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…
