The Terror of a Fork



First a final night-time glimpse of Cartagena out our 4th floor apartment window, where we dried our laundry and watched and listened to the world go by. The Plaza Santo Domingo is a hopping place at night. This morning I was awakened early by the sounds of Gregorian chant coming from the church. Catholicism is alive and well in Cartagena.

Today we flew to Medellin. After our one domestic flight on Avianca, I had concluded that they were a bit more trusting than TSA. You can bring on gallons of water. My titanium hip hardly raises an eyebrow. But today as I came out of the security screening, a burly guy said, "Tiene un tenedor." I politely agreed that I did have a fork in my backpack in case I ever decided to eat the can of tuna fish I have been carrying around since I left home. The guard asked me how to say "tenedor" in English. Then he proceeded to keep my metal fork, declaring forks were prohibited. I ask myself how I managed to get through security at Reagan and in Bogota without losing my fork. Some questions just don't have an answer. But I long ago learned that it was hopeless to argue with a security guy. 


So my confiscated fork was my excuse to buy this rather yummy chocolate desert to eat with my afternoon tea. Now I have a plastic fork that could do just about as much damage as my old metal fork, but it should sail through all subsequent scrutiny.

We haven't quite plugged into the magic of Medellin, but tomorrow we will hit the streets once again.