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  The policeman tips his head, and in fractured English, directs me to a kiosk in the center of the luggage area. Hopefully, whoever’s manning that location can fish up enough English so that we can communicate. And she can—hallelujah!

  “I have a mensaje for you, Miss Adams.” She hands me an envelope, my name front and center.

  Not good.

  An envelope is not a car.

  And I don’t even ask for air-conditioning. Just a means by which to get to my hotel, whichever and wherever that might be, since Mr. Cruz handled all the arrangements for my stay in Colombia’s capital, Bogotá.

  My fingernail tears open the heavy paper, and I scan the typed words. “Lovely. A ‘scheduling complication.’ At least he’s arranged a cab for me.”

  From her perch behind the counter, the pretty girl with the olive complexion waves, and a thin, balding man trots up to us. The two of them fire Spanish at each other, and then the girl smiles at me. “Pedro will take you to the Hotel de la Opera. I’m sure you will like it. It’s a beautiful old building made into a hotel. Muy elegante. I think it’s our nicest.”

  Since we’d found some—ahem—undesirable aspects at our lodgings in both Burma and Kashmir, I hope the info desk clerk is right. Believe me, I want to like the Hotel de la Opera. And I’m looking forward to a peaceful, relaxing evening. Can’t wait, actually.

  “Is it far from here?”

  “Not really. Maybe twenty minutes, in the historical colonial part of Bogotá. Follow Pedro to his cab. I’m sure he’ll get you there soon.”

  Ready for something to go especially well, I follow Pedro out of the terminal. That’s where I hit the heat face-first. Wow! This place really is equatorial. I start to “dew” immediately. By the time we get to Pedro’s yellow taxicab, the “dew” has become a downpour. Ladylike or not, I’m sweating.

  Then I slip into the cab’s backseat—vinyl. You know I’m gonna “dew” a whole lot more and maybe even stick. Oh joy. My enthusiasm for the trip begins to wilt—like me.

  Pedro starts the car, and we pull away from the curb at the El Dorado International Airport. Easy, right? Well, let me tell you. Leaving the area is something else. The street is cram-packed with vehicles dropping off travelers, and picking up arrivals, dozens of taxicabs, vans, a handful of buses, and masses of people who see nothing wrong with jumping out in front of our cab.

  Pedro maneuvers through all this, one arm out the window, gesturing wildly, bellowing what I’m sure are insults to those who don’t cooperate with his wishes, other hand on the steering wheel, and one foot down on the gas pedal—hard.

  That should’ve been my first warning. You see, when Pedro gets out on real roads, he only pushes harder on the gas. He zips in and out of traffic at warp speed, ignores universal red STOP signs, dashes under amber-to-red traffic lights, and gets me so turned around, I have no idea whether we’re coming or going.

  Not that I know anything about the El Dorado International Airport and its surroundings. But I usually can tell from which direction I’ve come. Not this time. Not with Pedro at the wheel.

  One thing I do know: Colombian traffic laws are nothing like ours up in the States. Actually, they don’t seem to have any traffic laws. At the next corner, Pedro uses his turn signal.

  Turn signal? What turn signal?

  The maniac sticks his left arm out the window again, waves, then shoots across all the lanes, the whole time letting out belligerent bursts of Spanish at his fellow drivers.

  Foolish me. Thanks to Marcos Rivera, I’d thought the language inherently romantic. Hah! Behind us, a cacophony of honks and yells lets us know what other drivers think of Pedro’s expertise—in driving and insults. I shudder. Glad I don’t speak the lingo. Don’t wanna know what they’re saying.

  I pray.

  Good thing the nerve-wracking ordeal should only last about fifteen more minutes. At the speed Pedro’s going, he might even shave more time off our drive than that. I hang on to the armrest on the door for dear life.

  SCREECH!

  For some unfathomable reason, since he hasn’t once done it since we left the airport, Pedro hits the brakes. With all his might. I jolt back and forth. The seatbelt engraves its imprint on my chest. My head bangs against the seat. Then, before I can catch my breath, he speeds away again, careens around yet another corner, our car on only two of its tires.

  Ever take a drive on two of a car’s four tires?

  Me neither. Not until today.

