Alicia flew in from Medellín last Friday. I drove over to Orlando after work to pick her up.

She had to get up very early to catch a 7:30 a.m. flight to Bogotá on LAN, claim her bags and turn them in at Delta, take a five-hour flight to Atlanta, go through Immigration and Customs, recheck her bags, and fly to Orlando.

Everything went well until her last flight. At the gate in Atlanta, she was in group 3 and was the last to board. A uniformed lady at the gate grabbed her carry-on, tagged it, and gave it to a baggage handler at the door to the plane.

“No!” said Alicia. “I’m carrying that on. It’s fragile.” (It contained several buildings from a Christmas set, and after the fiasco with my carry-on that got sent to the wrong country, we had made sure it wasn’t overfilled so it would fit in the test rack.)

The baggage handler hesitated, looking at Alicia and the lady as they argued. The lady insisted it had to be gate-checked, and ordered her to board the plane. Alicia refused. “I’m not moving until I get my bag back,” she said.

No one within earshot spoke Spanish, but it was obvious what she was saying. The rep got more and more furious, finally yelling, “Get out!”

“You get out!” Alicia responded in accented English, not even knowing what it meant.

Finally one of the pilots came out to see what was going on. “Do you speak English? Italian?” he asked Alicia.

“No English. Español,” she said.

The pilot said something, and the lady, clearly irate, took the bag from the baggage handler and gave it to Alicia, while the baggage handler grinned ear to ear. It appeared to Alicia that he was delighted to see the pushy rep get her comeuppance.

Taxis in Colombia are tiny and yellow and look like Minions from Despicable Me:

Unlike cars sold in the US, their doors are light and flimsy. The drivers wince when they carry North American passengers, because the average tourist will slam the door, each slam cutting its lifespan significantly.

I don’t slam taxi doors. It doesn’t take that much effort to pull or push the door shut gently (or to notice the sign that says, “Please don’t slam the door!”). As a guest of Colombia, it’s my responsibility to adapt, just as we expect foreign visitors and immigrants to to follow US laws and customs.

Some of the cultural adaptation has stretched me. I’m an introvert by nature, but Colombian culture requires that I greet people with a handshake, a hug, or an airkiss; that I thank them profusely for any kindness; and that I participate in conversation even when I’d just as soon sit quietly in a corner.  When I leave the country,  I need to call the people with whom I spent time to say goodbye and thank them again for their hospitality. Not to do these things is considered rude. It would also reflect badly on my wife, who is the most gracious person I know.

The other day Alicia and I went to San Cristóbal to visit my old friend Alvaro. On the way we passed this dog, who looked like a memory from 1977.