I awoke at 5:15 the next morning and headed off to Colombia in high style. Lonely Planet, that scourge of travelers, told me that Terminal Carapungo is the place to catch buses North. So, I again took the trole to the end of the line and hopped on a bus with a giant sign that read “Carapungo.” And rode it for an hour before realizing that there was a little town on the outskirts of Quito called Carapungo, and the bus terminal confusingly isn’t located there. I jumped off the bus with my mochila gigante in tow and grabbed a shady-looking taxi to ask where the heck I needed to go. Terminal Norte is evidently what it’s called, kids.

Five hour bus from Quito to Tulcan: uneventful. Taxi to Rumichaca: uneventful. Border crossing at Rumichaca: marred by closed borders (a four-hour wait for the Colombian elections) and a mixup by myself and fellow Michigander Tyler over which country’s immigration office we were supposed to visit first, but buoyed by good conversation with friendly (of course) Canadians that had just spent a week on the farm with the Irish expat screamers, currently located 6 hours outside Popayan. Combi ride to Ipiales: uneventful. 10 hour bus ride to Cali: happily uneventful, with a bit of chatting with friendly Irish couple who’ve seen all the countries I have with the addition of Brazil in only 7 weeks. 10 hour bus ride to Medellin: uneventful and beautiful.

Medellin is a lovely, lovely place. It’s really a beautiful city, incredibly modern and clean, and surrounded by pretty little tree-covered mountains. People are more friendly and helpful (people approach me on the street and ask me if they can help. A lot.) than anywhere I’ve yet been. Camila and her mom are hospitality defined. And everywhere I look are quaint shops and charming restaurants and activities and cute little tree-lined avenues. I’m enjoying myself quite a bit, and I’ve only been here a day and a half.

But my camera is now officially broken. So you’ll just have to imagine it.

Yours.