  Where’s a good, mean, ticket-happy traffic cop when you need one? Obviously, not in Bogotá.

  By now, I’m sure more than two hours have gone by since I sat in this thwarted racecar driver’s vehicle. Maybe more like two days. Will you buy decades? And there’s no lovely, old hotel in sight.

  “Lord?” I whisper. “Help!”

  For some reason, the theme song to The Twilight Zone wafts through my head. Pedro speeds up. The structures outside become an indistinct blur. My stomach spasms. My head pounds.

  Did I remember to tell Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby how much I love them before I took off?

  You know, don’t you, I’m not just in trouble here.

  I’m a dead duck.

  500

  A few hair-raising minutes later, we hurtle to a stop in front of a stunningly beautiful old building. Shaking, I look around, and notice the lack of traffic. We’re at the curb beside a narrow, cobbled street that seems to be used only by pedestrians these days. The building itself, a two-story, soft coral stucco structure, with arched windows and wrought iron grilles on balconies, looks like something right out of old Zorro movies. All I need is for that masked man to swing down from the rooftops.

  Colombia’s yellow, blue, and red flag waves from a second-story balcony, and everything shines with the gracious beauty of a bygone era.

  As I soak it all in, praying for my heart to stop pounding, trying to calm down after that berserk ride, the cab’s door is yanked open. Pedro jabbers at me so fast that he would’ve left my high school Spanish eating dust even at the zenith of its fluency. I assume, since he’s holding my radioactive orange suitcase, that he wants his money in his hand and my body out of his cab.

  I rummage in my purse, pull out a wad of Colombian pesos I swapped dollars for before leaving home, and step out of the cab. That’s when my quaking legs betray me, and I nearly wind up doing a face-plant in the ancient cobbles. I’m still under the influence of the rush of fight-or-flight hormones that tried to rescue me during that demented ride. Too bad they didn’t succeed.

  With a glare for Pedro, I shove the money at him, only to have him shake his head and push my cash and hand away. Horror on his face, he argues, objects, shakes his head, and in the middle of millions of Spanish syllables, I catch one I understand: Cruz. Evidently, the emerald vendor has paid for my transportation ahead of time.

  I work to send some starch to the cooked spaghetti impersonating my legs, and shove the money into my jacket pocket. With a quick “Adiós” Speedy Gonzalez’s way, I wobble into the hotel’s shaded doorway, my suitcase clattering in my wake.

  And then, almost as if I’m walking onto a movie set, I enter a different world, a most genteel one about, oh, two hundred years old. Walls more than a foot thick lend the building a coolness I’ve previously only equated with well-adjusted air-conditioning. Under my feet, red brick terracotta tiles form a beautiful herringbone pattern, one I suspect has been there for more than a century, if not two. Hand-plastered walls, with the kind of texture that only comes from age and coats upon coats of paint, now glow with a warm yellow color. Scattered throughout the vast lobby’s mile-high coffered ceilings are six-armed chandeliers hung well above even the tallest guest’s head. And everywhere I look, I see antiques worthy of the Louvre or other European museums.

  So tasteful is the lobby that it welcomes you like the living room of a country estate. I follow the lure of the large fireplace and plop down on one of the Williamsburg-blue-with-soft-coral-stripe overstuffed armcha
irs at either side of the hearth. The refined atmosphere begins to soothe my battered nerves.

  Ah . . . I could get used to this luxury.

  But not on my paycheck.

  That reminds me I’m here on business. I stand, head to the front desk, where I’m thrilled to find a clerk who speaks excellent English.

  “Welcome to Bogotá, Miss Adams,” the man says. “We hope you enjoy your stay with us. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant.”

  Yep. A girl could get used to this, all right.

  Then, when minutes later the porter in the handsome, gold-trimmed uniform throws open the door to my room, I moan my bliss. Now I know how the other half lives—I like it, I like it.

  The brick tile floor on the balconied hall gives way to mellow wood once inside my room— “Room?” I murmur. “What room?”

  This is one honest-to-goodness suite they’ve put me in. Immediately on the other side of the door there’s a lovely sitting area with a pair of very European wood-backed and upholstered seat-cushion chairs, a small table in between. Then comes the arch . . .

