Medellín

I felt the engines of the Boeing 737 MAX 8 rumble beneath my seat as we inched toward the runway at Miami International, the hot South Florida sun painting the tarmac in shimmers of heat. From my window in business class, I had the perfect view of palm trees swaying like they had nothing better to do, which, honestly, I envied. There was a beach out there with my name on it, but instead, I was strapped into this leather seat, preparing to launch into what could either be the adventure of a lifetime or a really long cautionary tale.

 

I was alone for this part of my journey; my dad had arrived a couple of weeks earlier to get settled into our new apartment and get the lay of the land. He wouldn’t even be in town when I arrived, so I was all alone until I got picked up by my driver at the airport. I was used to it, though.

 

At least I had a decent seat this leg. Business class was a last-minute upgrade, courtesy of Dad’s guilt or government travel policy – not sure which, but I wasn’t asking questions. All I knew was that I wasn't crammed in the back next to the lady who barked like a dog (yes, really) and two guys locked in mortal combat over an armrest. No, up here I got a pre-takeoff juice (they weren’t buying that I was 21) and enough legroom to feign composure.

 

The roar of the engines intensified. I love that moment when a plane stops pretending to be a bus and starts gunning it down the runway. The gentle lift-off, the way the city shrinks below you, the sudden freedom. Normally, it gave me a rush. But this time, a knot had lodged itself deep in my stomach and wasn’t going anywhere. I wasn’t just flying to Medellín – known as “The City of Eternal Spring” – in Colombia. I was moving there. For two or three years, to be precise, depending on whether my father’s work was successful.

 

I stared out the window as the South Florida coastline disappeared beneath us, a golden crescent of sand and sunlight. I imagined myself there instead, toes in the surf, music playing, life uncomplicated. But no, this trip was the start of something very different. For the next two to three years, I’d be living in Colombia with my dad among the paisas, the Colombians who inhabit Medellín and the large departamento surrounding it – what we would think of as a “province” – known as Antioquia.

 

Ever since my mom died of cervical cancer about a year ago, nothing had been the same. My dad and I had become two satellites in orbit, crossing paths out of necessity, not choice. We weren’t exactly close, but then again, we were never that close before my mom got sick and died. Bonding time had mostly consisted of silent car rides and brief nods over frozen dinners. But this time, he had no choice. There was no one else to leave me with – other than my elderly grandparents, but I couldn’t imagine a more boring lifestyle – and apparently, missing a couple of years of my adolescence wasn’t on my father’s agenda. However, it was hardly enough for all the concern he showed about this drastic move. He’d given me almost no information and very little time to decide.

 

I wasn’t exactly complaining … too much, anyway. But like most teenagers, I could find almost anything to complain about or be moody, grumpy, or angsty for virtually no reason. It was the hormones, they told me. At any rate, though, I was ready for an adventure – a new country, a new culture, a clean slate. It’s not like I was leaving much behind in D.C. anyway – just a trail of messy memories and a handful of hearts I never meant to break.

 

The truth? I had a reputation I couldn’t shake – slut and asshole in one package. I “dated” too many boys, slept with most on the first night, ghosted more than I’ll admit, always chasing the next hit I swore would fix me. It never did. By then, I was the cautionary tale – the kid GSA warned about, the under-18 club nights side-eyed, even Grindr treated like a walking red flag: only after one thing, “issues.” Well, fuck them – issues my lily-white ass. Deep down, I was running from guilt, anxiety, depression; from the emptiness of wanting something real and wrecking it anyway. I worried I was too broken for love – too selfish, too full of doubt, allergic to commitment. The confident mask? Completely fake. I’d thought about therapy, but my dad waved it off – “typical teenager, you’ll grow out of it.” Maybe he was right; maybe not. He didn’t know the whole story.

 

All I knew was that I needed this change. I was holding out hope that somewhere far away, in a place with different rules and expectations, I might finally figure myself out. But if I were honest, I was getting dangerously close to the edge. Not that I’d ever let anyone see that.

 

I’d told myself Medellín would be different. A fresh start. A chance to be better. Maybe even figure out what exactly I wanted instead of falling into bed with the next pretty face that smiled at me. What I really wanted was a boyfriend, someone to love me, but those experiences never ended well for me. Deep down, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Not here. Not in a city full of temptation – full of hot, flirty guys who loved gringos and didn’t believe in taking things slow. I was sixteen with a libido that never got the memo about self-control. So yeah… I wanted to change. I just wasn’t sure I could. But maybe, just maybe, I would meet that one special boy who would help me see the light, who would awaken my darkened heart, and show me that I could love and be loved. I gave myself about 1 in a million odds, which was the equivalent of being struck by lightning, being hit by an asteroid, or finding a single red grain of sand on an entire beach.

 

As far as how my dad got transferred to work in Medellín, Colombia? According to his official paperwork, Dad worked for the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Foreign Agricultural Service – a very bureaucratic-sounding way to say he managed food aid and agricultural technical exchanges. But that was just his backstory. His work was supposed to be completely clandestine. In reality, he was a senior agent for the Drug Enforcement Administration, commonly known as the DEA. He was a special agent with a badge, a gun, and one of those dark blue windbreakers that said DEA on the back in yellow lettering.

