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We thought we had done everything right.
We had visited Colombia for years before moving. We had walked its cities, made friends, learned neighborhoods, built routines, and convinced ourselves that we understood what life here would be like. For a while, we were right.
Then I stopped being able to walk.
What began as an occasional ache became a shrinking world measured not in kilometers, but in blocks… then doorways… then the distance from my bed to the bathroom. Pain quietly took the driver’s seat, and everything we thought we knew about our future had to be reconsidered.
This isn’t a story about medicine as much as it is about love, dependence, friendship, and the moment when even the best-laid plans collide with reality.

The beloved balcony is one of our favorite places to drink coffee, cogitate, visit, check-in, spy on the gay bathhouse across the street, or just watch the world pass by. Part Three of Running Away to Colombia We arrived in Bucaramanga on June 23, 2025, with four suitcases, a one-month reservation in an Airbnb, and…

Part Two of Running Away to Colombia People came into our home and carried our life away. Five dollars.Twenty dollars.Make an offer.Take the whole box. That is what an estate sale does. It converts biography into price tags. We scheduled ours for the first weekend of May 2025. Looking back, that weekend became the point…

Part One of Running Away to Colombia I can get out of bed again. That is not the same thing as being well. Every morning begins with a negotiation. Not with Michael. Not with Colombia. Not with doctors, banks, landlords or government offices. With my body. I lie still for a few moments and take…

Pain, the Brain, Aging, and Migración Colombia It’s 2 a.m., and I have to pee. That’s just about the simplest, least glamorous human problem imaginable for a 69-year-old man…except that my body has recently added a new rule: you don’t get to do simple things anymore without negotiating for them first. I reach for assistance…

Quick clarification (because this matters): This post is not about leaving Colombia or “moving back to the U.S.” This is a border run — a temporary exit required by visa timing — with a practical stop in Florida. From there, Michael continues on to Kansas City for a few weeks to house-sit and see friends…

Venezuela: Close enough. Far away. I’m watching Venezuela from northeastern Colombia, from a city called Bucaramanga, tucked into the eastern Andes. On a map, this looks close to the Venezuelan border, and it is. Close enough that one could be forgiven for assuming Caracas must be nearby. But maps lie. Or rather, they flatten things…

As I embark on this long-awaited launch and rebranding of myself, I have to get some things off my chest, starting with the obligatory AI disclosure. Habits, intentions, and resources. It’s 3 a.m. on a Sunday. This is the best time of the day for me. I don’t need a lot of hours of sleep…

This is the second installment of a two-part series. You can read Part 1 here. This story started only a few days ago, and already details are fading, so I better wrap this up today. Saturday was a grueling day at the ER… er, I mean VIP station of Hospital Internacional de Colombia, that included…