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A Colombian Rose The bus starts running. Through the window I see the transmilenium, a bus rapid transit (BRT) system copied from my hometown, Curitiba. Throughout my stay I heard a lot of complaints about it: "we need a subway, not an exclusive bus line" – all very familiar. We cut through the city. It is our last day, and we are going to the Salt Cathedral. This is an undeniably Catholic country, I sigh. Another familiar aspect. The guide tells us about Colombian history, and I remember everything we saw during the week, studying the FARC and the peace negotiations. It was intense: fragments of a counter-monument; Native-American women selling handicrafts and Amazonian food while refusing to be involved in politics; a big presidential house, where a man who poses for pictures very well lives. It starts raining. The weather has remained cold and indecisive – typical for July, they say. Walking around Candelária with a heavy coat before class, Bogotá’s downtown proved to be like most: a little dirty, cluttered, filled with people eating obleas and going to work, unaware of my curiosity. The locals seem to greet everyone – "¡buenos días!" – and get annoyed when someone – me – fails to respond. They gladly help tourists, and start talking about Shakira for no apparent reason. I smile. Something draws my attention back to the guide's speech: the roses. "These are greenhouses", she points out the window to large white tents, "they hide a secret - that Colombian roses are the most beautiful. They last longer because of our soil and cultivation. Their stems are thicker, and they make beautiful bouquets to be bought by Americans on Valentine's Day ". A few miles from the tents, we see deserted fields where roses are no longer cultivated. Some are still there, though, refusing to die. Weak as they are without proper care, there are signs of beauty, their vibrant, pink color fading within the grass in a wild, disoriented way. It reminds me of a class we had during the week. The teacher asked us to say in three words what we thought of the guerrillas. Everyone answered pretty much the same thing. Violence, fear. Death, drugs. Will the peace agreement survive all that, I wonder? We arrive at our destination, going underground to discover the first Colombian wonder: the result of years of excavation and exploration not of gold, but of salt - the salt that, for the Incas, had more practical use than gold. For them, gold was spiritual, while salt was economical. What is the connection between the two? I think we haven't found it 'til this day. The salt crosses are beautiful. Each one represents different moments in Jesus' life. Our energy is renewed as we go down; "it is the salt", the guide says, "it purifies us". It is funny to discover that this beautiful place of communion is not recognized by the Church, as it doesn’t meet the requirements. The biggest of all crosses is about seventeen meters long, hovering over us in a big saloon. If now we are in the depths of the Earth, our previous day was in Monserrat, where it was possible to see and almost touch the clouds. So high, so low. So extreme. We walk around the commercial stores and then start our way back. Legend has it that those with no sin can climb the steps to surface without getting tired. We come to the end breathless, like the sinful people we are. Or maybe we just need to hit the gym more often. Hours later, we are once again passing the rose plantations. My body remains salty, while my mind remains full of wonder. The peace agreement is still valid, even with the change in government. The special jurisdiction for peace too, doing its job every day. They are the result of an unshakable effort to bring justice to a country that grew spread out because it is so used to destruction. In the Gold Museum, we find remnants of another type of decimation, but one that was just as violent. The people, however, survive. They are here, walking around Candelária eating obleas, beautiful and lasting. Just like their roses.