Tight times with no respite in sight

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio version of this blog story, click here.]

To a man, woman and non-binary individual, practically all Colombians I talk to echo my sentiments that it's been a difficult year income-wise.

Thankfully, there are always a few deals to be found in Bogotá's ubiquitous local fruit and veg shops.

Of course, many people say that their financial situation is tight even if the reality is different. It's usually best not to give the impression that one has a cash cushion to fall back on, especially in Colombia.

Where the stats lie

Zooming out to the national level for a moment and looking at the chief indicators, Colombia's economy, in layperson's terms, can be described as 'doing OK but could do better.' (See https://issuu.com/oecd.publishing/docs/colombia-oecd-economic-outlook-june-2023?fr=sY2U1ZTUwNTY2MTA.)

The official unemployment rate, at just over 10 per cent, is comparable to the average figure in the years immediately before the pandemic. Do note, high informal labour levels have to be factored in when discussing the numbers that are truly unemployed in Colombia.

Whatever the case, such headline figures only give a very rough idea of how things are for the individual. A country's overall economic performance, be it good, bad or mediocre, doesn't mean the entire population is in the same situation.

For sure, high interest and/or inflation rates have a real-life impact. They can alter consumer behaviour in both negative and positive ways.

However, it can be argued that these are less crucial factors in low- to middle-income nations such as Colombia. What I mean by this is that times are almost always tight for the typical working-class barrio resident, particularly in the cities, with rainy-day funds almost non-existent.

Recession proof?

As a single, childless foreigner with a fairly minimalist lifestyle, I am perhaps not the best sample case to study for an idea of how Colombia's current economic performance is affecting the average working-class person.

For one, the high inflation rates that Colombia has been experiencing haven't had a noticeable impact on my cost of living.

'In Bogotá, in my circles in any case, it appears to be a tough time to be an independent worker. Is it ever any other way?'

In the last 18 months, my rent has increased by less than two per cent. What's more, I am actually paying less in rent today than I was in 2020 and 2021. I did, though, change accommodation quite a bit. Also, if I felt a little more financially secure I'd be seeking my own place — I just can't justify the additional cost of such a luxury right now.

As for expenditure on the staples, while some things have got notably more expensive, my weekly spend hasn't shot up in line with inflation. There's always a deal or three to be got at the local fruit and veg shop. One just needs to be flexible with one's diet. 

Scare necessities

It's my earning power, as mentioned in the opening lines, that has waned considerably of late. In this, I may make common cause with my barrio buddies who work independently, mostly in the construction sector. Patience, paciencia, has been our word of the year.

In Bogotá, in my circles in any case, it appears to be a tough time to be an independent worker. Is it ever any other way? Unlike most of my barrio acquaintances, however, one obstacle for me is that I'm a bit too picky about what I want to work at.

My reluctance, nay refusal, to return to English teaching is a major reason why the number of pesos refilling my pocket has plummeted. I've spent more than I've earned in each month of 2023 thus far. This looks unlikely to change in the foreseeable, particularly with a trip to my birthplace in the offing.

Thankfully, I have some savings that are generating a little bit of interest, partially offsetting my monthly losses. However, such financial management, to state the obvious, is unsustainable unless I decide to live rent-free on the street or suchlike.

That yet-to-be-booked journey back to Ireland is an opportunity to reset; it should allow for a thorough reappraisal of my situation.

For various reasons, as I recently explained, such a re-evaluation has been difficult to undertake in my current Bogotá beat. It hasn't been infusing me with energy and enthusiasm — although the city itself can't take all the flak for that.

On the other hand, a return to Ireland scares me somewhat. In my, um, rare angry moments, watching from afar, I see an overpriced, illiberal-liberal, smug state (I thought the English were meant to be the smug ones?). Ireland Inc. is unlikely to be perturbed by such proclamations all the same.

Be that as it may, regardless of where I am in the world I face the same rather disconcerting question: What do I do to not only make ends meet but feel somewhat fulfilled as well? (Feel free to leave your answers to that one in the comments section!)

Leaving behind what has been life on Mediocre Lane in Colombia might just lead me to Awful Alley. Then again, it could be the way to that lesser-spotted Easy Street. Time to set forth and find out while I still can.
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Exacting revenge

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio version of this blog story, click here.]

