I grew up in Pablo Escobar’s Colombia. Here’s what it was really like.
The night of the car bomb, my dad called home from his cell phone as he finished his rounds of the family’s bakeries. It was a nightly ritual, braving rush hour in his little silver Mazda to collect the day’s cash from each location. In early ‘90s Colombia, cash did not sit in registers a minute longer than it had to. "Almost done here," he told my mom. "I'm stopping by the store at Imbanaco next, and then heading home. If you want any food...