S3, E1: In Colombia, Exploring Culture—and Connection

As a child, comedian Esteban Gast accompanied his parents on trips to visit family in Colombia. However, he had never forged his own connection to the culture—until now.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: “Ulrike” is a renowned short story by author Jorge Luis Borges featuring a Colombian professor as its protagonist. At one point, someone asks this professor, “What does it mean to be Colombian?”

The professor reflects for a moment and then replies: “I don’t know. It is an act of faith.”

I’m Aislyn Greene, and this is Travel Tales by Dinogo. In each episode, we delve into a journey that transformed someone's life. This season, we’re sending out writers, comedians, and playwrights to explore life’s big questions. With so many people traveling these days, it makes perfect sense, right? In fact, I just returned from a train trip through Eastern Canada, inspired by a Travel Tales episode from 2020. (We’ll link to it in the show notes.) I enjoyed bagels in Montreal, cycled through Quebec City, and toured Nova Scotia—traveling to each destination on a train staffed by the friendliest Canadians.

But let’s return to the introduction of this episode. Today’s storyteller is comedian and entertainer Esteban Gast. The question of what it means to be Colombian has been something he’s grappled with over the years. Esteban grew up in the United States, but his extended family resides in Colombia. While he’s visited Colombia over the years, his connection to the place and his family has often felt distant and complex. So, on his most recent trip this past spring, he set out to answer that question for good. It was, as you might expect, quite a leap of faith.

Esteban Gast: It’s a sweltering summer day. The humidity is high, and it’s over 90 degrees. I’m standing in a plaza in Cartagena, Colombia. You know when it’s so hot and humid that you realize your knees can get sweaty? Just me? Anyway…

Cartagena is a coastal city along the Caribbean Sea, founded in 1533. Many different Indigenous peoples inhabited this land long before that. Some historians believe that humans have been here for as long as 6,000 years. So, it’s a city rich in history—capital H history.

To me, it feels like a museum that has come to life. As a fan of the Night at the Museum trilogy—yes, there are three of those movies—shoutout to the Night-at-the-Museum fans—I adore cities that feel like museums.

Cartagena showcases striking Spanish Colonial architecture. It’s a large city, with nearly 1 million people in its metropolitan area. A massive wall encircles the entire downtown, known as the 'old city.' Fortresses dot the landscape, and you’ll find colonial homes featuring grand doors and stunning courtyards. Colorful flowers cascade from every balcony, and the doors—oh, the doors! Cartagena has a remarkable door aesthetic, flaunting impressive wooden doors adorned with artistic metal clasps, some shaped like iguanas. Many of these doors are so large that horses could walk right into the homes. I’ll be on the lookout for horse-sized doors for my next apartment.

The streets here are enchanting. Balconies adorn buildings, and in the narrow alleys, it feels like you could almost leap from one balcony to the next. If you’ve ever thrown a beer to a neighbor across the street in New Orleans, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

The city’s rich history and beauty have earned Cartagena designation as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It’s as if UNESCO strolled through the very blocks I’m walking and thought, “Absolutely, we need to preserve this.” And let’s be clear: this isn’t a sleepy town where folks whisper to avoid waking ancient ghosts.

People flock here to celebrate. Being a coastal town, Cartagena is an ideal vacation destination, attracting visitors from around the globe. While wandering about, I hear a mix of languages—not just the melodious Colombian Spanish I’m accustomed to. (“Ayyy que rico verte!”)

As I explore the city, I find myself in a plaza that feels oddly familiar. It’s the Plaza San Pedro Claver—Saint Peter Claver for those who skipped Spanish class—who is celebrated as the patron saint of human rights. I learn this from a plaque near his statue in the plaza.

Learning about the city’s history is a breeze in Cartagena. The city makes it easy, with plaques in every square detailing its past and culture. These plaques describe buildings and answer questions like who lived here, what they did for a living, and even their zodiac signs—though maybe not their first kiss age! They provide ample history and context, helping you piece together the larger story of what this city represents.

So here I am: a Colombian-American guy standing in that plaza, pondering how this city—and this country—fits into my narrative. This isn’t my first visit to this plaza; I’ve been here multiple times before.

I’ve visited this plaza as a sweaty, smelly eight-year-old, desperately seeking shade while begging my parents for ice cream.

I’ve been here as a disinterested 18-year-old, rolling my eyes at my parents and wishing I could return to my iPod Nano until ice cream finally arrived.

And now, at 31, I find myself back here, visiting for the first time without my parents—which means unlimited ice cream for me.

As I survey my surroundings, I can’t help but ask myself, “Am I really allowed to be here on my own, speaking Spanish and exploring the city?”

Sure, I have the right to be here. But… do I feel truly allowed?

