We fell in love with/in Cartagena my friends. I am not sure if I can truly convey all of the magic that is trapped up in between the walls of the old city there, but I will do my best to at least give you a glimpse of what I am talking about.
In order to even get to Cartagena we had to first cross a large portion of the Caribbean coast of Colombia. People, this country is huge. So large, in fact, that getting from our little hidden cove by the border with Panama half way across the coast to where Cartagena is nestled took us an entire day. We had started out as a group of 7 (3 English, 2 Spanish, and 2 Americans) and then we slowly lost more and more people along the way. We made a valiant effort to hitch a ride for the last leg to the city, but with no luck. We did gather a whole grip of local people around us who were all very confused as to what exactly we were up to.
In the end, we turned up at a hostel randomly recommended to us by our taxi driver (the buses had taken us so long that by the time we arrived the local city buses were no longer running) in the middle of the red light district, Getsamani. As humorous as it may have been, this was not a judgement on our character but rather where all of the backpackers stay due to the lower cost of accommodation. Backpackers are all a little whore-ish when it comes right down to it… Conveniently, this neighborhood is also where all of the salsa bars were, 2 blocks away from our hostel, Mama Waldy.
Mama Waldy’s happens to be not only the least expensive hostel in town (since they have only been open since the first of the year) but also an adorable little family’s home where the mother cooks breakfast for everyone each day, there is fresh juices available in the afternoons when it is too hot to be outside, and they loan their bikes out to guests at no charge. The family itself is wonderful and definitely claimed a bit of our hearts.
We spent most of our time inside the old walls of Cartagena, where we rambled through streets lined with beautiful restored colonial buildings and small corner parks. The locals were excellent company, pointing out their favorite foods at the local bakery or sweet shops, offering cups of tinto (Colombia’s coffee of choice: a rich, strong, coffee-flavored sugar drink) or juice, singing by the local arts university, playing trumpet from old balconies at sunset, and often asking tourists how they can make their city better for visitors. There is beautiful graffiti on many of the unrestored walls and buildings sitting perfectly next to hanging plants from the renovated building next door. The most common way to refer to one another, whether arguing in public or just meeting someone, is mi amor and whether they mean it or not it gives an air of romance to their speech.
Colombians are hopelessly romantic. They frequently will play or sing songs we may have heard a hundred times, but insist we truly listen to the lyrics (and once you do, it does make quite the difference). They will be excited by a certain song and take up the nearest partner to salsa across the floor (it doesn’t matter if you are at home, in the street, or in a club). We talked about love and commitment as easily as we discussed the weather, and all of our Colombian friends were genuinely interested in open discussions on racism and culture. We were invited up for a cup of coffee to a local musician’s house where we sipped our drinks in an old theater while he serenaded us with his most recent songs for an upcoming concert in Medellin as the sun slowly set behind his shoulder.
Our time in the city was spent visiting the same adorable gang member serving fried cheese fingers twice a day, relaxing in the park with fresh fruit, swimming at the nearby beaches, discussing art and photography in the evenings, strolling about town while H captured the magic with her camera, salsa music and lessons at the hostel at night, a perfect date that ended with gentle goodnight kiss in an old stairwell, quite a few bottles of rum, sweating in the day so much I was unsure my body could ever hold that much water, being caught in an epic street-flooding deluge, sunsets over the Caribbean, and often laughing into the evening.
However, I did not get much sleep. At all, really. Something about the heat and the energy of the city would conspire to keep me restless at night, and we couldn’t stay in bed past 9 am once the city started to heat up again. So after 5 days we packed up and headed toward Tayrona national park, knowing that if we didn’t move on we may never have been able to leave the city. And it is breathtaking in Tayrona. So perfect we actually considered taking the hostel owner up on his offer to let us live there indefinitely!
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Rule #2: Don't Die. 