In a memorable episode — few were forgettable, in fairness — of the hit 1990s TV sitcom, Father Ted, the no-nonsense, hot-tempered Bishop Brennan gets a kick up the posterior from the comedy classic's title character.

Revenge: It's often best put on the long finger.

Dazed and enraged

Ted was forced into this almost-suicidal shoe of strength after being exposed as a cheat while managing a football team against his arch-rival priest, Dick Byrne. Kicking Bishop Brennan up the arse was the forfeit.

When a near-perfect scenario arises where the deed can be carried out, Ted duly delivers the hit.

Considering the fear he instils in his inferiors, Bishop Brennan can't believe what's happened.

The next few scenes show His Grace in a stupor as he makes his way to Rome for an audience with the Pope. It's only at the Vatican, facing Pope John Paul II, that Bishop Brennan snaps out of this stupor and realises that he did indeed get kicked up the arse.

Cue a rush back to Ireland to confront Father Ted.

A slapstick comedy this show may have been, yet I often find myself referring to it for solace, of sorts. That and the fact that many of its silly scenes accurately reflect real life.

While I haven't been in a stupor to the extent Bishop Brennan was, I have been regularly distracted by thoughts of an episode that has, or at least had, left me disillusioned. (See both The fiendish frenemy and Bogged down in Bogotá for more on that.)

'What had made the rage so acute was the belief that outside of, unwisely, taking matters more firmly into my own hands, I felt rather powerless.'

That the borrower in my previously documented money-lending saga has started to re-engage in the repayment process is helping to lessen the disillusionment.

I did also, à la Bishop Brennan, have my snap-out-of-it moment, the result of which was a verbal attack — or two — on my loanee friend/frenemy. It appears to have cleared the heavy air that had, understandably enough, existed between us, although at the time it seemed like it had finally put an end to any pretence of friendship.

Power struggle

Nonetheless, this whole loan affair has left a sour taste. It's likely to linger for quite a while. What's more, as alluded to, there is still money to be repaid.

Yet, those feelings of rage with an accompanying desire to exact revenge of some sort have dissipated.

What had made such feelings so acute was the belief that outside of, unwisely, taking matters more firmly into my own hands, I felt rather powerless. An omnipotent Bishop Brennan dealing with an unruly understudy I was not.

Sure, the borrower and I had signed a legally binding document but going the legal route to get this money repaid would most likely result in more pain rather than any pay, particularly in Colombia.

The only viable approach I've had throughout, without potentially creating more problems, has been to play the waiting game.

A couple of verbal shots fired in frustration aside, this is largely how I've played it. I have been fairly patient and understanding, if I do say so myself.

However it finally plays out, enough has happened thus far to ensure this money-lending episode will live long in the memory. It's been a kick in the posterior one has to learn from.
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Fattening up our future health problems

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio version of this blog story, click here.]

What exactly are we putting into our bodies?

Of all the subjects I may be deemed unqualified to comment on, parenting is surely one of them.

It's easy for me, a childless man, to be idealistic, to condemn what I believe to be poor parenting practices and be convinced that I would do things differently, for the better, if I were a father. Let's see how I'd fare if I were, quite literally, left holding my own baby (previous bouts of babysitting don't really count).

Intoxicating toddlers

Nonetheless, these days only the ignorant, indifferent or negligent would let their defenceless newborns regularly consume ultra-processed and/or sugar-laden, unnaturally sweetened foods. Numerous studies highlight the potential harm to our health in such eating.

If the parents want to indulge in unwholesome fare, that's their choice — I am, like many, far from squeaky clean when it comes to what is considered healthy eating. But actively encouraging toddlers to down soft drinks or some candy with an ingredient list the length of a children's book, is both sad and worrying to see.

Why not hand them a cigarette and a bottle of beer while at it? Both are generally less processed in any case.

In a Colombian context, it can be argued that, in some sectors of society, there is a lack of knowledge as to what makes up a good diet. 'Food is food, just get it into ya.'

What's more, even for a well-read individual, there isn't full consensus in the medical/scientific community as to what a healthy diet is. The information available can be quite confusing and, at times, contradictory.

Fake food

Where there is widespread consensus, though, is on the harms of ultra-processed foods. It's generally agreed that whatever we eat, try to eat it as close to its most natural form as possible.

The ideal would be to cultivate your own food, where you control how it's grown or reared. Modern life makes such a scenario next to impossible for most of us.

