By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
“So where in the United States are you from?” he asked me, pouring coffee into a white porcelain cup. Don Carlos was an enigma--his sombrero, mud-splattered jeans and knee-length rubber boots said campesino, or rural farmer, but the artfully placed coffee sacks around his shop, the spotless Chemex in his hand, and the single-origin coffee he was pouring said third-wave coffee barista. A town near San Francisco, I told him. “Is it called Daly City?” I was shocked--how did he know what Daly City was? After all, it wasn’t exactly on the San Francisco tourist circuit, and we were in a small town in Colombia's coffee region, far from the bustling traffic of the Bay Area. I asked him if he had ever been. “No, but my brother has lived there for the past 18 years.” Colombia wasn't as safe back then--the guerilla had an active presence in the region--and his brother, just 17 years-old at the time, decided that life there wasn’t for him and left for the US. His brother got a job working as a driver in California, and Don Carlos worked as a repairman through Colombia's various political changes. After saving enough money, he bought a small plot of land and starting planting coffee. At first he sold the dried, raw beans to a co-op that later toasted(i.e. burned) and exported the beans to the US, but he later realized he could make better-tasting coffee, and better profits, by producing the coffee himself. After a couple of years, he opened Cafe La Floresta, where he now serves coffee that is grown, picked, dried, toasted and brewed by himself and a small team of workers. He employs mostly women--widows and uneducated young mothers--and pays them better than they could get at another farm. I asked him, quite hopefully, if he would ever consider expanding his business or selling his coffee outside of Colombia. Unnervingly sweet and fruity, it was unlike any other coffee I had tried. I didn't want this to be my last taste. "I don't want to," he said with a sly smile. "I want my brother to come visit me." When I got back home to San Francisco, my backpack was a 2 pounds heavier than it had been when I left. Sergio, Don Carlos' brother, came to meet me at my house. He was younger, but had the determined eyes, the same smile. When I handed him the coffee, he pressed the bag against his nose and took a whiff. "Ah," he sighed with a smile on his face. "It smells like home."