Cartagena

I was by no means the first Gringa to arrive in Cartagena, awkwardly tottering down dusty streets under the weight of a bulging stripy backpack.  Cartagena is one of Colombia's tourist gems, renowned for its colonial architecture, idyllic beaches, and tenatious street vendors.  Surely the locals are used to seeing grungy blondes in sunglasses wandering around looking lost. 

Then why did I feel like ET deboarding the mothership when I got off the bus? (The women in the fruit stands waiting for my fingertips to start glowing, the men smoking on the corner ready to leave me a trail of empananadas so I would follow them home).  It turns out Cartagena is a zonal city.  

There's a commercial zone in the center where dancers perform in the plaza and sunburned backpackers buy artisnal bracelets.

There's a tourism zone on the beach with 20-story hotels and restaurants with pretty hostesses.

And then there are the barrios.  Our hostel was located in one called El Bosque (and by "hostel" I mean truckers lodging).  Something tells me that the residents of El Bosque aren't so accustomed to international visitors.  And, granted, Iris (my travel buddy) and I weren't exactly inconspicuous outsiders.  My morning jog was a blasphemy against the sacred religion of Slow that dominates coastal culture. At the store on the corner, curvy black women sat with their (from all appearances) unplanned babies eating rice and steak for breakfast while we, the flip-flipping white girls, straw sipped tall glasses of all-natural fruit juices sin azucar.

Despite the strange looks and the excessive flattery (or, to put it less euphemistically, mild verbal harassment in the streets), the costeños certainly live up to their reputation of Caribbean friendliness.  One woman left her kitchen (lit stove and crying baby) to walk barefoot with me for three blocks to show me the direction I needed to go.  The owner of the trucker motel gave us her cell phone number to call if we needed anything.  All the buses slow down for you when you're walking to ask you where you're going and if they can take you.  One driver (who might not have been completely sober) was going for the Guinness Record of passengers.  I was sitting on top of the metal registradora holding on to the pole and there were five people between me and the door.  Everyone was laughing and shouting for more people to get on and one woman started passing around a Gatorade bottle of Aguardiente and a ripe mango.  They all cheered when I took a shot and a big juicy bite of mango.  Whenever someone had to get off, the people pleaded, "No te vayas! (Don't go!)"  

All I could think of was, "This would never happen on a bus in New York."