The cab ride from the library to my temporary residence in the safer, north section of Bogotá takes about 45 minutes. On the radio, a news anchor announces that the Colombian soccer team has advanced into the semifinals versus an upstart Honduras squad in the Cup of Peace, the tournament’s nickname.

Safer section? Peace? I haven’t watched the news much, and in two weeks of research on the nation’s history, I’ve forgotten that the country, always friendly and fun for me, is currently in bad shape.

My cabby is an affable middle aged man who drives too fast while keeping minimal attention on the road. The cab driver is a talker, and informs me that he was able to put his kid through college for a degree in sociology.

I ask, dreading the answer: “Where is he working now?”

The cabby nods, then a shake of his head: “He drives the cab at night. Helps pay the bills.”

My personal nightmare: out of college without a job. I stay quiet for a while, not really knowing what to say. Finally, the cabby asks me what I think about the Colombia-Honduras soccer game on Thursday. Ah soccer, Colombia’s solace.

If you live in the city, there are worse things to worry about than the civil war. The economy’s been shot and everyone’s fallen on hard times.