 

This particular assignment was no vacation: he and his partner were helping Colombian authorities track down the leader of the Clan de Bahía Sur, a man they called "El Chino." An odd nickname for a high-level narco-terrorist, it literally meant “The Chinaman,” and he had a backstory no one seemed eager or fully able to explain, except to say he made Pablo Escobar look like a cranky neighborhood pharmacist. My dad’s role was to “observe” and “advise” the local Colombian authorities, which included their police, special forces, and military.

 

While Dad played international narco-cop, I would be dumped into an elite all-boys' prep school in Medellín (fortunately, not the boarding kind), courtesy of Uncle Sam's bottomless budget. El Colegio Internacional de los Andes. The name alone sounded like a place where you either emerged with a world-class education or a major superiority complex. Probably both. At 16 years old, my only companionship would be a heavily vetted part-time housekeeper, Doña Susana, and my personal driver-slash-bodyguard, Major Juan Camilo Gómez of the Colombian National Police’s Special Operations Command. Apparently, I was important enough to protect because of my dad’s job and his rarely being present, just not important enough to be asked about anything else I might have wanted. Other than that, though, I was basically on my own.

 

Despite my mild irritation at having no say in where we went, and all the rules I would likely be forced to follow, there was something about the idea of Colombia that intrigued me. The land of magical realism, of Gabriel García Márquez, Fernando Botero, and, of course, Pablo Escobar. A country described by my father with almost poetic menace: “God made this land so beautiful it was unfair to the rest of the world. So, to even the score, He populated it with evil men.” Comforting.

 

I'd done my research. Yes, Colombia was still the world's largest producer and exporter of cocaine. Yes, the DEA had hammered every safety warning into my head during a mandatory week of briefings in D.C. I was under strict orders: know the danger zones, don’t trust anyone, follow Juan Camilo’s instructions to the letter, and for the love of all things holy, never, ever mention what my father really did for a living. That could put both of us and other DEA agents at serious risk. I even had a fake backstory ready to go: son of a USDA development specialist, in Colombia for agriculture-related reasons, from Washington, D.C. Riveting stuff. At least my new identity still allowed me to be gay and keep my own name, Hunter.

 

Despite all that, I couldn’t help feeling a flicker of excitement. I was sixteen, messy blond hair, blue-eyed, slightly taller than average, and possibly about to become the rarest of birds: a fairly cute and young gringo with some street cred. I was told I would be “popular.” I wasn’t exactly shy, but I also wasn’t sure what kind of popularity I really wanted in a place like this.

 

I didn’t speak much Spanish – barely passed two years of it back in the States – but my school would be in all English, with one Spanish class per day, just like in the States. Socially, I was hoping for more than just nerdy expat kids quoting Reddit, playing video games all day, and comparing embassy IDs.

 

I wanted to see the real Colombia. The one full of paradoxes, color, danger, life … and yes, cute boys. Lots and lots of cute boys. Pretty boys with big dicks and tight asses. Boys who would whisper romantic nothings in my ear while I was buried to the hilt inside of them.

 

About three hours into the flight, I was broken out of my reverie as we began our final descent into The City of Eternal Spring.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ve just begun our initial descent into Medellín. At this time, please return to your seats and ensure that your seatbelts are securely fastened. Flight attendants will be coming through the cabin to collect any remaining service items. We’ll be landing in approximately 20 minutes, and the current weather in Medellín is sunny, with a temperature of 82°F (28°C). On behalf of the entire crew, we’d like to thank you for flying with American today.”

 

My stomach flipped. I looked out the window and felt like I was gliding into a dream. The Andes rose like emerald giants beneath us; jagged ridges wrapped in mist and sunlight. The countryside was impossibly green, a thousand shades of it, untouched and wild in a way that made my chest tighten.

 

We landed at José María Córdova International Airport, located in Ríonegro – a fair distance from Medellín proper. The airport was smaller than I expected and jam-packed. It felt like half the country was trying to squeeze into the same terminal. Immigration took forever. The officer barely looked at me and even less noted my Spanish, which, to be fair, probably sounded like a toddler choking on Duolingo.

 

After clearing customs and claiming my luggage, I pushed through the double glass doors into the arrival area. My eyes scanned the crowd. A man stood off to the right, holding a sign that said "Hunter Callahan." Bald, goateed, slight beer belly, maybe my dad’s age. He wore jeans and a tucked-in polo shirt like someone who meant business but had a soft spot for casual Fridays. The Glock on his hip and badge on his belt told me everything I needed to know.

 

Juan Camilo, I presumed. Or a very confident impersonator. Either way, this was it.

 

Colombia.

 

Let the story begin.

