“Don’t get kidnapped,” was pretty much the standard response when I told people I was going to Colombia, although one thoughtful friend advised me, “Don’t get shot.” I would explain that I’m not their type—they being the guerilla, of course—and that even if they did pick-me-up, I would undoubtedly drive them crazy within a couple days, and eventually someone would find me naked wandering along some jungle highway with a sunburn and a hell of a story to tell.

But things have changed, they tell me here, in Bogotá.

I have this thing about airplanes. Apart from a firm belief that each flight could be my last, I try to always book an aisle seat. It’s not that I think I will have a better chance of surviving a plane crash, but rather that if I am in a window seat, or riding bitch, my traitorous bladder goes into overdrive, and when I’m not desperately holding it, I’m having to say excuse me time and again as I get up to stumble down the aisle to the nearest bathroom. Therefore, I missed most of the sights that Pilar, the Colombian woman sitting next to me, was pointing out as our plane descended into El Aeropuerto El Dorado in Bogotá.

Even if I were sitting closer to the window, I probably wouldn’t have seen anything anyway. I was too busy closing my eyes and saying a little prayer as the monstrous Airbus A300 dipped suddenly to the left and then to the right as if preparing itself for a cartwheel. I’m pretty sure the pilots do that on purpose every once in a while just to mess with us. When people around the plane began applauding, I knew I wasn’t the only one peeing his pants during the hair-raising landing.

In the airport, there wasn’t an overwhelming presence of armed soldiers or anything like that, as I expected—I’ve seen worse in México and in the U.S. But the atmosphere was somewhat tense as people struggled to find their baggage in the undersized customs section. Pilar was detained by police because she had several gifts she had brought for her family, most of them clothing with the price tags still on. I guess this a no-no in Colombia. We said our goodbyes as I hauled two oversized suitcases, a bulging backpack and my computer case toward the taxi stand outside.

“If you ever get lost in Bogotá,” Jaime, my taxi driver, explained, “all you have to do is look for el Cerro Monserrate and you will know which direction is East.” Bogotá, like many other major cities in South America, sprawls throughout a plain high in the Andes Mountains. At 8,661 feet above sea level, it is the third highest city in the world after Quito, Ecuador, and La Paz, Bolivia, and the entire eastern side of the city is bordered by the towering walls of Monserrate, which rise to 10,341 feet above sea level. A 17^th Century church by the same name is a popular tourist attraction and destination for religious pilgrims who make the rigorous climb to pay homage to “El Señor Caido” or fallen lord.

I didn’t make it up the mountain, however, although my hostel in La Candelaria (Old Bogotá) was just a hop, skip and a jump away from the launch site of the cable car that carries less vigorous (and less destitute) visitors to the shrine. I was on a mission to discover the real Bogotá—the life led by 8,000,000 plus inhabitants of the capital of Colombia.

You can read more about Mr. Monda's travels—in English and Español—at http://citizenx.biz