Mi Casa San Miguel es su casa

The first full week of Christmas vacation brings many things. Relaxing days lounging in bed until all hours ... more time to spend with the pup ... Heather’s parents.

After a brave 24 hour stint in cars, planes, and airports, Jim and Marilyn arrived at Medéllin International late Sunday night. Dutifully they managed to fool the customs agents into thinking that for a 2 week vacation gringos do need three extra-large-bursting-at-the-seams suitcases and a bicycle and two just barely legally sized carry-ons. Little did the agents know, the bags actually contained 6 jars of organic peanut butter, 2 extra large jars of marshmallow cream, 8 packs of Bear Creek soup mix, multitudes of candy bars, books written in English, a small bag of suspicious looking mulling spices, and a real bicycle too large for any Colombian. And an extra pair of underwear.

Aware of the fact that people and luggage would not fit into your Average Colombian Taxi, Heather and I managed to secure a private shuttle van to the airport. After being entertained by the commentary track of “Ice Age” on the van’s DVD player (pirated movies in all their glory!), we arrived at the airport in time to see Jim and Marilyn and Sean’s bike and Heather’s baking goods and other various wares not yet available in Colombia emerge from the International Arrivals gate. Hugs and kisses all around.

We wrestled and wrangled the un-unassuming mass of luggage to the curb and poured our tired bodies into the van. Due to the sheer mass of peanut butter and marshmallow cream, logistics required the humans to enter the vehicle before the luggage. Three porters piled soup mix, Costco sized cumin, and a really large bicycle into the van, and off we went.

Forty minutes later we arrive at Casa San Miguel (the “mi casa” in mi casa es su casa). Our able shuttle driver, Janneth (an amazing name here in Colombia, given that J is pronounced as an English H, double consonants are an anomaly, and the “th” sound is unpronounceable in Spanish), asks us to the count the bags that have flowed onto our driveway.

Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco … uh oh.

The missing piece did not reveal itself under a bench in the van. It did not reveal itself in the passenger seat. It did not even reveal itself behind any of the quite large potted plants in the drive way. It was Missing.