We've arrived in Santa Marta. Majestic doesn't begin to describe the place. But, with my constrained vocabulary, it's the best jab I can get in.
As a man of few words, last night we had an incident. The story has many tentacles, but in the interest of time and my own recollection, it'll have to contained.
Frankie, I found quickly, has a new muse. She works at a great place called the Pink Flamingo, where all the men working wear Real Madrid jerseys and all the women working wear.. well... barely anything.
Concurrently, there's a tiny crew (one person) documenting our adventure, and without naming names said worker opted to see how well Colombians could actually dance.
After approaching a local candidate, it appeared that her prowess was indeed elevated. After ten minutes of ecstatic gyrations (see below picture) she threw her forehead up in the air, and, purely on accident, struck said worker's on the forehead with her braces. Yes. Her braces.
Looking around, it became apparent that the majority of female employees at this fine establishment wore braces. Jogging my memory more, I remembered all of the women at these places had braces. What gives? Some noble soul, please chime in?
Apt at surgery, Jack and I had to repair our wounded solider out in the back of the Flamingo. Whether this will limit our nocturnal travels remains unclear. But count this tale as cautionary.
