"Call me Shakira because I’m in Colombia." Yes, that was my caption. After all, if there’s a place in the world where “mi casa, su casa” truly makes sense, it’s in the land of my favorite Colombian.
Visiting Colombia was an unexpected gift that life gave me. And even though I traveled alone, not once did I feel lonely. I’ve always dreamed of ticking off every country in South America, and Colombia was one of the few I had missed on my backpacking trip. Ecuador, Venezuela, Suriname, and the Guianas were still waiting — but I’ll get there. Slowly, in my own time.
Cartagena swept me off my feet. A Caribbean gem, one of those places that shine even when it rains. Beautiful, vibrant, warm — in every sense. I strolled through the walled city, swam in the crystal-clear Caribbean waters, befriended tiny fish and travelers from all over, watched the sunset from a charming café, and indulged in every classic touristy experience. In the end, I even wrote a few short stories — because those of us made of words always come back home carrying more stories than souvenirs.
Traveling solo to Colombia was a challenge I created for myself. But once I arrived, I realized fear was just extra baggage — and I left it at customs.
This story comes a few years late — like many things in my life. I found my notes in a forgotten journal back in Brazil and decided to give myself this gift: to remember, to write, to travel again. This time, through memories.
Shall we?
Cartagena – November 2, 2018
As the saying goes, “the northern winds don’t move windmills.” In my case, it was Latin blood that pulled me here. With packed bags and a restless soul, I set off to explore another piece of my beloved South America.
I knew little about Cartagena. Only that it had been the setting for Romancing the Stone, and that García Márquez — the most famous Colombian after Shakira — used it as the backdrop for Love in the Time of Cholera. And honestly? It makes perfect sense. Cartagena isn’t just a city — it’s a character.
It’s worth saying: my relationship with Márquez goes way back. He had this beautiful habit of turning reality into poetry. I try to do the same from my little hometown of Alfredo Wagner, where my heart still lives in Brazil. So visiting Cartagena felt like entering the home of an old friend: everything felt familiar, even though I’d never stepped foot there before.
But Cartagena is more than its writers and movie sets. It’s alive — fiercely alive.
My first impression? The heat. That kind of heat that hugs you like a long-lost relative. The second I stepped out of the airport, I considered turning back. But once I arrived at the hotel — simple, comfortable, and most importantly, air-conditioned — my body began to surrender to the journey.
That very day, I hopped on a city tour aboard a chiva. If you’ve never seen one, imagine a blend of a yellow school bus and a Brazilian carnival float — open-air, colorful, and blasting music. A cultural and acoustic adventure.
We visited the old city wall, the viewpoint at the Convent of Santa Cruz de la Popa, the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas, Plaza de los Coches, and the famous Clock Tower Gate. The flower-covered balconies and the charming chaos of the streets quickly won me over.
As with every good trip, I made unexpected friends — mostly Argentine ladies who had traveled more than I’ve ever dreamed of. Among them was Dorita, who had me laughing the whole day and nearly dragged me into a street costume parade. At one point, she asked the wrong man if he was the famous actor we were trying to recognize.
And speaking of actors, I did meet one — a Brazilian soap star — during that tour. I used to have a crush on him but couldn’t remember his name for the life of me. He kindly offered to take a photo of me — which turned out terrible. I then asked for a photo with him — somehow, even worse. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or hide behind a palm tree. Later, I found out his name was Juliano Lahan, the Italian heartthrob from Pride and Passion.
Before embarrassment could devour me, the day moved on. We passed through the famous emerald market. Colombia seems to have a spiritual connection with these green gems. And though I’ve never been into jewelry, I was mesmerized. There was something hypnotic about those displays. For a second, I considered buying a tiny emerald as a souvenir, but the price snapped me back to reality. I left with only photos — and if luck was coming my way, it would have to come jewel-free.
The street vendors, always lively, repeated the local mantra: “Hoy es viernes y el cuerpo lo siente.” Today is Friday, and the body feels it. Maybe it felt tired, thirsty, or just an urge to dance salsa — who knows? All I knew was that in Cartagena, even laziness gets invited to the party.
That night, I wrote some ideas for short stories in my journal. I haven’t used them yet, but they’re still there. Just like the city itself. Because Cartagena, I’ve learned, is one of those places you carry home — even if only in your heart.
Cartagena – November 3, 2018
On my second day, I set out for the famous Playa Blanca. Everyone said it was paradise. And it truly was. One of those landscapes you see on Discovery Channel documentaries and swear the ocean color was digitally enhanced. But there it was, right before my eyes, in full, raw beauty. The water was clear, warm, endless. And me? I felt as tiny as one of the fish swimming by.
