I'll never rid of my adopted Colombian heritage. Never. I am currently working in Philadelphia with an awesome American, Josh, who I lived with in Medellin. I made plans for us to make the one and a half hour bus journey from Philadelphia to New York City to watch the Puerto Rican group, Calle 13, in concert.

Another Australian roommate of ours from Medellin had shacked up with a Chilean in NYC. When we let him know we would be in NYC for the day he also informed us that another French-Canadian roommate of ours from Medellin would also be visiting that day too. We made no concrete plans to meet up together though.

But after arriving near Penn Station we found the closest bar and began pounding shitty Coors Light beers around three in the afternoon. Our old roommates showed up an hour later and we continued while catching up on what we had been doing since. The French-Canadian is a hell of funny guy. He makes bank working in the Canadian oil fields blowing up dynamite. He travels after putting in months of long hours, seven days a week. He always finds himself in the strangest situations that I just don't feel comfortable writing about here.

The other Australian is a more level-headed guy who seems to settle in new countries pretty often. Not much to write about him.

But for five more hours we drank, confirmed rumors from our house in Medellin, joked, and occasionally glanced at the American Football playing on the fiver or so TV screens surrounding our table. I felt as if I were in a little time bubble reliving the greatest memories from Medellin.

By around eight, the four of us walked to the Best Buy Theater in Times Square. Here we are seeing a politcally motivated Spanish speaking band play in a corporate sponsored venue in one of the most consumerist neigborhoods in the world. That does not really bother me personally, but I can laugh at the irony. I love you Calle 13!

The Australian wimped out due to work so the three of us watched Calle 13 while surrounded by mostly Latinos from Central and South America. One of us happened to have a flask of whisky that seemed to have no effect and quickly disappeared after the second song. A great thing about Calle 13 is that since I last saw them in concert they got way better, with a dozen or so more songs that I like and was able to recognize during the concert.

Once the concert ended we continued walking through Times Square which at nearly midnight felt like midday with its bright lights. We found a pizza shop on a side street by the Megabus station. I ordered one slice, my American friend ordered two, and the French-Canadian ordered three.

After boarding the 1:30 AM bus I passed out and was woken up as we pulled into Philly, The cab ride home took just ten minutes. For the times when I am stuck at home in Philadelphia, I never really am. New York City is just a day trip away.

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