Cartagena

We sailed in past the modern Bocagrande skyline and suddenly the old fortifications appeared like something from a Caribbean dream — stone walls rising from the sea, cannons still pointing at the horizon, a city that has watched for pirates and invaders for half a millennium. The taxi from the cruise terminal took us through busy streets until we passed under the Torre del Reloj, the yellow clock tower that has served as the main gate since colonial times, and I stepped into one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen in my life.

The walled city of Cartagena stopped me cold. Every street was a painting — mustard yellow churches, emerald green shutters, bougainvillea cascading from iron balconies, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. However, what made it transcendent was the life pulsing through these ancient streets: palenqueras in fruit-bowl headdresses calling out their wares, salsa music drifting from open doorways, couples dancing in plazas, the smell of fresh arepas mixing with frangipani blossoms. UNESCO designated this entire old city a World Heritage Site in 1984, recognizing what any visitor knows immediately — this is South America's most perfectly preserved colonial treasure.

Pedro de Heredia founded Cartagena on June 1, 1533, building atop an indigenous settlement that had thrived here since 4000 BC. Within decades, so much gold and silver flowed through this port that it drew every pirate in the Caribbean. Sir Francis Drake sacked the city in 1586, and the Spanish learned their lesson: they began building walls that very year. It took nearly two hundred years to complete those fortifications — 11 kilometers of stone, over 20 feet tall, finished in 1796. I walked those ramparts at golden hour, watching the Caribbean turn molten orange beneath the setting sun, and felt the weight of centuries pressing against my skin. My eyes welled with unexpected tears as I stood there — not from sadness, but from the overwhelming recognition that some places hold so much time, so much love, so much life that they become sacred without any church declaring them so.

The next morning, I climbed to Castillo San Felipe de Barajas, and I finally understood why they call it a masterpiece of military engineering. Built in 1536 and massively expanded in 1657, it's the largest Spanish colonial fortress in the Americas — a maze of tunnels designed so defenders could hear enemy footsteps approaching from below. I walked those underground passages with a guide who told stories of sieges that never succeeded, of cannons that never had to fire because the fortress itself was deterrent enough. The views from the summit swept across the entire city: old walls meeting modern towers, Caribbean blue meeting colonial gold, past meeting present in seamless conversation. Nevertheless, the climb was steep and hot — I emerged drenched in sweat but deeply satisfied.

Back in the walled city, I explored the three distinct neighborhoods. San Pedro was the aristocratic quarter — you can still see the cathedral and those gorgeous Andalusian palaces with their wooden balconies and hidden courtyards. San Diego housed the merchants and middle class, their homes slightly smaller but just as charming. And then I walked into Getsemaní, the popular quarter outside the walls that has become the heart of Cartagena's creative soul. Street art exploded from every surface: murals celebrating Afro-Colombian heritage, political statements in vivid colors, portraits of Gabriel García Márquez who made this city immortal in literature. Plaza de la Trinidad at dusk was pure joy: food carts serving ceviche, dancers practicing salsa, a ten-year-old boy who schooled everyone at breakdancing while his grandmother sold empanadas nearby.

For lunch I found La Cevicheria, the restaurant Anthony Bourdain made famous on his show. The octopus ceviche arrived in a shallow bowl — tender tentacles in leche de tigre that tasted like the Caribbean itself, sharp with lime and whispered with chili. I washed it down with coconut lemonade so cold and perfect that I ordered a second glass immediately. The meal cost about $25 USD and was worth triple that for the quality and the atmosphere. Later I visited the Gold Museum (free admission) and the Palace of the Inquisition ($10,000 COP entry, about $2.50 USD) — creepy instruments of torture but fascinating local context that helped me understand the complex layers of colonial power that shaped this place.

I ended my day at Café del Mar, perched on the city walls overlooking the Caribbean. The passionfruit mojito arrived as the sky began its nightly transformation — orange to pink to purple to star-scattered black. Boats bobbed in the harbor below, couples walked the ramparts arm in arm, and somewhere behind me a jazz quartet began to play. I am profoundly grateful for this city's beauty, for its persistence through centuries of pirates and sieges and rebuilding, for its joyous embrace of color and music and life. Cartagena taught me that some places achieve perfection not despite their history but because of it — every stone remembers, every balcony tells stories, every sunset honors those who came before. I left reluctantly, already planning my return, already missing what I knew I had only begun to understand. What I learned here stays with me: that beauty can be built from struggle, that walls meant for war can become promenades for lovers, that the places which have endured the most often offer the deepest joy. This city changed something in me — a reminder that history isn't something dead in books but something alive in cobblestones, in music drifting through evening air, in the warm smiles of people who have inherited five centuries of resilience.