  Oh my, oh my, oh my! Looking up, I feel as though I’ve walked into a fairy-tale castle. Four round columns attached to the walls give the appearance of holding up a luscious, flower-bedecked, wedding-cake-frosting white arch that soars high, higher than any ceiling I’ve seen outside of mammoth office buildings.

  This ain’t no office building, know what I mean?

  An “ahem” catches my attention.

  I glance at the porter, trying to look nonchalant, then snag some bills from my wallet and hand him his tip.

  He smiles, nods, and leaves, closing the door without making the slightest sound.

  I step into my new digs.

  Luxury all the way, is the name of this game. I step across to the other side of the amazing arch and there I find a very modern king-size bed, covered in what sure looks like silk from where I’m standing . . . and touching.

  But no amount of luxury could have prepared me for the windows. I’m not sure you can call them something so boring as windows. Ten-foot-tall glass and wood doors open inward to reveal one of the beautiful, waist-high wrought-iron grilles I’d admired from the street below. Warm tropical air wafts in to caress my face. If this isn’t exotic and foreign, I don’t know what is. I feel like Elena in The Mask of Zorro.

  A totally open door to the world outside . . . how romantic! I’m in love. If I could find some way to afford it, then this is where I would live out the rest of my life.

  But I can’t afford it. I’ve a job and a mortgage and a dead car and all of that back in Louisville. I’m a regular girl, not some movie heroine in a fantasy world.

  All of a sudden, the strain of the day hits me. I’m swamped with exhaustion, and the bed sings my name. I toe off my tan pumps, drop my jacket on one of the two nightstands, and set my cell phone’s alarm to blare in time for dinner.

  Soon, I’m asleep. “Stranger in Paradise” creeps into my dream . . .

  Mr. Magnificent sweeps the lovely young woman with the red hair up into his arms. Her froth of wedding gown train trails down, kisses the red brick tile floor like something out of an early Hollywood film.

  “Aren’t you supposed to carry me over the threshold and into the room, Mr. Magnificent?” the bride with the red hair asks as they whirl away. “You know, not out of the honeymoon suite.”

  Mr. Magnificent runs down a vintage staircase, his feet barely touching the treads, her gown fluttering behind them, her veil like a wind-tossed cloud. “Don’t fret your little old head with such thoughts, my lovely young damsel in redheaded distress,” he says. “I know what I’m doing. Me Tarzan, you Jane.”

  “But Mr. Magnificent, I am woman, hear me roar!”

  Mr. Magnificent smiles, his footsteps echoing in the hacienda’s wide halls. “I know best . . . I know best . . . I know best . . .”

  Then, sinister Pedro twists the end of his new mustache, greets them with an evil smile, and opens his yellow cab’s door. Mr. Magnificent crumples the lovely young woman and her fluffy gown into the modest confines of the backseat. The car door slams shut and Pedro speeds away.

  On two wheels, the cab spins circles ’round the fountain in the hotel courtyard, drowning out the last strains of “Stranger in Paradise.” The lovely young lady with the red hair feels sick, queasy, ready to barf into the air-sickness bag in the rear pocket of the seat in front. Pedro laughs, a madman’s peal, then cries out in glee. “Whee-eee-whee-eee-whee-eee—”

  I bolt upright, gasping, disoriented.

  “Where am I . . . ?” I look around, trying to catch my breath. Then the details of my Mad Hatter day slam back into my thoughts. That’s when the piercing squeal gets through to me. I reach over to the nightstand and turn off my cell phone alarm.

  A quick shower and a clean cream skirt and top later, I head for the hotel’s rooftop restaurant. I’m led to a small, yellow-linen-covered table, and the maître d’ pulls out one of the two wrought iron chairs for me. He shakes out my napkin, then hands me a tall menu and murmurs something about his hopes for my enjoyment of my meal.

  With the open menu before me, I reach back a bunch of years to my vacationing high school Spanish in hope of deciphering the hotel kitchen’s offerings. I get nowhere.

  “Is that you, Andie? What a surprise!”

  I turn at the sound of the familiar voice, and blink at the sight of Gladys Bergen in a gorgeous sage green silk summer dress. “Are you staying here?”