 

***

 

"Welcome to Colombia, Mr. Hunter!" Juan Camilo's voice rang out over the chaos of the arrivals hall like someone announcing the winner of a sweepstakes. He was all warmth and energy, a firm handshake and a smile that looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. Before I could even adjust the strap on my duffel bag, he'd already claimed it and started weaving us through the dense crowd like it was his full-time job. Which, technically, I guess it was.

 

The airport was a mess of contradictions. On one side, old ladies selling candy with outstretched hands and weathered faces. On the other, sleek businessmen in tailored suits, barking into phones and gliding past us like they owned the place. Between them, a sea of humanity – families reuniting, kids screaming, taxi drivers getting way too personal about my transportation preferences. It was my first taste of Colombia, and it hit like a hot, humid punch to the face.

 

Juan Camilo shielded me from most of it with a kind of practiced ease. "Rainy season starts in a couple of weeks," he said as we stepped into the blinding sunlight. "It'll cool down soon. For now, welcome to the sauna."

 

Outside, the heat was immediate and thick, like I had just walked into a laundromat mid-cycle. Medellín may have been nicknamed the City of Eternal Spring, but today it felt more like the City of Eternal Summer. We crossed the baking pavement to a gleaming black Toyota SUV with tinted windows and more armor than I was probably supposed to notice.

 

Juan Camilo tossed my bags in the back like they weighed nothing and held the door open for me. I climbed inside and was immediately met with a blast of glorious, ice-cold air conditioning. "For now," he said, settling into the driver's seat, "I am your driver, fixer, and personal protection. Once you're more comfortable with the city and everything is mostly stable, we might give you a bit more space and freedom. But for now, you go nowhere without me."

 

I nodded, doing my best not to bristle visibly. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about being chauffeured around like a nervous diplomat, but I also wasn’t an idiot. Colombia could be dangerous, and Juan Camilo looked like the kind of guy who knew exactly how to keep things from getting out of hand. Besides, he had that ex-military posture and calm, no-nonsense vibe. Still, the way he called me "Mr. Hunter" was so formal I half-expected him to start saluting me.

 

"Just Hunter," I told him.

 

He chuckled. "Of course, Mr. Hunter."

 

I asked him where he learned to speak English so well, and he told me he’d always been a good English student in school, plus he'd trained in the States for a year with the army's special forces, watched a lot of TV series in English, and frequently listened to Voice of America. “Language is a tool,” he said. “Use it well, and it changes outcomes.”

 

We made small talk as the city unfolded around us. The drive took almost an hour, winding from the higher elevation of Ríonegro down into the valley basin of Medellín. From the highway, the city looked like a mosaic of terra-cotta rooftops and leafy hillsides, framed by the green-cloaked arms of the Andes. Everywhere I looked, there were contrasts: gleaming new apartment towers rising next to crumbling brick homes; flowering trees standing guard over graffiti-tagged walls.

 

Eventually, we pulled up to a gated community high up in the hills of the El Poblado neighborhood, supposedly the nicest part of the city. From the outside, it looked like a cluster of upscale townhouses back in the States, surrounded by thick vegetation and a perimeter wall topped with electrified barbed wire. "Burglaries still happen here," Juan Camilo said matter-of-factly. "Security is part of daily life here. Always be aware of your surroundings, avoid wearing flashy things like jewelry, don’t pull out cash in the middle of the street, and if you have an expensive phone, leave it in your pocket and go somewhere alone to use it.” That seemed like an awful lot of rules. Just how safe was this place, I wondered?

 

We stopped first at the security office, where I met the team who would be keeping watch over our little corner of paradise. The guards looked sharp, disciplined. Not the rent-a-cop type you see at strip malls. These guys were armed, polite, and made a point of shaking my hand one by one. Juan Camilo explained they patrolled the grounds every night and had a direct line to the local police. I nodded, trying to look appreciative instead of vaguely unsettled.

 

He gave me the grand tour – gym, sauna, pool, soccer field, dog park, even a playground that looked like it hadn’t seen an actual kid since the days of Pablo Escobar. The houses looked fine, pretty fancy even, but the whole place felt less like a neighborhood and more like a country club where everyone forgot to show up. No kids my age that I saw; no basketball hoops in driveways; no bikes left out to trip over. Just spotless lawns, giant walls, and armed guards standing around like awkward action figures. Our house technically belonged to the DEA, which made us more like long-term Airbnb guests than real residents. Still, free pool, free gym, free bodyguards – I wasn’t about to complain.

 

Finally, we reached our townhouse – my new home for the next few years, or at least until I graduated and headed back to the States for college. I was just starting my junior year of high school, and this was where I’d be stuck in the meantime.

 

The place was modern enough, with boxy lines and a clean layout, but dressed up with a stucco façade and dark wooden trims that tried to soften the edges. Every unit was painted the same shade of white, the only real individuality coming from the shutters – ours were a forest green, which at least gave me something to recognize in the sea of sameness. Wrought-iron bars covered the windows, which meant sneaking out would be a full-on jailbreak if I ever tried it. The house had large front-facing windows, a two-car garage, and a neat, little landscaped yard in front, with a short path to the door. Around back was a small, fenced yard, just enough for a grill, a dog, or a few chairs – if anyone actually wanted to sit outside under the watchful eyes of the guards or nosy, gossipy neighbors. Older Colombian women were apparently notorious for that.

