Voyassitude

In Spanish, perreo is a popular style of dancing to reggaeton music. It’s erotic, it’s audacious, and not everyone can truly master it. But she did.  

When we parted ways and I told her I would write about our adventures in Medellín, the only thing she asked was for this story to be something crazy, honest, and at least partially as fun as those two nights we shared dancing in a frenzy. So here it goes, a tale about perreo and a Ukrainian goddess in the city of eternal spring.

When I saw her for the first time during the tour that took us to El Peñón, I thought she was a middle-aged housewife guiding her cute American family on a Christmas holiday through South America. In my defense, we’d been on separate groups and I had only seen her from afar, wearing a white cap with a subdued outfit that gave her an air of reserved mom. I was surprised when, at the top of El Peñón, as I delighted at the sight before me, she stood beside me and we casually started a conversation. Hers wasn’t the face of a mother long abandoned by youth, no. Bright blue eyes, pristine smile, skin clearly soft and well-cared for, and the liveliness of someone who hasn’t reached thirty yet. Her name was Daria. When I asked her where she was from and she said Ukraine, I knew I wanted to befriend her (I’ve had a soft spot for that European country since February of 2022.)

As we began our descent to meet our tour guides at the base of the rock, a group of American bros tried to flirt with her, but she subtly ignored them. For some incomprehensible reason she stuck with me, chatting about trips, adventures, and Colombian curiosities. Hours later, shortly before the tour ended, we met again at a bus stop and she asked me what I had planned for the evening. I told her that only drinking and dancing were on my itinerary, so she suggested we could meet up to share the plan as she gave me her number. I think I didn’t show any emotion then, but deep inside I was shocked. And just like that, shocked still, almost believing she’d stand me up, we met at 10 p.m. in Provenza, the heart of Medellín nightlife, to join the revelry.

If the first time I saw her from afar I thought she was some sort of modest mom, on our second encounter she looked to me like a freaking Barbie out of a Playboy magazine. Her blonde hair glowed in the shadows of the discos, the sparkle of her eyes synchronized with the furor of the party, and her tight outfit highlighted her model-like body. She caught everyone’s eyes wherever we went and, at some point while she went to get us some drinks, I laughed inside as I stared at her because why the fuck was this ravishing diva spending time with a nerd like me?! Sure, I’d obviously left my glasses at the hotel and dressed for the evening bash, but I felt quite out of place with her. Thankfully she didn’t notice it and so we kept breaking the ice with the help of alcohol and reggaeton.

She spared no expense when it came to tequila shots, and she only accepted my drink invitations if I was brave enough to consume whatever she had as well. By the time I listened to “Pepas” for the first time that evening, I had already lost any remnants of sobriety and I’d like to believe that, for better or for worse, nobody danced to that song like I did. However, no one could compare to Daria, because as night grew long I discovered that the fire of music and party ran through her veins. If not for her blonde hair or the glacial blue of her eyes, she could’ve easily been mistaken for another Latina thanks to her swaying hips and the lethal flexibility of her legs. She wasn’t part of the party, she was the party. At every disco we went to her provocative, uninhibited perreocaused a commotion. Even though the ecstasy all around us slowly died down, I’m sure Daria could’ve kept going till sunrise at least.

The next day we met to get breakfast at a Mexican place because Daria, who’s been living in Puerto Vallarta for a while now, couldn’t go another day without eating something traditional from her now third homeland (after Ukraine and the US, where she lived many years and where her mother and cute pet, Toby, still reside.) I confess that, after discovering her crazy party girl side who keeps all eyes fixed on her, I thought one night with me would be more than enough and she wouldn’t want to see me again, especially on a Friday when Medellin’s nightlife promised to be even more hectic and intense. But there she was, tasting some tacos with aguas frescas and no signs of the previous night’s mischief.

She was wearing a black sports outfit with matching Nike shoes and a jean jacket. She hid her deadly blue eyes behind sunglasses. In addition to her natural beauty, a small pink purse and a hair clip of the same color reminded me that I was face to face with an Eastern European Barbie. We shared breakfast with small talk and Google explorations to pick places to visit that day, which made us decide we couldn’t leave Medellín without a proper look at it from Metrocable, the famous city cable car.

Not even in my wildest fantasies would I have ever imagined myself listening to “Pepas” blasting on one of the Metrocable cabins next to a Ukrainian girl who danced as she shouted “Tequila, tequila, tequila!” But unpredictability was the only certainty with Daria. We had arrived at a great viewpoint from which the city unfolded serene and ethereal. The place was almost empty, silence accompanying a landscape whose nature traces surrounded a town with an ever-growing air of metropolis. Daria got tired of the quietude, or maybe it was me, but from one of our cellphones emerged that famous song by Farruko I enjoy so much. And so, encouraged by Daria, by her raptures of joy and eternal party, I started jumping as I sang Pepa’ y agua pa’ la seca…

Her bliss was contagious. Her craziness as well. If Daria, being in a foreign country where she caught everyone’s attention by her extraordinary beauty, was capable of moving to the rhythm of reggaeton at midday in a public space, then why wouldn’t I do it too? Seized by that delirium of Latin music we went back to the cable car system and were lucky enough to get on an empty cabin where our impromptu party kept going. I was shy and afraid that people might see us through the cabin windows, but Daria didn’t care one bit; she never sat down, choosing instead to let her body move freely as if possessed by the good vibes of her favorite songs playing on her phone.

We then visited Botero Plaza where, unsurprisingly, Daria asked me to take a picture of her touching the ass of one of the gigantic sculptures located there; walking through the lively area known as Laureles we stumbled upon a restaurant where we ate pizza and drank sangria while Daria killed me with her Ukrainian babushka (grandma) accent. We started to plan what our evening would be like, but even though I was already adapting to Daria’s follies, she took me by surprise when she stated that she’d like to go to a strip club. She found it funny or even cute that I had never been to one. I don’t remember what happened but in the end we didn’t go to any strip club (which greatly disappointed her.) We went back to our hotels for a few hours of rest and to get ready for another visit to that paradise called Provenza.

Sandals, white pants, a dark blouse leaving her shoulders uncovered, and loose hair caressing her skin. Sitting before me as she sipped an Espresso Martini I kept looking at until she let me try it, Daria was finally showing signs of fatigue during the first cocktail of the night. That shocked me just as much as all the time she chose to spend with me. But after a fleeting rain, Provenza was reinvigorated by the sounds of J Balvin, Maluma, and Bad Bunny, leaving in the atmosphere an electrifying vibe characteristic of a Friday night that forecasted euphoria. And Daria, she was ready and recharged to dazzle with her fierce perreo which granted her the honorary title of Latina. In the land of Karol G, it was this Ukrainian goddess who imposed herself on the Medellín nightlife scenery thanks to her body being deeply synchronized with reggaeton.

A couple hours later, at 3:40 a.m. and heading to the José María Córdova International Airport, my little Medellín experience was coming to an end. It was almost impossible to keep my eyes open as the taxi driver lowered the volume of his radio, which was obviously playing reggaeton hits. But every time I opened my eyes I smiled because Daria resurfaced in my mind and I wondered, or wonder still, if she really existed and how the hell I managed to survive her Ukrainian perreo power in Medellín.