We woke up around 8:30am. Travel days are hard — long, exhausting, and draining in ways you don’t really feel until the next morning. The bed felt like a rocket launcher, so we got out of it like two ninety-year-olds and slowly made our way to the shower.
Morning routines don’t really change much, no matter what country you’re in. Bathroom, teeth, shower. Simple. Except today’s shower — and every shower for the next five days — was lukewarm at best.
Now, the heat here in Colombia is no joke. Hot, humid, and inviting enough that the devil himself would probably feel right at home. And while that sounds like the perfect excuse for a cool shower, I actually like hot showers. Somehow, they cool me off once I step out. Unfortunately, not even lukewarm water will get conditioner completely out of your hair, so the morning was off to a fantastic start. Sore body from a questionable mattress and no hot water. Great.
Chris decided we needed to walk to breakfast. I understand the logic. I even agreed with it. But if you don’t understand my hesitation, please refer back to the part where I said it’s so hot the devil feels at home. It was 87 degrees at 9am.
But I digress.
We finished getting ready and walked the 1.2 miles to breakfast. I had found a place on Google called Manna Café. The walk included hills, busy traffic, and a reminder that travel comes with moments you don’t quite expect — including a man casually pulling over and using the sidewalk as his personal restroom. In front of everyone. Welcome to real life outside the resort bubble.
Somewhere during all of this walking, we realized neither of us was operating at full capacity. Chris had walked out of the hotel without his knee medication, which made the miles a little harder on him than planned. Every step was starting to catch up with him, but we kept going anyway because that’s what you do when you’re exploring somewhere new.
At the same time, I kept feeling a strange rubbing on the back of my heel. I ignored it for nearly two hours, assuming it was just new shoes or the heat. It wasn’t until the pain really set in that I realized the tiny starfish on my anklet had been digging into my skin the entire time. Blood, irritation, and a reminder that apparently even my jewelry can betray me while traveling.
Only me.
Breakfast quickly turned into brunch. It seems breakfast has been pushed aside here, replaced by a slower, more relaxed start to the day. The heat had already made me incredibly thirsty, and I was thankful I brought my pink generic Stanley cup. Everywhere we’ve gone has happily filled it with ice and water, which has quickly become my survival strategy.
I wanted a Diet Coke, but given how that worked out for me yesterday, I settled for a Coke Zero instead. Mistake. I should have stuck with water. The heat makes hydration less of a suggestion and more of a requirement.
Chris ordered a traditional breakfast — eggs, potato pancakes, mozzarella cheese, and chorizo — while I leaned more toward lunch with a chicken, ham, and mozzarella sandwich on delicious bread with French fries. Chris added a slice of pistachio cheesecake and was very happy with his decision. We left full, happy, and carrying another cup filled with ice and water.
Walking back through the alleyways, there was so much to see. Shops everywhere, colors everywhere, but it was the art that caught my eye. The artists here are proud of their work, and it shows. We wandered in and out of stores, not really looking for anything but still somehow always searching.
At one point, I spotted a fruit vendor selling mango, watermelon, and pineapple. I’m not a mango fan, so he made me a little bouquet of pineapple and watermelon instead. At home in the U.S., I like my fruit cold — and watermelon salted. Here, in the heat, that wasn’t an option. It was still good, just different. Travel has a way of reminding you how used to your routines you really are.
We eventually walked through a park that was absolutely beautiful. And then we saw them — what we think were spider monkeys — just hanging in the trees. I could have stood there all day watching them.
We continued wandering, trying on shoes, chatting with local jewelers, and enjoying the slow pace of the afternoon. And then it hit. My leg locked up mid-step. A full cramp, the kind that stops you in your tracks. For a split second I couldn’t move, then another cramp followed, and another. Classic charley horses. Between the heat, dehydration, and walking far more than my body is used to, it was inevitable.
After working out the kinks and a few more warning cramps, we decided it was time to call it.
Around 1:30pm we grabbed a cab back to the room — stopping first to pick up more water because at this point, water had become my entire personality. Back in the room, air conditioning on, fan blowing, and thoughts of nothing but sleep, we laid down on what still felt like rocks and fell asleep almost instantly.
Waking up is hard when you are mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. Three hours later, we woke up from our nap and realized we had slept the entire afternoon away. Between the travel day before, the rock-solid bed, and walking far more than I’m used to in the Colombian heat, it was bound to catch up with us eventually — and it did, quickly.
We laid there for a bit, scrolling on our phones. I worked on my blog while Chris walked across the street to talk to some tour guides about water excursions. I have my heart set on a sunset boat ride. We’ll see if that happens.
By the time he came back, it was getting close to 7:00 and time for dinner. We walked approximately 0.1 feet to the restaurant next door. I didn’t really want pasta after having it at the airport the night before, but this was Chris’s subtle way of telling me we were going to be walking more later.