So we have to try to make the best of a far-from-optimal situation.

I've written before about the abundance of relatively cheap fresh fruit and veg in Colombia. For those of a more carnivorous persuasion, the country is not lacking in that department either. (How pumped full of potentially nasty chemicals all these are is another matter.)

'While fat-shaming is seen as a hate crime by many social justice warrior types, some obese folk, it seems, don't care about themselves.'

Thus, avoiding prettily packaged convenience food shouldn't be a difficult task here. Yet, from what I frequently see in the barrio, the opposite is the case. And if it's good for Mammy and Daddy (if he's present), then it's good for little Juan or Juanita.

One mother, who is surely in the morbid obesity category, seems keen on seeing her youngest become a sugar/sweet/candy addict before he can barely walk.

This is the same mother who I witnessed devouring an 80-gram packet of crisps (or chips, for our North American friends) by pouring — yes, pouring — them into her mouth. Gone, in about twenty seconds. This was within minutes of her having had a substantial meal.

While fat-shaming is seen as a hate crime by many social justice warrior types, some obese folk, it seems, don't care about themselves. OK, maybe there are mental issues at play and I can be accused of making light — or, um, not making light as the case is — of a disease but some people appear to be utterly lazy.

Self-control

Now, as referred to earlier, what adults decide to do or not to do is their business as far as I'm concerned. I'm certainly not advocating for a nanny state to control every aspect of our lives.

People should be responsible for their own actions. In a far-from-free world, eschewing responsibility tends to push one further under the control of other actors. For greater safety and security, misplaced as this often is, it's a case of, 'Into thy hands I commend my spirit.' 

For sure, if whatever one does is illegal, we have mechanisms — questionable or flawed as some are — in place to deal with transgressors.

In this regard, fattening up dependent, impressionable young children with food of little-to-no real nutritional value can be seen as a form of abuse.

It could set in motion dangerous addictions and associated health complications in the years to come. These are problems that will affect society as a whole in the form of additional healthcare costs and a reduction in overall productivity.

So a backseat, point-the-finger parent I maybe, but we all have skin in the game when it comes to humanity's future prosperity. One is simply showing concern and trying to help. Don't devour the messenger.
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In need of some peace and quiet? Sleepy Somondoco is the place to go to

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/video version of this blog story, click here.]

Bucolic bliss. The rural idyll. Like anything that refers to perfection, the reality is different. Nothing in this world is perfect.

What we strive for is to have as many positives as possible in whatever it is we're doing or wherever we're going (both mentally and physically).

Peaceful: Somondoco is as quiet as they come.

What these positives are depend on the individual. When it comes to a break from the routine, a getaway, what works wonders for one may be a bore for another.

Church-hill views

My needs for any escape from Bogotá are minimal. A lot of the time I simply have a desire to leave; the destination is almost of secondary importance.

As long as there's a fairly cheap hotel room and quiet-ish countryside to wander about, I'm usually content. If it's a warm-weather location, having a clean-ish watercourse of some description nearby in which one can bathe in peace whilst taking in some sun is a nice bonus.

To varying degrees, most towns within a 200-kilometre radius of Bogotá meet these rather undemanding requirements.

Of course, no matter how cosy and quiet your setting may be, at some stage loud music will trump the tranquillity. It's practically a rule that where there's a human settlement in Colombia, there are oversized speakers. And there's almost always a crazy canine or two to contend with when out and about, saying nothing of the crazy human folk.

Such drawbacks were, mercifully, in short supply in the town of Somondoco, in the south-east of Colombia's Boyacá department — my default go-to department over the last few years.

OK, it could be said that it has few pull factors, that it hasn't anything particularly appealing to make it stand out from the many other similar Andean towns. That's not fully true.

'Surely the townsfolk will look to bloom big again in the coming years to win back their flower power?'

For one, it has the impressive Santuario del Santo Cristo del Cerro de Somondoco. This ornate, in-renovation chapel sits at an altitude of 2,300 metres, offering views of the neighbouring towns of Guayatá, Guateque, Sutatenza, La Capilla, Macanal and Almeida.

The landscape somewhat obscures the view of Somondoco itself, some 600 metres below. The trek up from the town to the hilltop chapel takes about two hours, a nice way to sweat out any bodily impurities.