 

From a distance, the row of houses looked nearly identical, as if someone had copy-pasted the design from a video game. Paradise with HOA rules and armed security.

 

But inside? Whole different story. The place looked like something straight out of a design magazine – sleek and modern, with an open-concept living and dining area, polished white tile floors that practically blinded you if the sun hit right, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made it feel less like a house and more like a fishbowl. Subtle recessed lighting gave everything that “model home” glow, the kind where you half expect a realtor to show up offering you champagne.

 

The kitchen was ridiculous – brand-new stainless-steel appliances, glossy cabinets, and a massive island in the middle big enough to land a small plane on. There was also a spacious study – definitely my dad’s domain, considering the giant safe already bolted to the wall – a small laundry room, and a combination living-and-dining area large enough to host a United Nations banquet, or so it seemed.

 

Most of our furniture from the States had already been delivered, but it looked laughably small scattered around all that space, like we’d raided the dollhouse section at IKEA. Honestly, I didn’t mind. The “less is more” look kind of worked for me – clean, uncluttered, easy. And hey, less stuff meant less to break if (or when) things got crazy. It also definitely made the space feel more “ours” since all of it was our own stuff. I guess it would help make the transition a little easier, make it feel like “home” a little faster. Maybe we’d buy a few things to make it look a little homier, but it wasn’t a big deal to me. I was most interested in my bedroom, where I would likely be spending most of my time.

 

My bedroom turned out better than I expected – bigger than most of the other bedrooms in the house, and on the first floor toward the back, which I claimed as a win. It had everything that mattered: my absurdly comfy queen bed, my desk with the gaming chair, and the crown jewel – a 60-inch HD mounted dead-center across from the bed. I dropped my laptop on the desk, clicked it into the dock, and the whole command center woke up: dual monitors, a mechanical keyboard, and fast Wi-Fi that actually pulled full bars back here. Best part? I smuggled in my “super-duper” 2.1 sound system with the sub tucked under the desk. When the bass hit, the floor hummed like a heartbeat. The only thing that would have made it perfect is wall-to-wall carpet instead of the tiles that seemed to run through the whole house.

 

Streaming wasn’t a problem either – Netflix, Amazon Prime, Disney+, HBO Max – I was set for life. They’d even painted the walls a deep blue, just like I’d asked, which matched all my bedding sets and made the whole room feel like my own little cave. Honestly, it kind of felt like my kingdom: my stuff, my rules, my vibe. And with my dad gone most of the time and supervision basically at a minimum, I had a feeling plenty of Colombian boys would end up hanging out in here. Good thing we had a maid – because kings don’t clean, and I definitely wasn’t planning on starting.

 

There weren’t any bathtubs – just sleek rainfall showers behind glass panels, all minimalist and spotless, like something out of a hotel brochure. The bedrooms were on the smaller side by American standards, but they made up for it with wide windows that let in tons of natural light. What really sold me, though, were the wall-mounted air conditioning units tucked into every room. Not exactly standard in Medellín, but I liked to sleep in the cold and knew I’d be cranking them up.

 

And the views? Unreal. From the second-floor balcony in the back, and even more from the rooftop terrace, the whole city stretched out in the valley below, cradled by the arms of the Andes. Red rooftops spilled up the mountainsides like a giant mosaic, broken by streaks of green forest and the occasional cable car gliding across the skyline, quiet and steady as a heartbeat.

 

Inside, I met Doña Susana, our part-time housekeeper. She looked to be in her late fifties, with silver-streaked hair and a warm but no-nonsense energy. She spoke very little English, but we exchanged polite smiles and a few mangled phrases before she returned to cleaning. Juan Camilo assured me she was trustworthy, discreet, and an excellent cook.

 

"You have questions?" Juan Camilo asked after giving me an iPhone 15 Plus, with his number already programmed in. He advised me again about being especially careful with the phone, as it was a popular target for thieves. He said not to take it out in public unless absolutely necessary and not to flaunt it around. People get killed over iPhones all the time, he warned me. I guess it was like people getting killed for their shoes back in the States.

 

“Why can’t I just use the phone I already have?” I asked.

 

“Because this one is government-issued and has some special security features,” he said nonchalantly.

 

“Any other questions, Mr. Hunter?” he asked me.

 

"Just one," I said. "What’s for dinner?"

 

He laughed and pointed toward the fridge. "Doña Susana made you something. Microwave and eat. I'll come back early tomorrow. Your father, too. Get some rest."

 

With that, he was gone. The door clicked shut, and I was alone.

 

The apartment was quiet, still smelling faintly of new paint and lemon cleaner. Outside, Medellín pulsed with life. Birds I couldn’t name called out in the distance. Somewhere far off, a motorcycle engine roared.

 

The city waited.

