A Visit to Cartagena

Last night we were eating the usual fare at “The Restaurant” when the waiter came to get me because I had a call. (A bit reminiscent of when the Pit Boss tracked me down to the Poker Tables in Reno, when Anthony got sick – thereby bringing my poker-playing career to a halt because of the trauma associated with your baby throwing up while you were at the tables). Seems like they had managed to get enough takers for Cartagena so a tour was all set – leaving at 4 AM (ouch). So – I wolfed down a flan and we ran to bed (about 8:30 PM – the horrors of being up so late!). When we walked by reception – we had a message that we would be leaving at 4:30 AM (which is what the brochure said in the first place!).

So after staying up to watch dumb flick (at least me – Mark was snoozing in no time) – I wake up about 2:30 AM with a horribly upset stomach. By the time we get up at 4 AM my stomach is queasy – but livable. We are sure they will be late – but they are amazingly punctual – 4:30 AM by satellite. So off we go – with two couples and a kid from Bogota, the driver and the tour guide (with me being the only bilingual participant – thereby making me responsible for translating for Mark). After a great snooze in the pretty comfy van (despite the super loud music) – we wake up at the Restaurante Costa Alegre (Happy Coast Restaurant). This is as “local” as they come – and not too sanitary – so I am sure I am going to die. I eat a couple of bites and start saying my prayers. Mark ate everything – but avoided the “fresh juice”.

Off we go again and in half an hour or so arrive in beautiful Cartagena (which Mark somehow confuses with Medellin – but no one understands him so it doesn’t matter). I decide that accurate translation is overrated – so rather than stress myself I will just translate as the Spirit moves me – I think my translations are better than real life in any case. Our first stop is Cartagena’s highest point – “La Popa”; Monastery visited by Pope JP II. Very pretty – but not much to see. The “English speaking” Museum guide says to me “perfecto, I will speak slowly and you translate”. He is not that accurate himself (not very consistent with the signs) – so my accuracy does not matter. He tells me about Havana and Cartagena being sister cities (well – not present Havana – old Havana). And about some Cuban guy named Pedro who liberated Cartagena (as opposed to the great South American Liberator – Simon Bolivar). I of course have never heard of Pedro but pretend I know all about him so as not to offend the guide. My favorite part is “Salto del Cabron” – where the founding priest threw off the goat being sacrificed to Satan. Of course – Cabron has a separate meaning – but maybe not in Colombia as no one else is laughing. We stretch our visit as much as possible – but eventually leave.

Next stop is the “Castillo de San Felipe” – continued more or less accurate translation about boring battles that the Museum guide goes on and on about – and then I spot them – the site that will make the $70 price worth it. The “Zapatos Viejos” – a pair of giant shoes. The photo ops are awesome; the Museum guide “liberates” us to go the Zapatos Viejos – and despite the heat I lead the way and we arrive there well ahead of the others.

The Museum guide says goodbye (stays by the Zapatos Viejos drinking beer). We then see the “India Catalina” (a two second drive by a statue of an Indian woman), drive by the “Ciudad Amurallada (walled city) and Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ Cartagenian house. I swoon at that. Mark of course has not heard of Gabriel Garcia Marquez – the Nobel Prize winning Colombian author (100 years of Solitude, Love in the Time of Cholera – two of my fave books). Father of something called “Magical Realism” – which to me is simply reality for Latin Americans. Stories in which the magical live side by side with the real – as if it were perfectly normal. Pretty much the sort of place I grew up in – the line between the Spirit and real worlds totally blurred – with deference to the former of course.

We get off at “Las Bovedas” – and walk around the fancy shopping district. Everyone gets offered t-shirts, hats and costume jewelry. I get accosted by the emerald sellers – befitting my status as “high maintenance”. I am asked if my tall American husband would not want to buy me emeralds – 50% off. I say not in this lifetime. To which they reply, “ahy, tacaño” (cheap). Which of course sends me into contagious hysterics and the emerald sellers forget about the sales. The beer sellers are of course much more successful.

Off we go to lunch. Not at the nice "Developed World" looking restaurants – at the Colombian “typical” beach restaurants. My mind says “Danger.” But the food is delicious – and I eat more than I should. I can hear my stomach gurgle. The tour guide comes to me and asks if “¿puedes regalarme el dinero por el tour?”; which translates to “could you gift me the tour money?”. The Colombians do not seem to ask you to give them stuff directly – they ask for a gift – like could you give me the gift of your passport number? I think I am getting the nuances better – these guys are so polite. Of course he has no way of taking credit cards – despite the assurances of the hotel’s tour agent. But not to worry – we shall stop by a “cajero” (ATM) – and while we are at it, the pharmacy.

I describe my dilemma to the pharmacist – who gives me four pills that seem like lomatril for only $1 (for four pills – should have gotten more). Then we go to the ATM – which I have a have a hard time using because the card gets spit out straight away and the pin number gets put in last. But I get the 300,000 Colombian pesos eventually and off we go. I start to read “Confessions of a Shopaholic” – which is eerily like an autobiography of my mother.

We made a stop at a gorgeous rest stop (where the tour guide asked about stopping for breakfast – perhaps realizing that there is a reason an awful lots of his costumers seem to need lomatril (he told me he carried some just for such occasions). Back at the Hotel a bit past 6 PM. Go to the gas station for supplies and Mark makes me a grilled cheese sandwich (my tummy feels fine – but why tempt fate).

Stay up forever reading “Confessions ….”, the London setting, the references to great clothes and the similarities to my Mom too hard to resist. Tomorrow will be a lazy day ……..