It’s safe to say we’ve all been to enough coffee shops during service to know the archetypes. You’ve got your “Classic Panaderia,” with those metal chair-table amalgamations screwed into the floor, stacks on stacks of mostly-fresh rolls lining every glass wall, and of course, the most affordable, tastiest arepas. There’s also the “Hipster Cafe,” known for its playlists featuring the Weeknd and Bruno Mars, real iced coffee, and cake that might actually be moist. We’ve also got the “Cute-sy Cafe,” the ones that look like deleted scenes from the Barbie movie, complete with pink walls, neon light-up signs saying “coffe” with one “e,” and so many plastic flowers hanging from the ceiling that any U.S. fire inspector would have a heart attack. You know you’re not going here for the cappuccinos, since they tend to be just cups of warmed milk. You go here for vibes. You go here for the mirror selfies. You go here to eat the best almond croissant, the one that’s so expensive you’ll be surviving on plain pasta until that volunteer stipend hits your bank account four days late.
Just in case you’re a coffee-hater and you have no idea what I’m talking about, perhaps these photos will give you an idea of the Elle Woods-inspired hangouts:
Welcome to Chiquinquirá, Boyacá, the religious capital of Colombia. This little cafe can be found on the corner of Parque Julio Flórez, right across from where the Virgin Mary is supposedly laid to rest. So, after taking a tour of some churches, you can pop over here for a quick bite and, hopefully, a safe bathroom respite.
Whether the coffee is good or not, you expect that overpriced croissant is footing the bill for that bathroom to come fully stocked with toilet paper. It should be the Holy Grail of bathrooms, something fit to share the same plaza as the Virgin Mary, right?
Wrong. Let’s take a look at today’s culprit:
Talk about whiplash. We went from the straight version of the Pink Pony Club to Darth Vader handing me the toilet paper on his lightsaber. Then, when you finally take a seat, you look up to that picture and have flashbacks to your first months of PST before your stomach has adjusted. But hey, at least when you look to your left you see the maintenance log, so you know that the toilet (not pictured, but worth adding that it had a real toilet seat) has been cleaned this month.
Let's start with cleanliness. I will always have my reservations about doing my business next to a wet mop, but the fact that there’s an actual cleaning log? Being assured the toilet seat has been wiped at least once this month? The floors swept? The sink cleaned? It’s these little touches, like cleaning logs, that really reassure me I’m not going to get a disease by sitting on the toilet seat.
As for utilities: the sink worked, the toilet fully flushed, and there was even toilet paper. Lots of green flags. Unfortunately, no soap made for an unpleasant experience.
Now let’s take a look at the layout. It could certainly use a few extra square feet to give my claustrophobia some breathing room, but overall, acceptable. It is appreciated when everything you need is inside the bathroom; the toilet paper was within reach (not from some dispenser outside the bathroom where I had to sense how painful this trip was gonna be), and the sink was in the same room as the bathroom, so knowing that the door knob didn't hold a month’s worth of unwashed hands’ germs scored some points in my book.
Lastly, we’ve got aesthetics. The whiplash from a flowery pink paradise to dingy tile walls, lightsabers to a photo of a girl who could really use a laxative, creates a certain dissonance that is impossible to come back from. At least it can’t be said that effort wasn’t put into the decor. The mirror for example, shows promise; I could see it lighting up the dressing room of an overpriced consignment shop. Also, it was placed perfectly to reflect the picture of a girl having the fight of her life, so you get to enjoy that image twice while fighting your own battles.
As for the table mats stapled halfheartedly to the wall, odd choice, but I suppose it shows effort. The backlighting does somehow manage to make the room look dimmer, but you can’t blame it for the fact that this shoebox has no natural lighting. The cafe owners had to work with what they had. Us volunteers should appreciate the need for flexibility, a value hammered into us by Peace Corps.
Overall, this was an exhilarating bathroom experience. It had almost all the essentials and really shined in the aesthetics category– it’s a bathroom that knows how to keep you on your toes. This bathroom earns a 3.5.
Disclaimer: The content of this publication is generated by individual volunteers. The opinions and thoughts expressed here do not reflect any position of the United States government or the Peace Corps.