 

But first, I had unpacking to do, starting with my room.

 

***

 

It was only eight in the morning when I felt a hand nudging me out of sleep.

 

"Hunter, it's time to get up. We have a lot to talk about."

 

It took a few groggy seconds to blink my eyes open. My dad was kneeling beside the bed, having trimmed his red beard and donned a polo shirt and jeans. He looked far too put-together for someone who had probably flown in from Bogotá just hours ago, which was where he would spend most of his time. Medellín, though, was the center of operations for “El Chino” manhunt, plus he figured Medellín would be a better environment for me than Bogotá – frenetic, overcrowded, crime-ridden, and cursed with one of the worst public transportation systems imaginable. It was also consistently gray and rainy, which I wouldn’t have enjoyed either. The only thing I’d be missing out on in Bogotá was the famous Chapinero gay district, but Medellín was supposed to be a relatively gay-friendly city, too. Lots of gay bars, bath houses, and the like, although I was still too young to get into any of them.

 

We weren’t exactly the hug-and-heartfelt-conversation type, but still, he was my dad, and I had sort of missed him. I gave him a quick one-armed hug.

 

"Get dressed and brush your teeth. Meet us in the living room, okay?"

 

I nodded and dragged myself upright, fumbling through my suitcase until I found a semi-clean T-shirt. On my way to the living room, I stopped in the kitchen for a hit of what I had already decided was the single best part of Colombia: the coffee. Strong, smooth, and possibly brewed by angels. The basic, strong, sweetened variety was my favorite, usually served in small cups and known as tinto. I also really enjoyed café con leche (coffee with milk).

 

When I stepped into the living room, I was greeted by a full cast: Dad, his longtime DEA partner, Agent Pedro Sánchez, and, of course, the ever-unflappable Juan Camilo. All three looked like they were ready to brief a head of state, not a high school junior who hadn’t had breakfast yet and was still groggy and a little grumpy.

 

Then came the kicker: school started tomorrow.

 

Fuck me. Hard.

 

As if on cue, Doña Susana emerged from the laundry room carrying a stack of freshly pressed clothes and a brand-new backpack already stuffed with books and supplies. God bless DEA logistics (or my dad's thoughtfulness).

 

"You're going to do great," Dad said. "Just… be careful who you get close to. Some of the wealthier narcos send their kids to schools like this under fake names. You’ll also run into politicians’ kids, businessmen’s kids, and other expat kids – a whole mix. But definitely the upper crust of Colombia, as well as some scholarship students from poorer areas, mixed in for diversity. Just try to blend in, give it a fair chance. Make some friends. Be happy, for once. I think we’ve all had enough of your moping since… well, you know …"

 

Yes, I did know. Ever since Rory. But that’s a story for another day.

 

"So... if I want to sit with someone at lunch, do I need to request a background check first?"

 

Juan Camilo actually chuckled. "Only if they seem suspicious, Mr. Hunter."

 

I rolled my eyes. "Just Hunter."

 

Juan Camilo nodded. "Yes, just Hunter, Mr. Hunter."

 

My dad tried to cut through the tension with one of his pep talks about Medellín – how the city had reinvented itself, risen from the ashes of the Escobar years. If I just used common sense, he said, I’d be fine. “It’s one of the safest big cities in Latin America now,” he added with a smile. “You’re going to love it here.”

 

He went on about how the Metro and the Metrocable made life easier for workers who used to spend hours getting into the valley, how the city had poured money into education – new libraries, museums, art galleries, tech centers, and science programs even in the poorest neighborhoods. Public spaces felt safer and cleaner. Parks where factories once stood. Trees where there used to be trash.

 

“And the best part?” he said. “Innovation. Medellín isn’t trying to hide its past – it’s outgrowing it. Green energy, startups, world-class universities, and entire districts built for science and tech. People here are building the future, not running from the past.”

 

I looked out at the hillside climbing with lights, and for the first time since we landed, I let myself breathe. Maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster. Perhaps he was right. Maybe Medellín really had changed.

 

I wasn’t totally convinced yet, but I appreciated the optimism.

 

I was really hoping my dad would quit pretending to be Father of the Year (which he was most certainly not) and get back to work. The act didn’t suit him, and honestly, I didn’t need it. I did better on my own – at least, that’s what I told myself. I liked stumbling into my own adventures, screwing things up on my own terms. Friends? Sure, maybe I’d make some. Or perhaps I’d just push them away like usual. For now, the plan was simple: keep my head down, stay quiet, and be observant. No waves, no drama. Just get the lay of the land… and hope I didn’t immediately trip over it like an idiot.

 

That afternoon, we all went to lunch in Provenza, a fancy little corner of El Poblado full of boutique shops, trendy restaurants, and expats who dressed like Instagram influencers on a jungle safari. The food was fine, I guess. Later that evening, Doña Susana cooked dinner for us. I appreciated the effort, but it wasn’t exactly blowing my mind.

 

Colombian food, I was quickly realizing, was not my thing. It all seemed very bland, without much variety.

