How I know I am not in Colombia

When I see something on the ground that I can’t immediately identify, it’s always dirt or a dried leaf, never an extraordinary insect or bug or animal:

When I hear a loud noise, it’s never gunfire or a mariachi band.

When people get on the bus, they never offer to sell me something or sing a song or tell an extraordinary story.

When I drop crumbs, I don’t have to worry about ants.

When I make a plan, that’s what happens.

When I meet a stranger, they don’t give me a hug.

I miss you, Colombia.

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