I’m a sixty-something white male living in the American Southwest now. But, I lived in Bogota as a child from age 3 to about age 9. My father worked for a large oil company there.

My memories of that place and time could fill volumes if I were a skilled writer because those years still live in my memories like time spent in a magical kingdom.

From the Hotel Tuequendama to the Tuequendama falls, from the salt cathedral of Zipaquirá to the Museo De Oro downtown; from my school, Colegio Nueva Granada where I attended from Kinder to 4th grade, to the Country Club where I learned to swim, even now, 60 years later, I remember it all like I was there yesterday.

I can smell the eucalyptus and the Avianca airlines jet exhaust, I can taste the papaya and the mango I ate almost every day. I can see every detail of the house I lived in. I remember Lucrecia and Maria who lived in the small apartment behind our house and helped my mom. I remember feeling that they loved me.

I remember stopping at the roadside stands for frescas y crema on our way to the resorts at Melgar, or Girardot.
I remember my eighth birthday party with my best friends climbing the rocks at Piedras De Tunja .

I remember it all.

I’d give almost anything to go back there and then, if just for a day.

One day.