 

Everything seemed to revolve around the arepa – a flat, round cornmeal cake that’s grilled, baked, or fried. They were used roughly similar to tortillas in Mexican cuisine, but much thicker. People stuffed them, topped them, and treated them like edible plates. I thought they tasted like slightly damp cardboard and had a texture somewhere between drywall and disappointment. Juan Camilo warned me never to say that aloud in front of a Colombian. It would practically be a hate crime.

 

The soups and stews were heavy – too hearty for this climate – and vegetables were basically a rumor. Lots of meat and starch, usually cooked to death, and almost everything deep-fried. For someone who liked to eat healthier, the food looked like it was going to be a problem.

 

That night I lay in bed, stomach still working on a sad arepa – tonight’s came with thick tomato sauce and a tired piece of roasted chicken – thinking about school tomorrow.

 

But… what about the boys?

 

I had heard and read that Medellín’s boys were famously gorgeous – Brazil’s only real rival – and not just by luck. They worked at it. Hair immaculate, clothes ultra-stylish and fitted just right, gym routines and sports like religion, smiles camera-ready. Very metrosexual, very intentional. People said the vibe around dating and sex was extremely liberal, the flirting bold, and the curiosity about gringos immediate and disarming. What struck me in photos was the sheer variety of beauty: every shade you could imagine, from pale white to honey, copper, café con leche, and deep dark brown – each with its own glow against the valley light. Paisas – the people who inhabited Medellín and the surrounding Antioquia departamento – were supposed to be friendly to the point of overwhelming, eager to chat, keen to show you their city, and maybe even eager to see if you’d notice them back. Part of me was terrified of the danger my dad warned about; another part worried I’d be distracted before I even unpacked. From what it sounded like, I might not even need my Grindr app!

 

Exploring the city with Juan Camilo would be fine, but it’d be a hundred times better with a few local friends – preferably absurdly cute ones around my age. I wanted the whole Colombian experience – not just buildings, food, and history, but the people. The heartbeat. And definitely some fun.

 

So yeah, Boys of Medellín… watch out! I’m coming!

 

 

***

 

My parents knew about my sexuality. I told my mom before she passed away. I couldn’t let her go without her really knowing me. She was incredibly supportive. My dad? Slightly less so. He just kind of accepted it and moved on. Not cold, not warm – just neutral, like it was another item on a long list of things he didn’t have the bandwidth to fully engage with. Still, to his credit, he made sure Juan Camilo wouldn’t have an issue with it. Apparently, he'd had the conversation before I even got here. One fewer drama for me to deal with in a foreign country. I appreciated that.

 

Of course, I had no idea yet whether I wanted to be "out" at school. That would depend on the vibe. I had to get to know my surroundings first. The thought of having to “come out” again was more annoying than scary, though. I was “out” at my school back in the States, but it could be a whole different kind of challenge here, given the country's intense Catholic vibe. Nevertheless, my pre-trip research taught me that Colombia actually had some of the world’s most progressive laws related to LGBTQ+ rights, including same-sex marriage; that there were large, wildly popular Pride parades every year; and that the big cities, including Medellín (the second-largest city in Colombia), had thriving gay scenes.

 

Speaking of school: it was my very first day. I’d received an excellent education so far in my life, even though we moved around a lot. When we were at “home” in D.C., I went to a prep school there as a day student, and I always went to good international schools when my family was abroad. I didn’t think I’d have any trouble getting all A’s here, too, or whatever type of grading system they used. I just hoped everyone actually spoke English as well as the school claimed, or making friends could be a real challenge for me, until I got caught up in Spanish, which could take a while.

 

I felt like I had barely exhaled since landing in Medellín, and already I was being shipped off to school, without any time to get settled in and learn my surroundings. Since it was an international school, it followed the U.S. academic calendar, which meant classes started in late August rather than in January, as in most Colombian schools.

 

The drive from our new townhouse to the school was surprisingly short. I probably could have walked it, but Juan Camilo insisted on taking me. I didn’t argue. Rolling up to school in a black SUV with a Colombian National Police officer in aviators and a badge clipped to his belt didn’t hurt my image. If nothing else, I figured it would give me some mystique. Let people assume I was someone important.

 

He dropped me off at the gate and handed me over to Headmistress Valderrama. Juan Camilo reminded me what time he’d be back and disappeared in a blur of tinted windows. Headmistress Valderrama guided me to the auditorium where we would have our opening assembly for the school year, after which she promised to take me on a tour of the campus. Her English was excellent, barely the hint of an accent.

 

“Your English is incredible,” I said. “Did you ever live or study in the U.S.?”

 

“I lived in Houston for fifteen years,” she replied. “Almost all the students here speak excellent English. The Colombian students mostly come from wealthy families and have been in English-only or bilingual schools since they were toddlers. Many have also vacationed or even studied abroad for a semester in the United States or other English-speaking countries. You won’t have any problems communicating at school. But you need to learn Spanish to talk to almost anyone else in Medellín. The overall level of English is not very high, even though it’s mandatory in high school here.”