Here’s some background. I’ve been visiting Colombia my entire life, but always with my parents. They were born in Bogota, just a 45-minute flight from Cartagena, and immigrated to the U.S. in the mid-'80s to pursue their graduate degrees.

While my dad was working on his PhD, my parents had my brother and me, and we followed a typical kids-of-immigrants routine. Summers were spent in Colombia, visiting my uncle and aunt, and sometimes going to my uncle Coque’s house in Cartagena. I often faced playful teasing about my American-accented Spanish (“yo soy Colombiano, I swear”) and got called gringo. We would wander around Bogota and Cartagena, enjoying meals in plazas while the adults laughed and drank, and I tried to climb the large bronze Botero sculpture—one of the few non-religious sculptures, which felt less sacrilegious to climb.

After that, I would return to the U.S. for the fall, winter, and spring. We lived in Puerto Rico for a while, then mostly outside of Chicago during my childhood. Spanish was the language at home, while English was spoken everywhere else. We would Skype our extended family, and I’d hear their stories and see photos, but I didn’t really know them well. Sometimes, it felt like my Colombian cousins were more familiar to me through pictures than in real life.

For the most part, I attempted to embrace a typical American lifestyle—whatever that entails. Honestly, I was uncertain about what that really meant, so I thought, “What does being American mean? Let’s find out!” I immersed myself in watching football, attended Super Bowl parties, and indulged in hot dogs, thinking, “I’m totally acing this American experience.”

Eventually, I found summer jobs back in the U.S. or pushed against my parents enough to stop returning to Colombia every summer. I thought, “Why go to Colombia when I can stay here, enjoy hot dogs, wear jean shorts, and live a normal American youth?”

My connection to Colombia often felt like a nostalgic childhood memory. It was like, “Remember when we all collected Beanie Babies?” “Remember when I felt deeply connected to Colombia?”

On this trip to Colombia, where I am currently in this plaza, I was also planning to visit Bogota. That’s where my cousin Camilo lives, and I think he’s amazing. I wanted to ask him a few questions about my… Colombianness.

Esteban: You’ve known me since I was a child. Have there been moments when you thought, “Wow, Esteban is really embracing this. He’s fully immersed,” or however you’d put that?

Camilo: Absolutely! When you were younger, you were definitely the American cousin to me—you spoke only a handful of Spanish words and were very much American. But as the years went by and you returned as a teenager and then as a twenty-something, you started to embrace your Colombian side more. It’s wonderful to see you making an effort to speak like a Colombian, dance at family gatherings, and even try to drink like a Colombian, even if you can’t quite handle it. It’s nice to see how your perspective has evolved over time.

I think I might have mentioned before how I viewed you when we were kids. I looked at you with a bit of envy because you lived in this amazing country—the American dream—and had access to all those incredible toys, especially at Toys R Us, which was just a stone’s throw away for you. Colombia opened up to globalization in the ’90s, so I remember when we could only find local products. After a while, we could start importing items, but America always felt like this dreamland.

Later, during my teenage years, I started to appreciate being Colombian more. I really embraced my culture. I felt a bit for you, thinking you were missing out. When you came back, you tried to connect more with your Colombian roots, but it wasn’t always effortless. Even though you share the same family and heritage, it took work for you to fit in. I have many foreign cousins who struggle with Spanish and feel frustrated, but you manage it quite well.

So, that’s how my perspective of you and your brother has changed. I’ve seen you both grow into more Colombian Americans over time.

Esteban: That’s my cousin Camilo. He’s always been one of my inspirations. Here’s something I’m reluctant to admit, but I have to, given that I’m holding this mic and need to spill all my secrets into it.

I've known Camilo my entire life, and this is the first time we've delved into discussions about our connection to culture, family, and ourselves. Better late than never, right? Thanks to podcasts for encouraging these meaningful conversations.

For a while, Camilo viewed the U.S. as a sort of 'dreamland.' Personally, it didn’t always feel that way to me.

Back in 7th grade, I gave a presentation about Colombia to my classmates.

Alright, let me set the scene. It’s 2007. I’m into emo rock, and I have a crush on a girl named Ali. We’re going to ‘date’ for six months without ever kissing or really holding hands. Very serious stuff.

After I finished my presentation, a kid in class raised his hand and asked, 'So, is your family involved with a cartel?'

The class bursts into laughter, and the teacher remains silent.

That day taught me a significant lesson: Don't discuss Colombia with cynical middle schoolers.

I know you, dear listener, don’t need this explanation, but here’s a statistic worth sharing. The conflict in Colombia has been prolonged and grim. Yet, in a nation of nearly 51 million, the number of individuals actively fighting against the cartels, including the national army, never exceeded 200,000. That’s 51 million people, with no more than 200,000 involved in the fight at any one time.

