Wandering Cartagena

What is it they say about the best intentions or the laid plans? Well, when I woke this morning I was getting ready to spend the week on the beach – a deserted paradise of jungle preserve that butts up against the crashing blue Caribbean coast. All went smoothly. There was just one snag at the gate. I had bought tickets, or so I thought, for Santa Marta and at the crucial moment I discover that in fact the plane was going to Cartagena, fortunately, also on the coast and a welcome destination. I suppose it could have been a human error, this mix up… I mean it could have been my fault … but that would certainly be a first – and fortunately a pretty funny mix up, one, which seems to be working for the best so far. Upon arrival mom and I sorted out her departure flight and found a hot, dingy, little place to stay. But the price was right; we spent more on a gin and tonic so life is good. We slept- crashed really, then emerged to explore the city in midday heat. To the old city, along the wall, through one plaza to another, past the church to the cathedral and into the park, down the road lined with blossoming vines and brightly colored houses to the wall again. The ocean breeze sent whips of salt water up to our faces on the edge of where the world meets the water, under the scalding sun where the air tastes hot in your mouth and where the heat rises through your shoes to cook the soles of your feet. Back to the cool of the city grid, shade entrenched allies, more color, more balconies with dripping vines blossom. When walking North-South the wind tunnels, lifting skirts, billowing flags and cooling street vendors. But East-West is stagnant as the armpit of death, but hot death. More color, more balconies, more vines. There must be a cult of complicity for there to be so many doors, enormous ancient wooden doors, large enough for horse and carriage. There are door-knockers, large metallic green animals: fish, iguanas and old faced men. Only a cult could explain such an orgy of old knockers. Each carriage gate has several smaller doors, a person door (mighty small person or a door that requires stooping) and an eye level – identity confirmation window with decorative iron grating.
This is the most memorable accident I can remember.