  “Nowhere better to stay when visiting Bogotá.” She gives the restaurant an appreciative and approving gaze. “Ever since Howard and I discovered this treasure ten years ago on his first business trip to Colombia, we’ve returned time and time again. We’ve never regretted it.”

  “That’s good to know. Especially since I’m at the mercy of my business contact here. He made all the arrangements.” Gladys frowns. “Is that wise, dear? The hotel choice is impeccable, but can you trust him with your safety?”

  And there you have it. That’s the monster dancing in the ballroom of my head ever since Mr. Cruz insisted on treating me, as he put it, to a worry-free time in his native land.

  I didn’t like the lack of control back when I first heard of it; I hate it even more now. How am I supposed to get myself out of any potential jam, since I know nothing about anything Colombian?

  But I can’t share these fears with a virtual stranger—are we seeing a trend? I’m not feeling the love here. So much for telling Max I wouldn’t be surrounded by strangers like I’d been in Burma and Kashmir.

  I’ll have to give that some more thought—just not when my stomach’s gurgling its emptiness for all to hear. “I’m sure everything will be fine, Gladys. My boss, Miss Latimer, knows the vendor, and she’s a pretty smart cookie. I doubt she’d put me in any danger.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Gladys then glances around the large crowded room again. “Oh dear. It looks as though I came up for dinner at the wrong time. It’s very busy tonight.”

  I gesture to the chair across from mine. “I’m alone. Why don’t you join me?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “Intrude?” I give a snort of laughter. “On what? Me, myself, and I? I have nothing on my schedule for tonight other than a pleasant, quiet dinner. Your company would be wonderful.”

  She still looks reluctant. “Well . . . I would prefer company to eating alone too, but I didn’t stop by to shoehorn myself on you.”

  “I would’ve stopped by your table had I seen you in a restaurant. And I don’t want to eat alone, either. Besides, I invited you, so please. Join me.” I glance at my menu, then back at Gladys. “You’re probably the perfect dinner companion for me. I have no idea what any of this might be.”

  Fortunately for me, Gladys has visited Colombia enough times, and loves the country and its culture so much, that she gives me a detailed description of every item on the long menu.

&nb
sp; Once I narrow down my choices, I close my menu. “I get why all these fancy cosmopolitan restaurants try to cater to American tastes, like this one does, but it’s way boooooring to order a T-bone, baked potato, and green salad when I go out of the neighboring forty-eight, if you know what I mean.”

  Gladys takes a sip of ice water, then draws a deep breath. “Smell the spicy scents. Why waste the opportunity? I love Colombian cuisine.”

  “I think that ajiaco soup dish you described sounds wonderful. You say it comes with rice on the side? I’m pretty hungry—that stuff we got on the plane wasn’t much to speak of.”

  Gladys laughs. “Trust me. I suspect a serving of ajiaco will be more than you can manage. It’s a soup, but one with about a quarter chicken per serving, an ear of corn, delicious tiny potatoes native to Colombia, and other vegetables thrown in according to the chef’s inspiration. They’ll also bring you a dish of white rice and a couple of arepas. You’ll have more than enough to eat.”

  “Well, then. When in Colombia, do as the Colombians do.” I close my menu and smile up at the waiter who’d materialized at my side. “I’ll have the ajiaco.”

  Hey! I can’t be making a mistake. Gladys orders the same thing. Then she focuses all her attention on me, and I realize how much she reminds me of Miss Mona—minus the wacky quotient, that is.

  “Tell me all about your trip, Andie. I’m just here to meet my husband. He’s on a buying trip too, but he buys boring stuff like ores and minerals. Even though I’m not crazy about emeralds, wheeling and dealing for gemstones has to beat ores any day.”

  I don’t know about wheeling and dealing, but I do tell Gladys about Mr. Cruz’s visit to the S.T.U.D., and while I have no idea how my negotiations will go in the morning, I can share details of my last two disastrous trips. I do skip over those scary parts I can’t turn into Calamity Jane comedy bits.

  As I finish the last bite of arepa, a soft cornmeal flat bread, delicious when dripping with sweet butter, the maître d’ approaches and tells Gladys someone’s waiting for her at the front desk.