Massive mango town

A swift walk down into the Somondao River valley and back up to the town of Guayatá, 10 kilometres west of Somondoco, also gets the body working, as well as allowing one to take in the scenic Andean countryside in relative serenity.

Record town: Guayatá.

While I only stayed a couple of hours in Guayatá, it seemed a little livelier, in a fun way that is, than Somondoco.

More importantly, it has at least one café that makes decent coffee. Somondoco is unfortunately still stuck in the greca era; the brews available there are ordinary at best.

On a quirkier note, Guayatá has been home to two Guinness World Records: It still holds the title for the world's heaviest mango and in 2014 it was registered as having the longest line of flowers ever recorded, a spectacle that can be seen each year in celebration of Corpus Christi. This latter record has since been beaten. Surely the townsfolk will look to bloom big again in the coming years to win back their flower power?

Back in Somondoco, while it won't win any world record for this, the well-kept, modern Hotel Real Simindoco (no, I'm not writing that wrong, it is Simindoco, not Somondoco) is a winner with me with spacious rooms from 25,000 COP per night.

So for a small town within a few hours' drive of Bogotá, Somondoco and its surrounds have many plus points for me.

Quiet, affordable and with a few tranquil treks to traipse. If someone in the town would only ditch those grecas and learn how to make decent coffee. Nothing, though, is perfect after all.
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Bogged down in Bogotá

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio version of this blog story click here.]

It's been quite eventful on the news front in Colombia of late, even more so than normal.

Is it time for a long-term break from Bogotá?

We've had corruption allegations leading right up to President Petro that have resulted in some high-profile sackings, as well as the suicide of a police colonel mixed up in the scandal; potentially game-changing reforms to health and pensions have been making their way through Congress; and a new ceasefire with the ELN rebels has come into force as peace talks continue between them and the government.

Personal problems

Outside of grubby politics, the finding of four children lost for 40 days in the Amazon jungle after the plane they were in crashed made headlines around the world. We like a good news story after all (the children, though, do have to deal with the turmoil of losing their mother in that tragedy).

At other times during my more-than 11-year stint based in Bogotá, such stories would have piqued my interest quite a bit, particularly in the guise of a reporter-on-the-ground that I have occasionally been for a couple of foreign media.

It is, however, hard to get too worked up about events over there when one's mind is preoccupied with personal issues that, by their very nature, are more pertinent.

'The enfeebling of what I'd thought were robust relationships moves me closer to the exit door.'

It's why I feel that adults who are sports fanatics — in terms of supporting players and teams, not in the actual playing of sports — must be in an overall comfortable life position. Or they are just a little immature, impressionable and can't wean themselves off the opium high such voyeurism offers. I have, for the most part, grown out of that sports fanatic phase.

For example, should the Irish men's rugby team win the World Cup this year, I'll be very happy for them, but it's extremely unlikely to have any real bearing on my life, negative or positive. And, surprising as this may be, the Irish players are most likely not concerned about the fate of yours truly. If I'm wrong on that, I'll happily take any financial support forthcoming.

As for politics, well a crisis in Colombia could have ramifications for me so I should keep myself informed. And I do, to a certain extent.

As much as I live on the fringes here, something I explained in a previous story, I do have a Colombian bank account and some savings, so I want the peso to be as strong as possible (a return to its 2012 price against the euro would be very welcome!).

Pastures new

However, whether the peso is strong or weak has nothing to do with a frenemy's ability, nay willingness, to repay a substantial loan I gave him. See The fiendish frenemy for more on that.

That deflating episode has only served to add to my uncertainty about continuing to live in Bogotá, an uncertainty that I've had for years.

Now, it's an overstatement to say that firm friendships have been the foundation for my being here, but they do certainly play a part. So the enfeebling of what I'd thought were robust relationships moves me closer to the exit door.

I do think that leaving Bogotá, at least for a substantial period of time, would be good for both body and mind. Having said that, the biggest concerns in my life these days are largely independent of place — apart from the desire to have my own place!

Regardless of where I am, there's always the headache of sourcing paid projects to keep in the black. If I was completely desperate, English teaching would be the fallback in these parts, as it has been before. But as I recently explained, I have little desire for that right now. Who knows, that feeling may change at some stage.

All things considered, a considerable Bogotá break, a change of scenery, seems the smarter option. It's unlikely to be a panacea but it should provide a much-needed energy and enthusiasm boost.
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The fiendish frenemy

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio version of this blog story click here.]

'Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.'

It's an oft-repeated piece of advice, one that well predates its memorable use by Michael Corleone in the 1974 movie masterpiece, The Godfather Part II. Nonetheless, studies now suggest it's incomplete, in a significant way.

Missing is the deadliest relationship of them all: the frenemy.

'We only give credit to those over 90 who bring a grandparent as guarantor.' Or better yet, f**k off!

A friend in need

As the organisational psychologist Adam Grant, author of Think Again, put it in a recent New York Times opinion piece, 'the most toxic relationships aren’t the purely negative ones. They’re the ones that are a mix of positive and negative.' (Read the article at https://www.nytimes.com/2023/05/28/opinion/frenemies-relationships-health.html.)

In that NY Times piece, Dr Grant cited research by the psychologists Bert Uchino and Julianne Holt-Lunstad that showed how 'ambivalent relationships can be damaging to your health'.

The studies found that those interacting with people who evoked mixed feelings had higher blood pressure and increased heart rates than those interacting with people who evoked negative feelings only. Dealing with frenemies also appears to trigger depression.

I can certainly relate.

My current frenemy situation also ties in with an arguably more important maxim: 'Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.'

While the message is clear in that proverb from William Shakespeare's Hamlet, some of us still get duped into helping out a hard-up friend in need — a friend indeed, of course. They can be ever so convincing.

Yes, the potential borrower is also warned of hardships should he go ahead with the request but experience tells me that it's the lender who ends up, well, more alone, disillusioned and utterly frustrated.

In working-class Colombia in any case, keeping your financial affairs in order is almost viewed as a negative. My previous piece, Rewarding the reckless, elaborates on my latest loan lament. Here I want to share the emotional torment of what must be a prime example of an ambivalent relationship.

'Has it been this frenemy's plan all along to drive me to a state of disillusionment where I'll just give up?'

The friend-fast-becoming-frenemy to whom I lent money continues to tell me that he's good for it. The original repayment deadline was on 15 February of this year. The money was lent on 12 December 2022.

To his, um, partial credit, he has paid back about a third of the principal.

However, over the last few weeks, it's been a case of 'mañana, mañana', 'tomorrow, tomorrow'. He promises me he'll repay the remainder or a portion of it on a certain day yet, thus far, when the appointed day arrives, nothing. Tomorrow never comes.

This constant failure to meet repayment dates — that he himself sets — both disappoints and infuriates me just as much as the fact that he still owes me money.

Toxic

I lent him this cash because we had similar dealings previously. He always paid back — not always on the date originally specified but never more than a month late. So I trusted him. That trust has now been shattered. When it comes to his promises of paying me back on a particular date, I simply can't believe him.

Of course, he has excuses. Chief amongst them is that he isn't getting paid for work he has done. That may indeed be true; it most likely is in these parts.

However, he still has money to socialise regularly and liberally — Bogotá isn't short of freeloaders should one be so obliging. And he can still fuel his car, a car that is far from essential for his work. If he is in hard times, he's putting the sunny side out; and then some.

All this betrays his constant cries that he's 'embarrassed' that he hasn't paid me back yet and that he truly values our friendship. In addition, I have to do the chasing. If he really did see me as a good buddy, should he not be doing his utmost to reassure me that everything will be fine?

For sure, over the last number of years, we have shared many moments that, at face value, point to genuine friendship.

Yet, colder, deeper analysis suggests it has been nothing more than an ambivalent relationship. It just took this incident — plus my reading of Dr Grant's article — to realise its true toxicity.

That I'm keeping it on a life-support machine is solely for the money owed to me. If it was for a lesser amount, I would write it off as a bad debt, cut ties with the borrower and firmly put him in the non-friend category. Right now, I can't afford to do that. The outstanding sum is equal to more than three months' rent for me.

Nonetheless, considering the mental anguish I'm suffering and, as the Uchino/Holt-Lunstad research has shown, the potential physical health damage, I'd probably be doing my overall well-being a favour by putting this upsetting chapter and "chap" behind me.

On the flip side, the thoughts of just letting it go also anger me. Has it been this frenemy's plan all along to drive me to a state of disillusionment where I'll just give up? In that scenario, while many mules might start to submit, I don't want to admit defeat.

