Yes, I'll admit that's click bait. But the headline is accurate: The (transit) police were involved, and CJ and Katrina did get home safely. We had a bit of a snafu on the Medellin metro, which is beautiful, efficient, and unbelievably crowded at rush hour. As we were trying to board, CJ wandered over to a transit map and yelled, "San Pedro." The rest of us assumed this was the stop where we should get off. In fact, there is no San Pedro stop. (Note to self: Never, ever listen to CJ giving transit advice again.) This would not have been a problem, except that our family got split up. Leah squeezed on one train; Tess (my niece) and I got on the next train; CJ and Katrina were five or six trains behind us.
So we were now on three separate trains as it dawned on each of us that we had no idea where to get off. And no cell phones. (We could text, but only with wi-fi.) I got off at one station, Leah got off at another, and CJ and Katrina actually headed for a place they found on the map called San Pedro. It's a cemetery, several miles from the closest metro stop.
I contacted the transit police. (I cannot emphasize enough how friendly and functional this country is.) I explained, "Mis niños son perdidos." (My children are lost.) This officer no doubt imagined a pair of toddlers separated from their parents. I then said, "La nina tiene diez y ocho anos." (The girl is 18 years old.) This fine officer did his best to keep a straight face. For a moment, imagine you are in an American shopping mall. (The Medellin metro is only a few years old and it is every bit as nice as a mall.) And you approach a security guard to say, "I've lost my 18-year-old daughter. With my 13-year-old son." What exactly do you say to someone who has lost a child old enough to be in college? This guy replied helpfully, "Maybe you could call her."
Leah and I eventually found each other via text and waited for CJ and Katrina to finish their odyssey to the San Pedro cemetery and then back to the metro. That took almost an hour and a half in which they were AWOL. In the meantime, the transit police broadcast a message over the loudspeakers to every single station in the whole system (at rush hour). My Spanish is weak, so what I heard over the speakers was, "Spanish Spanish Spanish KATRINA WHEELAN! Spanish Spanish Spanish Spanish KATRINA WHEELAN!"
CJ and Katrina eventually made their way back to our apartment. CJ reports that according to the pedometer on his iPod, they walked a total of 9.5 miles. Great adventure. Remarkably, it made us like Colombia even more. It has the feel of a place where the people wrestled their country away from dark forces and are intent on not giving it back.
We left Medellin this morning and have arrived in Salento, which is a tiny town in the mountainous coffee-growing region. This place is so small that after we finished dinner at a restaurant, the manager insisted on driving us back to our finca (farmhouse) because it was raining. Happily reunited!
So we were now on three separate trains as it dawned on each of us that we had no idea where to get off. And no cell phones. (We could text, but only with wi-fi.) I got off at one station, Leah got off at another, and CJ and Katrina actually headed for a place they found on the map called San Pedro. It's a cemetery, several miles from the closest metro stop.
I contacted the transit police. (I cannot emphasize enough how friendly and functional this country is.) I explained, "Mis niños son perdidos." (My children are lost.) This officer no doubt imagined a pair of toddlers separated from their parents. I then said, "La nina tiene diez y ocho anos." (The girl is 18 years old.) This fine officer did his best to keep a straight face. For a moment, imagine you are in an American shopping mall. (The Medellin metro is only a few years old and it is every bit as nice as a mall.) And you approach a security guard to say, "I've lost my 18-year-old daughter. With my 13-year-old son." What exactly do you say to someone who has lost a child old enough to be in college? This guy replied helpfully, "Maybe you could call her."
Leah and I eventually found each other via text and waited for CJ and Katrina to finish their odyssey to the San Pedro cemetery and then back to the metro. That took almost an hour and a half in which they were AWOL. In the meantime, the transit police broadcast a message over the loudspeakers to every single station in the whole system (at rush hour). My Spanish is weak, so what I heard over the speakers was, "Spanish Spanish Spanish KATRINA WHEELAN! Spanish Spanish Spanish Spanish KATRINA WHEELAN!"
CJ and Katrina eventually made their way back to our apartment. CJ reports that according to the pedometer on his iPod, they walked a total of 9.5 miles. Great adventure. Remarkably, it made us like Colombia even more. It has the feel of a place where the people wrestled their country away from dark forces and are intent on not giving it back.
We left Medellin this morning and have arrived in Salento, which is a tiny town in the mountainous coffee-growing region. This place is so small that after we finished dinner at a restaurant, the manager insisted on driving us back to our finca (farmhouse) because it was raining. Happily reunited!
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