 

The morning assembly was held in the school’s open-air auditorium, framed by white columns and thick tropical plants. A warm breeze moved through the crowd as I took a seat near the back, trying to keep a low profile.

 

At the podium stood Headmistress Valderrama, tall and poised in a crisp navy blazer. Her voice, in English, with just a trace of a Spanish accent, commanded instant silence.

 

She began with the usual orientation housekeeping: school rules, academic expectations, and the code of conduct. Uniforms were to be worn correctly, punctuality mattered, and phones were not to be seen in class. She reminded us that effort was as important as achievement. “Ask for help before you need it,” she said. Resources were there – counselors, teachers, study groups, and the library. She spoke of sports, clubs, theater, music, volunteer programs – ways to get involved and find a place to belong.

 

“No one here should feel invisible,” she added. “Everyone should be respected, regardless of their social class, racial background, or sexual orientation.”

 

Then her tone shifted. She leaned forward on the podium, her voice lowering before rising again with purpose.

 

“This year, we are moving from the Oxford model to Advanced Placement,” she announced. “We want our students prepared – not just for Colombia, not just for Latin America, but for the world. Your future is global, and your education must match it.”

 

That was when the speech changed. She stepped away from the podium, pacing the stage with deliberate intensity, her words turning sharper.

 

“We are not simply a school. We are a reflection of our society – and sometimes, a vision of what that society can become. You are the future leaders of this country, and our mission is to help you lead differently—to lead with clarity, with critical thought, and with compassion. Education is not just about grades or university admissions. It is about truth. It is about courage. It is about empathy. It is about the determination to challenge what is broken and the imagination to build something better.”

 

Her gaze swept the crowd, the silence stretching.

 

“Colombia is still healing. We all know this. The scars of violence, of corruption, of fear – they are real, and they are recent. But you – this generation – are not condemned to repeat them. You have the power to tear down what is broken, to demand something different. Question the past. Challenge the comfortable lies. Refuse to accept injustice as normal. Build a world that is good and  just, guided by your own vision.”

 

“When we meet a foreigner and ask what comes to mind when they hear ‘Colombia,’ too often the answer is still ‘Pablo Escobar.’ That was more than thirty years ago. Thirty years – and yet the shadow lingers. So, what have we done to change that image? What should people truly think of when they think of Colombia? Not a long-dead narco-terrorist, but the warmth of our people. Our world-renowned coffee. The genius of our writers and artists – Gabriel García Márquez, Fernando Botero. They should think of our breathtaking landscapes, our ecotourism, and our unmatched biodiversity. Those are the things that should define Colombia in the world’s eyes.”

 

Her voice grew sharper, rising with each phrase.

 

“If we want a future free from the shadows of our history, free from the shadow of the narcotraffickers and bandidos, it begins here. In your classrooms. In your choices. In your courage to speak, to act, to believe in something better. Do not wait for change – be the change. Do not sit idle – demand more from your elected representatives. The responsibility is yours.”

 

The auditorium hung in silence for a heartbeat – heavy, electric. And then the applause erupted, loud, sustained, almost like a rallying cry.

 

After the assembly had wound down and the students had headed to their classes, Headmistress Valderrama found me and asked if I was ready for our tour of the campus.

 

“Mr. Callahan,” she said, smiling. “Jet-lagged or not, I promised you a tour.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, standing up straighter.

 

First, she handed me my academic schedule for the year, which I quickly glanced through. It would be challenging, but I’d always gone to challenging schools with high standards, so I was sure I could hack it with little trouble. I would be taking Beginner’s Spanish, English Literature, History of Colombia, Physics I, Calculus, and Physical Education. I wasn’t ready to join any clubs or extracurricular activities until I knew my workload. I wasn’t a big soccer fan, though, which could be a problem, since I knew soccer – or should I say fútbol – was like a religion here, and the campus included two soccer fields for the students to use.

 

The Headmistress then gestured toward the main courtyard. “Then come. Let me show you a glimpse of your future.”

 

The school’s campus was stunning – like something out of a luxury travel brochure. Sleek, modern buildings with smooth white walls and dark wood accents curved around open-air walkways, each framed by bursts of tropical greenery and bright bougainvillea climbing the columns. Everything looked intentional, from the gently bubbling fountains tucked into stone alcoves to the perfectly trimmed hedges lining the stone paths. It felt less like a high school and more like a boutique resort hidden in the hills.

 

Massive guayacán and yarumo trees arched protectively over the courtyards, their wide canopies casting cool, dappled shade over stone benches and polished tile patios. A breeze carried the scent of jasmine, hibiscus, and freshly cut grass, along with something slightly sweet I couldn’t place – maybe mango blossoms or some local flower I didn’t know yet.

 

The Headmistress walked beside me, her heels clicking softly on the flagstone as she gave a polished, well-practiced tour. She rattled off facts about academic rankings, international accolades, and student leadership initiatives in that confident, vaguely theatrical tone that all school administrators seem to have, like she was performing a monologue she'd rehearsed a thousand times. I tried to listen, but I was too busy taking it all in – this strange, beautiful, tropical place that I’d somehow landed in. And the heat. I was already sweating through my uniform.

