be home.