I asked Camilo about a thought that often occupies my mind: in the U.S., I constantly combat the media's portrayal of what it means to be Colombian. During the '90s and 2000s, part of my reaction to my Colombian identity was to keep my origins to myself, as people frequently made the same jokes, asked the same questions, and gave the same looks.

Did he, living in Colombia, share a similar sentiment?

Camilo: I believe we both share a similar experience of discovering Colombia later in life, rather than in our childhood. Although I lived here and watched the news every evening, it's easy to become desensitized. As you mature, you begin to explore history and view it from different perspectives. Engaging with literature or documentaries about Colombia's reality requires a conscious effort.

Gaining a deeper understanding of your country doesn’t happen spontaneously; it requires intention. I appreciate how you strive to connect with your Colombian identity. You've visited Colombia multiple times, exploring various regions and taking long bus rides to distant towns from Bogotá. That’s a meaningful choice, as it truly enhances your Colombian connection. The more you learn, the more you come to love it, and that's fantastic.

Esteban: My grandmother passed away in 2000 when I was just 9 years old.

Esteban: I've been reflecting on my relationship with our grandmother, so I’m curious—how did you refer to her? Did you call her Ita?

Camilo: No, I referred to her as abuelita.

Esteban: Wow.

Camilo: Yes, we simply used the standard term for grandmother, so for us, it was abuelita. It’s amusing that we never really had a special nickname for her—just abuela or abuelita.

Esteban: After receiving the news, my family and I booked a plane ticket and took the nearly eight-hour journey from Chicago to Colombia.

I vividly recall sitting in a small church in Bogotá, the capital. This ancient stone church stands as a testament to time, with each individual stone in its walls on display—some of them are as large as my head.

It’s just a short walk from my Uncle Coque’s house and also a few blocks from the daycare that my Tía Milli and cousin Lina operate.

It’s the kind of church where the priest greets everyone warmly, saying things like, “Hey kid, how’s that ankle doing?” or “Looking sharp, Mr. Haircut! How’s your aunt? I heard she was unwell, and I’m keeping her in my prayers.”

He engages in friendly banter with almost everyone. Except for me, of course—I’m the gringo cousin.

We’re gathered at this church for my grandmother’s funeral. This is the place she attended regularly. Her name was Isabel Cubides Camacho, but I affectionately called her “Ita,” which is a shorter form of Abuelita. I think Camilo just referred to her as abuela.

After the service, my cousins and family congregate in the living room, sipping whiskey and sharing stories about my grandmother. I, on the other hand, simply listen.

I tried to reflect, but honestly, I had no personal stories about her. I was uncertain about my place in her life.

Esteban: Was there anything about her that made you think, 'Ah, that’s where I get that from' or 'That’s your dad's influence'? Did she do anything that made you say, 'Oh, that’s a Cubides?'

Camilo: Definitely. Let me reflect on that. I remember her humor being quite dark, which I believe runs in the family. She also had a flair for socializing; she would’ve excelled in PR today. She was well-connected, enjoyed being around people, and was always in the know about the latest gossip. Those social traits are something we’ve inherited.

Esteban: I recall sitting at my grandmother's funeral thinking, 'I don't really know what to say about her; I didn't know her that well.'

Then I thought about my mom, who had a close bond with her mother—they lived together until my mom married, only to move 3,000 miles away in her 30s. Back then, 3,000 miles felt like a huge distance—especially before Facetime.

There are distances we choose and those we cannot. My mom chose to live in the USA, creating a distance from Colombia that feels beyond our control.

Yet, she was determined that the physical distance wouldn’t create emotional separation. We held the novena, enjoyed ajiaco, and listened to Carlos Vives, as we were already grappling with one distance, and my mom couldn't endure another.

There are many things that keep us grounded, that remind us of our roots.

It might stem from recognizing my parents' sacrifices. Feeling out of place? My mom spent the last 15 years of her mother's life living far away.

We must have the humility to realize that someone’s perception of our homeland is shaped by their knowledge—and often by their ignorance.

And if we take a moment to look, we can see our ancestors reflected in who we are every single day.

Esteban: I was just telling Misha, my girlfriend, how much I admire you for being someone who doesn’t see strangers. Camilo walks in and instantly greets everyone with, 'How are you?' and more.

You approach everyone with, 'How are you really?' Is that something she had too? That quick social charm?

Camilo: She was incredibly kind. She dedicated many years to a foundation, providing therapy and physical therapy to children orphaned by violence. She had this vibrant social energy.

Esteban: My grandmother lives on through my mom's creativity and charisma, as well as in Uncle Coque’s kindness, Uncle Juan Manuel’s musical talent, and Uncle Alvaro’s playful humor.

Camilo: When she was younger, she moved to Brussels to study piano and other subjects. This was back in the 1920s or 30s, which was quite unusual for someone from Colombia at that time.