 

“Is there a swimming pool here?” I asked her.

 

“Yes, of course,” she replied, seemingly surprised that I would ask. “It is an Olympic-sized pool and there are set times for organized water sports  and for ‘free swim.’ Just make sure to check the schedule.”

 

I just wanted to check out the cute boys in their Speedos and then afterward in the showers. Although I was a big swimmer and was on the swim team at my old high school in the States, I didn’t really feel like joining the team here. However, if I absolutely had to have an extracurricular activity, that might be an option, since I sure as hell wasn’t going to play fútbol.

 

For some reason, because it was private, the school didn’t serve lunch. I could bring something from home or grab food from one of the tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants nearby. Honestly, the latter sounded like a minefield, given my current struggle with Colombian food. I would have to teach Doña Susana to make normal food like sandwiches and stuff like that.

 

When I was introduced to my homeroom, I had to give a quick speech. Tried to be funny. Probably bombed. I think one kid coughed, which I decided to count as a laugh. At least I didn’t faceplant on my way up there – though honestly, that would’ve been more memorable than whatever came out of my mouth.

 

The uniforms made us all look like extras in some fancy British boarding school movie, but the local boys weren’t about to be clones. Earrings. Tight fades. Tattoos. Actual tattoos. On teenagers. Back home, that would’ve been cause for scandal and probably a full-blown PTA meeting. Here? Everyone acted like it was the most normal thing in the world.

 

The student body was a mix – some gringos like me, a few kids from Europe, Canada, even Africa – but the Colombian boys represented the vast majority, and they ruled the place. Stylish. Confident. Gorgeous. And probably the kind of arrogant, spoiled rich kid assholes who wouldn’t even waste oxygen saying hi to me. Fine – better for me to write them off as jerks than admit I had no clue how I’d ever fit in with them (although I already noted a few who I wouldn’t mind “fitting in” at all). I mean, me? The awkward, moody gringo with a nervous laugh and a severe case of teenage angst? Yeah, I’d be their number one pick for lunch table royalty. About the only thing I had going for me was that I was cute and reasonably intelligent. But I certainly wasn’t wealthy and knew nothing about the cultural customs and norms I would need to navigate this place and these Colombian teenage boys.

 

At lunch, I risked my life crossing a street swarming with motor scooters – seriously, I almost died twice – before ducking into a tiny spot advertising a menú del día. For about five bucks, they buried me under chicken milanesa, beans, white rice, half an avocado, plantains, something pretending to be a salad, and the ever-terrifying arepa, plus a glass of mango juice so fresh it made the rest of the plate look even sadder.

 

I returned to school and found a shady spot under a huge guayacán tree in the courtyard. I was still poking at my arepa with a flimsy plastic fork when I noticed a group of boys heading my way. Local boys. Confident stride. Designer sneakers. T-shirts just tight enough to make a statement under their school blazers.

 

Leading them was a guy who could have walked off the cover of a fashion magazine: short, dark curly hair, earrings, two small tattoos, and a smirk that said he knew exactly how good he looked. And he looked damn good!

 

"Hey," he said, casually. "I’m Miguel. These are my friends – Tomás, Samuel, Daniel, Diego, Sebastián, and Yeison."

 

(That last one was apparently pronounced like "Jason." I was learning.)

 

The first thing I noticed, of course, was how fucking hot they all were. And all were apparently athletic. I had to remind myself not to start drooling in front of them.

 

"You’re new, right?"

 

I nodded. "Yeah. Hunter."

 

"May we sit with you?"

 

"Yes, of course," I replied.

 

“I like your name,” Miguel said with a grin as they started taking their seats. They settled around me and immediately launched into a barrage of questions. Where was I from? What did I think of Colombia? Did I like arepas? (I lied.) Did I play soccer? (No.) Basketball? (Only if forced.) What kind of music did I like? (Definitely not reggaeton, but I played it safe.)

 

"You really do look like a gringo," Miguel said with a teasing grin. "Tall, pale, that messy blond hair, blue eyes… and that whole American vibe. It’s cute, though. I kind of like it."

 

Wait, did he just call me “cute”?

 

So, it turned out they were just curious. Friendly. Like the paisa people were known to be. And maybe, just maybe, testing the waters.

 

Miguel was especially attentive and outgoing. Sharp, quick-witted, and devastatingly handsome. We traded phones to exchange numbers – a totally normal thing, yet somehow it made my pulse quicken. I did make a quick mental note that Miguel was the only one of the whole group to exchange numbers with me.

 

Maybe, just maybe, I’d found my first friend. I was quick to spark a bit of jealousy, though, because if Miguel already had so many friends (who he didn’t seem too keen on sharing), how could he possibly have time for me?

 

I’d have to wait and see … and daydream until then … and masturbate … a lot.

 

 

 

 

 

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