I went snorkeling. With my GoPro hanging from my neck like a surfer’s necklace, I dove in to capture underwater photos and videos. And I did — but no one warns you that snorkeling is a high-risk sport. I got kicked in the head (yes, someone literally kicked me), swallowed saltwater, and for a few seconds I thought I’d make the headlines: “Brazilian drowns at Playa Blanca while taking underwater selfie.” But I played it cool — I wasn’t about to embarrass myself in the Caribbean.
As if a near-death experience wasn’t enough, I ran into Juliano Lahan again. Yes, the actor. On the same boat. This time, with a cruel twist: I was in a bikini. My absolute worst version of myself. In that moment, I realized fate doesn’t have to be ironic — but it certainly enjoys being.
I had brought very little money — my naive attempt at avoiding unnecessary spending. Big mistake. After paying for the snorkel tour, I had no cash left to even buy a bottle of water. Lunch was included, thank goodness, but I nearly dehydrated in paradise. Surrounded by ocean, yet as thirsty as someone in the desert.
I returned to the hotel late in the afternoon, but not before walking through the walled city once more. At night, Cartagena feels even more alive. A festival was underway, and the city pulsed with music, lights, color, and that warm human energy only certain places know how to offer.
And there, among the flowered balconies and cobbled alleyways, I realized that even alone, I wasn’t lonely. The city was my companion. And honestly? I couldn’t have asked for better company.
Cartagena – November 4, 2018
I woke up early, no alarm needed. In Cartagena, even your body understands that sleeping means missing out. I decided to explore Bocagrande on foot. I walked to a beach I had spotted during the chiva tour, under a sun that spared no one — though it felt a little gentler on that lazy Sunday.
After a swim, I went to meet my new friends from Minas Gerais — those lovely ladies life had introduced to me and who, in just a few days, had started to adopt me as one of their own. According to them, Sunday was church day. So I accepted the invitation. We met at the Church of San Pedro, but ironically, we never attended Mass. Lucia — one of the ladies — and I slipped away to wander around. Perhaps God understood.
In one of my old journal entries, I wrote that Lucia and Wilma’s accents reminded me of my favorite Brazilian family from Minas, the Almeidas. Something sweet, nostalgic, comforting. I also noted that Wilma thought I was a devoted churchgoer — and I let her believe it. Why ruin someone’s idea of you?
Interestingly, my new friends, all over sixty, were fierce Bolsonaro supporters — and it wasn’t until the last day of the trip that I admitted I had voted for Haddad. Probably for the best. Some truths require the right timing.
We wandered through the historic center, climbed the wall again, and fate led us to Café del Mar. Of course, we had read about it. Every travel blogger swore watching the sunset from there was a must. And for the first time on this trip, I followed a tourist recommendation without questioning it. I’d save that for later.
We kept walking. We passed by the house where García Márquez’s family once lived — a simple, quiet home, holding the memories of a man who turned reality into literature. I stood staring at the façade, thinking: if I had that view and enough time, maybe I’d write a Nobel-worthy book too.
We climbed down from the wall and wandered aimlessly, stumbling upon beautiful streets — the kind you photograph and later realize no picture truly captures the moment.
We entered Marzola, a charming Argentine bar decorated with tributes to Carlos Gardel. We asked for water, though what we really wanted was to order a tango.
Later, on a near-philosophical quest for traditional food, we let a local guide lead us to a modest restaurant — the kind of place we might’ve avoided based on appearances alone. Thankfully, we didn’t. We ate a strange (but delicious) soup, beans, and dishes whose looks would never give away their incredible flavor.
That afternoon, as planned, I returned to the hotel. Later, I met the ladies at Café del Mar for the much-anticipated sunset.
And yes — it was worth it. Café del Mar was stunning, lively, with great music and a view straight out of a postcard. A few beers, lots of laughter, and a sunset that, without exaggeration, deserves to be kept not just in memory, but tucked safely inside the heart.
After the natural spectacle, the night rolled on. We picked up Wilma at the Hotel Balcones de Alheli and set out to find a spot for our “final beer.” We tried the Chiva Rumbera — a name that promised a party — but it was empty. We searched for salsa clubs and were recommended two: Crazy Salsa and Bar Fidel. Both were closed. Cartagena, that night, seemed to want a break.
We surrendered to the quiet and found a pub called O'Clock. Not a lot of beer options, but the atmosphere made up for it. We laughed, we drank, and by ten o’clock, I said my goodbyes. I went back to the hotel. Sometimes, knowing when to leave is wiser than knowing when to stay.
That night, I fell asleep happy. The kind of happiness that comes from realizing the best part of a trip isn’t always the landmarks — it’s the people that fate seats beside you.
Cartagena – November 5, 2018
That day, I had a different plan. I wanted to visit Bora Bora Island — the name alone sells paradise, doesn’t it? But it didn’t work out. Instead, I ended up on a boat to Cocotera — a place I had never even heard of. And that’s why Plan B often ends up surprising us more than Plan A. If paradise exists, it might just look a lot like that place.
