When I told my mother I was going to Colombia, she started screaming. My grandmother started crying. Every family member I had, spread out over the Indiana cornfields, was terrified. Me? I just smiled. I was about to embark on my most dangerous expedition yet. France and Italy are child’s play next to this cocaine-filled, guerrilla war zone, where young American girls like me get kidnapped by gun-wielding masked men. Or, at least, this is what my family thought. Why not? The media does a fine job of covering every aspect of the Colombian drug trade (sadly cocaine is still their main export), the violence, and the political uncertainties that come with it. As with nearly all things media, however, they conveniently leave out the heart of this country—the magic, the music, and the men.