Dinner was at Verona Restaurante, a small, quiet place with both indoor and outdoor seating. Our waitress, Kelly, spoke very little English. When she came over to welcome us and introduce herself, I didn’t understand a single word she said. I asked, “English?” and she simply replied, “Kelly.” That’s when it clicked — she was just telling me her name, which, of course, was already in English. She was incredibly sweet though, friendly, and attentive the entire evening.
We ordered calamari to share. I don’t like calamari and, as it turns out, I still don’t like calamari. But it’s one of Chris’s favorites, and I refused to take away his chance to have it here by insisting on mozzarella sticks instead. I tried it — half of one ring — and confirmed it was chewy and still not my thing.
I ordered lasagna for dinner. Not just any lasagna, but a five-meat lasagna with a thick red sauce. It wasn’t life-changing, but it was really good. One thing we’ve noticed though — salt and pepper are apparently optional here. Not on the table, and when you ask for it, you’re lucky if you get both.
Chris ordered seafood ravioli and asked me to try it. To be honest, it was not good — at least not to me. The pasta was firm, the flavor was very fish-forward, and I’ve officially learned I am not a fan of seafood ravioli in white sauce. Chris loved it. I only had to choke down one piece, so everyone won.
When we finished dinner, Kelly, with her limited English but excellent intentions, refilled my cup with ice. Only ice. No water. At this point, I’ll take what I can get.
Halfway through dinner, Chris informed me we were heading to the umbrella alley — a street lined with colorful umbrellas hanging overhead between the buildings. That meant walking back over the bridge, up the hill, and turning right instead of heading straight like we had earlier that morning. It was dark now, traffic was still heavy, but we eventually made it downtown.
And “downtown” here looks nothing like what I’m used to. I’m learning that no matter how much you travel, nothing ever feels like home — and that’s exactly the point. Cartagena comes alive at night. Alleyways filled with food vendors, shops, music, and people everywhere. A church service was happening as we passed by, voices echoing through the streets while people moved in every direction around us.
We found a spot on a wall and just sat for a while, taking it all in. Watching. Listening. Soaking up the energy of it all. I told Chris we needed to come back before we leave and have authentic Colombian street food for dinner. It all looked amazing.
Eventually, we wandered into an air-conditioned gelato shop — which felt like heaven after the heat. I had cinnamon graham cracker, and Chris chose white chocolate and amaretto.
We finally found the umbrella alley after all the walking we had already done — and after dinner and dessert, of course. The alley itself was packed. Chairs and tables lined both sides, completely filled, and the space was bursting with people. Not just those sitting and eating, but everyone else trying to see what all the excitement was about.
After squeezing through the crowds, we decided to turn left instead of right. That decision led us straight into a sidewalk sale filled with books I couldn’t read, dresses only Everly could pull off, and T-shirts I apparently wasn’t allowed to buy.
Yes, you read that right. T-shirts we couldn’t buy.
Not because Chris said no — he was actually the one trying to buy one for Dominic. But the vendor wouldn’t sell it to us. We tried explaining it was for our nine-year-old grandson, but between the language barrier and everyone attempting to connect to WiFi in the middle of the chaos to use Google Translate, it just wasn’t happening. We weren’t arguing over price. We weren’t negotiating. We simply wanted to buy the shirt. In the end, she lost a sale because of it, and we moved on.
Earlier, while walking along the long stretch of shops, things got a little more exciting than expected. We suddenly saw police running and crowds of people rushing toward something on the other side of the street. My immediate reaction was panic. I asked Chris if it was time to go. I’ve clearly watched too many movies because my mind instantly jumped to being picked up off the street, arrested for no reason, and disappearing into some international incident until my government came to save me.
Reality, of course, was much less dramatic. A man had been hit on a motorcycle. He was fine.
My heart, however, was not.
We walked back to the park we had started at yesterday, but seeing it at night was completely different. Somehow, it was even more beautiful. Gold and white lights were strung through the trees like Christmas, glowing softly against the dark sky. The air was still muggy, but it felt like the perfect way to end the night.
In the center of the park sat the tourist information building, surrounded by sidewalks lit up with water fountains that rose from the ground in changing colors. One moment it was one color, then two, then three, shifting again as the water fell back down. It was simple, but mesmerizing, and for a few minutes we just stood there watching.
By this point, I was exhausted from all the walking and more than ready for bed. We made our way back up the bridge and stopped at the convenience store for a bottle of water and a granola bar to share later. Crossing the parking lot and then the street was much easier this late at night — not nearly as many cars to dodge. That’s another story for another day.
About forty-five steps from the hotel, Chris spotted what he proudly called a “grocery store.” Not quite like home, but enough for us to grab a few Coke Zeros for the room. The walk back after that was uneventful, which, after the day we’d had, felt like a gift.
And I ended the day thinking about the only thing I truly hate about this trip…
…the rock they call a mattress.
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