El Jhon Bayron, el Duvan Ferney, el Maicol Estiven, la Chacha, la Shirley Zurleidy, la Sandra Kateryne, la Angie Lorena, la Maryin Faizuly, etc.

In my chimney smoke filled room, I sit and read The Cherry Orchard. I'm in the outskirts of Bogota in what you could call my summer "villa" (page 85). This humble house of mine is used very frequently by my family. We try to come here whenever possible and enjoy being out of the hectic city. The birds' chirping, the small children's laughter, and the warm glow of the sun contrast sharply against the ill-favored honking of cars, the ñero on the side of the street waiting to take your cellphone, and the hail crushing against your windshield.

As I sit here enjoying this beautiful day, I start to think about how this suburban fenced in community resembles what may become of the cherry orchard. My mind starts to drift off and imagine how the people that used to live here on this land used to live. How were their homes? Did they have to leave because of economic pressures? Where may they be now? Stuck in the city, forced to work at the traffic light selling gum or cigarettes?

The more I read Chekov, the more I realize that his work mirrors our reality. The reality that may be hidden behind a curtain...

I'm finishing off my blog now, and I sadly come to the realization that it's time to head back to Bogota; my reality.