In a World That Feels Gray, Latin America is Where the Color Lives

As an airline pilot, I have spent much of my adult life traveling the world. I have crossed oceans, visited countless cities, and experienced cultures far removed from the one in which I was raised. Yet of all the places my travels have taken me, there is one part of the world that continues to draw me back: Latin America.

Over the years, that feeling has followed me through Cuba, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, Honduras, Nicaragua, Guatemala, Costa Rica, Belize, Colombia, El Salvador, Peru and as far as Guyana.

On this particular trip, I landed in Mexico City. After making my way to the Marriott, I found myself surrounded by something wonderfully familiar. It wasn’t simply the sights or sounds of Mexico, but a feeling I have come to recognize over many years of visiting this remarkable part of the world, a feeling of belonging. Later that morning, sitting in the hotel’s lounge, I noticed a colorful arrangement of fresh fruit. Against the subdued modern gray surroundings, the vibrant greens and reds of the apples seemed to burst into the room bringing the space to life with color. It was such a small thing, but I stopped to admire it. Then I stepped out toward an enormous atrium, and the color seemed to follow me. Sunlight poured through the glass roof, illuminating a fountain, trees, and pots overflowing with orange marigolds. Across the atrium floor lay intricate designs celebrating Día de los Muertos. Purples, greens, blacks, and oranges formed extraordinary pictures. A woman explained that the flowers were cempasúchil, the marigolds used in Mexico to honor and remember loved ones who have died.

I stood there taking it all in. The sunlight seemed to welcome me into the room in much the same way the people of Mexico have welcomed me into their country so many times before. And standing there, surrounded by color and culture, I began thinking about why this part of the world has always felt so much like home.

Sometimes I think that if I had been born in another time, or in another life, I might have been born somewhere in Latin America. It is hard to explain, but I feel a connection here that goes beyond enjoying a beautiful place. I feel welcomed. I feel less judged. I feel as though I can simply be myself and in this part of the world my heart finds solace.

Back home in the United States, life can sometimes seem like a race. We hurry to work, to appointments, to the next obligation. We measure ourselves against other people and worry about how we appear to them. I know that every country has its pressures, including those throughout Latin America. But in my own travels, I have so often encountered a different kind of welcome, one that makes me want to slow down.

It reminds me of going to your grandmother’s house on a Sunday morning. Before you have settled in, she is pulling out a chair, asking what you want to eat, wondering whether anyone has been feeding you properly. You don’t have to earn your place at the table. You are there, and she is glad to see you. That is the kind of warmth I mean.

Early in my flying career, my friend Syrus and I traveled to Peru to visit Machu Picchu. In Ollantaytambo, we rented horses and rode alone into the Andes for a day of exploration. We spotted ancient ruins on a mountainside and decided to ride toward them. Along the way, we came upon a farmer working in his field, watering and hoeing the soil. A simple log resting between two upright posts served as his gate. We asked if we might pass through to see the ruins, he did not hesitate. He lifted the log and welcomed us onto his land, then went with us up the hillside. Syrus spoke enough Spanish to get us by and discussed with him, the ruins. I couldn’t understand much of what was said, but I remember the afternoon vividly: the sun on the mountainside, the quiet, and the farmer’s hands, rough and calloused from years of work. We had brought a small bag of coca leaves, having heard that they could be offered as a gift or tip. We gave them to him, and he sat there chewing the leaves while we shared the moment. I could not speak much of his language, but I didn’t need to. He had given two strangers his time and kindness, and I’m grateful for that. Experiencing the wonder and awe of the Andes Mountains on that sunny day is an experience I will never forget.

Another memory comes from Cartagena, Colombia, where Cristian and I were spending time on the beach. We noticed people far apart from one another pulling long ropes through the water. The groups gradually moved closer together, and then we saw the splashing: they were bringing in a huge fishing net filled with fish. Rickety wooden boats, each painted in its own bright color, came alongside the net as the fishermen began tossing their catch aboard. People nearby joined in to help, and so did Cristian and I. There wasn’t much conversation. Cristian asked a brief question or two about the fish, but mostly everyone just seemed to know what to do. We joined the experience without planning it, caught up in a shared moment of helping. We had come to the beach expecting an ordinary day, and instead found ourselves part of something unforgettable. It was another reminder that connection does not always require an invitation or a long conversation.

An even more personal memory comes from Bucaramanga, Colombia, Cristian’s hometown where we went to celebrate his birthday. The family gathered at his aunt’s house for dinner, and everyone was there. Then, as a surprise, three musicians arrived to play traditional Colombian music. They began with ‘Happy Birthday’ and stayed for perhaps an hour or an hour and a half. The celebration spilled out in front of the house where the neighbors joined. We ate, drank, sang, and danced together. My Spanish was limited, although after a few drinks I was doing remarkably well, or at least I thought I was. I laughed and danced with everyone, swept up in a kind of celebration I had never experienced before. What stayed with me wasn’t only the music or the food; it was the feeling of being included. Somewhere in that evening, surrounded by Cristian’s family, something changed. I stopped feeling like a guest. For the first time, I wasn’t simply observing a culture I had admired for years. I felt part of it and that feeling never left me. I have never felt like a guest with his family since. What began as a birthday celebration fundamentally changed my connection to them and to the culture I had already come to love.

As for Mexico, my work has taken me to Tampico, Chihuahua, Guadalajara, Monterrey, Mazatlán, León, Puerto Vallarta, Torreón, Acapulco, Loreto and most other large cities throughout the country. I have returned so many times that I might have expected the excitement to fade. It never has. If someone asked me to get on a plane tomorrow and go somewhere for the weekend, Mexico would be one of my first answers.

Cristian and I return regularly to Cabo, where we always stay at Hacienda del Mar in Cabo del Sol. Its Spanish-style architecture, beautiful gardens, and bougainvillea make it feel like a world of its own, with the ocean beyond. We love going into San José del Cabo, walking its cobblestone streets while looking for Mexican art. Finding art is one of our favorite things to do when we travel; a piece we bring home can hold the memory of a place long after the trip ends.

We also love the drive north toward Todos Santos. I picture the mountains on one side, the Pacific on the other, and the great open vistas stretching ahead. Even after a career spent looking down on landscapes from the flight deck, I can still be stopped in my tracks by the beauty of a road and the world around it. And then there is the food: the aroma of onions, peppers, and spices, the colors of fresh ingredients, and the pleasure of sitting down to eat. It is another way a place makes itself known, not only through what I see, but through what I smell, taste, and remember.

Back at the hotel, I looked again at the marigolds and the colorful Día de los Muertos artwork. Even in remembering those who have died, there was color. I found that moving. It seemed to express something I have noticed again and again on my travels: a willingness to make room for family, memory, emotion, and human connection.

I would never claim that every person in Latin America is the same, or that life here is without hurry, hardship, or judgment. These are my impressions, built over years of visits and countless encounters. But I know what those experiences have meant to me. I remember the farmer’s calloused hands in Peru. I remember strangers helping pull a fishing net ashore in Colombia. I remember the bougainvillea in Cabo, the streets of San José del Cabo, and my days spent traveling the Chihuahuan Desert. Today, I will remember the marigolds and the sunlight shining upon my face.

Perhaps the greatest gift of travel is not simply seeing new places. Perhaps it is discovering the places where we feel most ourselves.

In a world that so often feels gray, Latin America is where the color lives.

Published by Cardinal & Maple Publishing