Why bother with friends or enemies when you can have frenemies like these? They get closer to you than anyone.
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Drink-from-home boozers

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio version of this blog story click here.]

OK, I'm probably not the best housemate to have. More precisely, I'm closer to being the worst housemate.

Why drink at home when you can have a cheaper tipple in a tienda?

The biggest reason for this is that I wish I didn't have to share accommodation whatsoever. However, I'm forced into such arrangements for financial reasons.

To get my own place in Bogotá, one that isn't like something from the 19th century, that is, I'd have to pay at least double my current rent. Right now, with few paid projects to sustain me, I just couldn't justify such an increase in my expenditure.

Home alone utopia

So, house-sharing is my lot and most likely will be for quite some time to come. I'm not very good, though, at grinning and bearing it. It's more a case of being grumpy and bewailing it.

I get this sinking feeling upon opening the door and realising I don't have the place to myself.

This adverse reaction would be lessened somewhat if I was living with family or very close friends, people who I know well and vice versa. They would understand that my desire not to talk, to keep myself to myself, isn't a hostile act. It's just my disposition, especially when I want to concentrate on something or simply relax.

Having said that, as shared accommodation goes, my current situation isn't too terrible.

For the most part, when I want to cook, my housemates are mercifully not around. They also keep the common areas fairly clean — there hasn't been a need to wage kitchen wars.

Bottle battles

Although, I will never come to terms with this habit of throwing bottles and cans with liquid in them in the bin. Pour the damned liquid down the sink first! Not doing so smacks of extreme laziness. Or just plain stupidity. Or the arguably worse mixture of both.

Indeed, it's liquid-linked affairs that get my blood up the most in my current abode.

While I enjoy the odd tipple, boozing in the place where I cook and sleep has never appealed to me. Even in my student days, I preferred to drink in a public house than stay at home, even if it cost me a little more. And the idea of parties in my residence has always been repugnant to me — well, since adulthood anyway.

You see, contrary to the impression this blog may give, not every action I take has value for money at its heart. If that were the case, in Ireland I would have drunk at home when wanting to get merry. In most high-income nations, drinking out is more expensive than drinking in.

'Rather than get up and, quite literally, face the music and merrymakers, makeshift chamber pots have been found instead'.

As it so happens, in working-class areas of Colombia the opposite is generally true. This suits me perfectly — when it comes to being in a beer-drinking mood that is. If I was trying to cut beer entirely from my life, making it cheaper to down a few at home would be of greater help. In such a scenario, I'd be far less inclined to imbibe. 

So Colombians who otherwise seem fairly frugal, are eager for the best deal, why they drink from home perplexes me (let's use "from home" rather than "at home", in keeping with the work-from-home zeitgeist).

Not only is the alcohol normally cheaper in a barrio tienda bar compared to the supermarkets but there are utility savings to be made as well. Electricity and water use at home comes at a cost.

This cost concern would irk me somewhat if the sum of the utility bills in my current accommodation was divided equally. It's not. My rent is all-inclusive. And not too exorbitant as it is.

Piss-take

It's simply the act of drinking from home that annoys me. There's the additional rubbish from bottles/cans, the smell, the potential that guests are invited and, with that, the ever-present risk of boisterousness.

There's also the fact that it's inescapable. When I've had my fill in a tienda, I want to go home to sleep in peace.

With housemates who drink at home in shared spaces, it's like having to enter a tienda just to get to one's bed. What's more, if the home boozers are merry, they'll invariably try to drag one down with them, to partake in the "fun". Eh, no thanks.

Even a normally mundane matter of going to the toilet becomes a very uncomfortable high-risk mission. 'If I go now they'll try to get me to drink. Surely they'll be finishing up shortly.'

An hour later and they're still at it. 'Will those plastic bags next to my bed hold my urine? Let's see.'

Yes, rather than get up and, quite literally, face the music and merrymakers, makeshift chamber pots have been known to be found.

Thankfully, this worst-case scenario of resident revellers rarely happens in my apartment. Most of the time, the main culprit drinks quietly in his room with his girlfriend, who also happens to be the normally absentee administrator of the property.

On odd occasions, though — at birthdays for one — a jamboree breaks out. A couple of times a year for this tienda-at-home affair is more than enough for me all the same.

Rather than a boisterous bar pad, what I want these days is a benign bachelor pad. I might have to get out of Bogotá to find such an ideal.
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