Apparently what happens in Bogotá stays in Bogotá when it comes to New Year’s Eve salsa dancing. No photos were allowed in the hotel lounge where Husband and I were attempting to keep up with the locals.” Because not everyone is here with who they are supposed to be,” said a waiter when I asked. Oh.
Husband was grateful for the no-photo rule. “Dance syncing is not like lip syncing. If you can’t do it, you can’t fake it,” he declared after narrowly missing treading on my toes for the third time. We didn’t give up our spot on the floor, though. Thanks to Groupon, we ‘re fairly decent at rhumba, so we slow-quick-quicked into the new year with our salsa-stepping amigos.
New Year’s Day found the town to be quiet. By “ quiet,” I mean deserted. I’m in the writing groove with my upcoming corporate spy series, so wanted to get some time in at the keyboard. After a few good hours of work we walked the neighborhood near our hotel (still fire-a-cannonball-down-the-middle-of-the-street-and-not-hit-anyone empty), then popped into a café decorated with vintage sewing machines and typewriters for empanadas. The only other customer was a middle-aged guy wearing a Stanford ball cap. Turned out he was some sort of attaché at the American Embassy. So that’s how Husband and I ended up attending a Rose Bowl-watching party peopled by the diplomatic community. Must admit, I acted less than diplomatic when STANFORD BLEW AWAY IOWA. (There were a number of Big Ten supporters in the crowd.) But hey, when it’s 35-0 at the half, it’s hard not to be chuffed with your alma mater.