Esteban: My grandmother's spirit lives on in Camilo. He’s someone who has embraced his identity, openly declaring who he is in a conservative, Catholic country—a decision that might be viewed as . . .

Camilo: . . . quite unusual for Colombia.

Esteban: When he was 27, Camilo came out as gay. I asked him how he managed to accept this part of himself that society urged him to deny.

Camilo: I came out when I turned 27. Before that, I was living in a bubble. I went to law school and became this dull lawyer, always in a tie and suit. My hair was short, and yes, I viewed Colombia from a privileged standpoint. I was somewhat oblivious to the cries for equality and the struggles many communities in Colombia faced; I was a bit deaf and numb to those issues.

The connections you have with the society you grew up in start to fray, and you begin to feel less tied to it. You need to seek new connections and explore your own identity, or perhaps your cultural heritage. Finding a new group of people who can embrace you and offer strength is incredibly uplifting and empowering.

Esteban: Do you feel a sense of belonging in Colombian culture now?

Camilo: Yes, I absolutely feel like I belong much more now than I did before. I used to be part of a small circle that thought everything was fine in Colombia. I wondered why so many people left for America when I felt comfortable here. Sure, I’d dream of visiting America, but I never questioned the status quo. Breaking those connections to my bubble allowed me to explore the rich diversity of Colombian identity. Colombia is incredibly diverse, and it's amazing.

We possess immense wealth in diversity, yet it often goes unacknowledged. When you truly observe it, you feel more connected, more at home, and part of the country as a whole, rather than just the small elite in Bogotá.

Esteban: It seems we all grapple with belonging, and the journey toward it can be challenging and filled with ups and downs. But sometimes, it’s as straightforward as reshaping the connections we already have.

Reflecting on moments of distance and isolation in my life, I realize that I was connected all along—connected to others facing similar struggles, to ancestors who guide me and influence everything I do, and even by chance, visiting San Pedro de Claver’s plaza, a place I've frequented before.

We’re all on a journey toward better acceptance of who we are and where we come from.

Sometimes, a physical journey can really help, whether it’s by walking, driving, or flying.

This trip to Colombia came about because I attended a wedding of a Colombian friend—not a family friend, but a genuine Colombian buddy I made as an adult. That’s a significant milestone! My friends Isaac and Cami tied the knot, and I hosted the ceremony in both Spanish and English, making just a few errors in Spanish. Congratulations to the happy couple!

This trip was monumental for me. I connected with my extended family—like Camilo, whom you've heard from, as well as my uncles and aunts. It was one of the first visits I made without my parents.

This was my first meaningful journey to Colombia without any family. It was just my girlfriend and me, discovering the city and exploring what it truly means to us.

I know it sounds a bit silly, and I feel like a kid. At 31, this is my first time visiting the country I’m from without my parents. I’m finally discovering who I am and where I come from, without a parental chaperone.

And with no parents around, it’s time to celebrate! Plus, to learn about Colombian history and my own identity…

I keep returning to the story of San Pedro Claver. Remember him? The patron saint of human rights, whose plaza we’re in right now?

San Pedro Claver passed away in 1654 in Cartagena, and the city officials who once despised him—viewing him as a nuisance for advocating for slaves—later ordered a grand public funeral. People gathered to honor his life, including those who had rejected him for so long.

This serves as a reminder that nothing is permanent. The things we may initially reject—people, ideas, or aspects of culture—can eventually be celebrated and embraced.

“People really can change, right?”

Aislyn: If you’d like to hear more from Esteban, check out his website estebangast.com or find him on social media @realestebangast. (We’ll include links in our show notes.) Esteban performs standup comedy across various locations, so keep an eye out for him in your area. He also travels for leisure: Soon, he’ll be hiking the Camino de Santiago with his parents and heading to Pakistan with his girlfriend, Misha (who you met in this episode). And yes, he’ll definitely be returning to Colombia, carrying all the lessons from this trip.

Eager for more travel tales? Visit us at Dinogo.com/podcasts, and don’t forget to follow us on Instagram and Twitter. We’re @Dinogomedia.

If you enjoyed today’s adventure, we hope you’ll return in two weeks for more captivating stories. Subscribing makes it easy! You can find us on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or your preferred podcast platform. And please take a moment to rate and review us; it helps fellow travelers discover the show.

This has been Travel Tales, a production of Dinogo Media and Boom Integrated. Our podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene, Adrien Glover, and Robin Lai. Post production was handled by John Marshall Media’s Jenn Grossman and Clint Rhoades. Music composition by Alan Karesha. Special thanks to Irene Wang and Angela Johnston.

I’m Aislyn Greene, your host who travels as much as I can. I’m thrilled to be back on the road! As we journey through the world this year, keep in mind that travel starts the moment we step out our front door.

Everyone has a travel story. What’s yours?