The boat ride was an episode in itself. In my head, I nicknamed it The Flying Colombian. The captain, a modern-day pirate, showed no mercy with the throttle. The speedboat bounced over the waves while we, the tourists, laughed and screamed between salty splashes and gusts of wind in our faces. And you know what? In that heat, it was the best bath of the day.
Cocotera was the Caribbean in magazine-cover mode: warm, clear water, white sand, and that emerald green that looks too perfect to be real — but it was. And it was mine, at least for a few hours.
I had the best meal of the entire trip there: coconut rice, fried plantain, salad, and grilled chicken. Simple and perfect. I would’ve gone back to Cartagena just to eat that dish again.
After lunch, I went back to the sea. Literally. I floated for who knows how long. My body surrendered to the rhythm of the water, my mind completely quiet. Peace. The kind we rarely feel in life — but definitely should more often.
At that moment, I thought of Jack Sparrow. Maybe being a pirate wouldn’t be so hard if your hideout was an island like this. All you’d need is a stash of rum — and maybe a book. I could’ve lived there with no trouble.
The real trouble came later. The sun. Stronger than I imagined, more treacherous than I deserved. I turned red — not tan, red. The color of sin, they say. I laughed to myself: “Those who sin too much go to hell. And hell, apparently, is a Caribbean sun without sunscreen.”
That evening, I met up with my friends for dinner. We went to the Hard Rock Café — because sometimes, a cliché feels comforting. After that, we still had time for a Corona at a pub near the Clock Tower. The night ended with a surprise rain shower, as if Cartagena was saying, “Time for bed.”
I took a taxi back to the hotel. Slowly. With no plans for the next day. Because sometimes, the best itinerary is no itinerary at all.
Cartagena – November 6, 2018
Last day in Cartagena. One final chance to understand what this city was trying to tell me. So I did what any disciplined tourist would do: I walked. And I walked a lot.
That day was for a walking tour with Mauricio — a chatty, fun, and slightly full-of-himself Colombian guide who proudly told me he once filmed a movie with Bruna Lombardi. I didn’t question it. Maybe it was true. Maybe not. In Cartagena, any story feels possible.
Mauricio held his phone in one hand, my camera in the other, and as he snapped photos, he shared stories like he was giving away secrets. Walking through Cartagena with him felt like flipping through an old book — the kind that smells of dust and sea salt.
He spoke about colonization. About the wall built not just for protection, but for intimidation. About the stones worn down by time, still holding the city together like a tight embrace.
We passed through the slave tunnel — a place where the silence weighs heavier than the stone. No one laughs there. Not even Mauricio. La Calle de la Amargura — “The Street of Bitterness” — lived up to its name. The weight of history clings to the walls, and lingers in the air.
The fortress offered the opposite: wind. A breeze so welcome it felt like it had been invented just to keep tourists from giving up on the climb. From up there, the view stretched out generously. Cartagena seemed to fit entirely within my field of vision, yet I knew no photograph could ever truly capture it.
We visited Plaza del Coche, admired colonial balconies, heard stories of millionaires who lost it all, and passed hotels I’ll probably never stay in. But I took photos anyway — like storing away a dream, just to have somewhere to return to.
In the midst of stories, Mauricio pointed to the moats alongside the wall. He explained, with an almost disconcerting casualness, that they once housed crocodiles. I laughed — I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. Cartagena likes to play with the improbable.
We passed through Bocagrande, where the sea competes for space with modern high-rises. A tiny church where people pray for the basics: health, love, and shade. The figure of India Catalina, a character that defies the logic of her own name. The sundial, frozen in time. And a neighborhood that felt like Cuba — not just in its looks, but in the music spilling from open windows.
We ended the tour at Plaza de Toros. I’m not sure if it was the heat or the fatigue, but I realized I didn’t want to hear any more stories. I just wanted to live here a little longer.
When I checked my phone, we had walked over 15 kilometers. But it was the kind of exhaustion that fills you up. I didn’t leave the tour worn out — I left whole.
And before heading back to the hotel, I did what every obedient tourist does: I posed for the traditional photo with the Colombian women dressed in bright clothes, balancing fruit on their heads. It was kitschy. It was obvious. But it was Cartagena.
They say Cartagena is hot. I agree. But it’s not just the sun. It’s a human warmth. The kind that comes from people — and I’m not just talking about the endless vendors trying to sell you everything. It’s the music. The life. A heat that overflows from the walls, the flower-filled balconies, and the smiles offered on every street.
I came back home sun-kissed by stories. Lighter. More myself.
Colombia taught me a simple lesson: sometimes, fear is just a poorly written itinerary. And life, at its core, is one big improvised walking tour. You just need the courage to follow it.
And of course — a good sunscreen.
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