The 5-hour bus ride from Santa Marta to Cartagena was a bit torturous: non-stop Michael Jackson videos on the little TV were set at a screechily-high volume and I sat right next to the toilet and my eyes were watering from the noxious sulfur/ammonia fumes. (I resolved to avail myself of more planes and fewer buses going forward.)
Anyways, I arrived in Cartagena on Thursday evening a few hours later than I planned, filled with no small amount of anxiety about the accommodation situation. Cartagena is one of the most popular holiday destinations for both Colombians and foreigners visiting the country, and this was the busiest holiday time of the year. And I didn’t have a reservation.
I hopped in a taxi and went directly to a hotel in the old city that some folks in Los Roques told me the week before still had space. It turns out they had one room left, but wanted about 180,000 Bolivares per night for it (about US$85). That is more than five times as much as the price listed in Lonely Planet, and the room was not pretty. I declined, and then embarked on a hotel-hopping excursion that took the better part of the next two hours. I was on foot and carried all my luggage in 90° heat, and as a result was sweating profusely. I visited about 12 hotels – all of which were completely booked up, though I suspect the last few may have turned me down because I looked like a drowned rat.
Then I passed a dark stairwell leading off a narrow street with “Hostal Mar Azul” inscribed above the doorway. I climbed up to the second floor where a young woman unlocked a gate for me. I asked if they had a room available, and they did for about $25. Much more reasonable. I glanced around, and wondered if perhaps I had wandered into one of those “love hotels” I’ve heard tell about. Maybe I was just being paranoid, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was something about the décor:
Or perhaps it was the way all the young women in pink uniforms working there giggled and smiled suggestively at me. I asked to look at the room, which actually seemed fine, and given my predicament, agreed to take it for at least a night. Then, as I was registering at the front desk, I could see that the last occupant of my room paid $5 for 1.5 hours earlier that afternoon. So I guess it was definitely a love hotel, but I figured I was making out like a bandit since I was only paying $25 for 24 hours. And my room certainly seemed clean enough, plus my mattress was thoughtfully wrapped in a plastic cover. (I opted to use my own pillow case and sleep sack, however.)
Then I had dinner in a great little French-Creole place called Restaurante Donde Olano. The table next to mine was filled with gorgeous twenty-something Europeans, who slipped effortlessly into Spanish, then French, then English, then back again, all throughout dinner. I felt somewhat gross sitting there all by myself in my smelly hiking clothes and two days worth of facial scruff, especially compared to these young fashionistas, with their beautiful clothes, beautiful accents, beautiful tans, and beautiful flaxen hair. But just as I was slipping into a bitterness spiral, it suddenly occurred to me: none of them was going back to a love hotel that night. I was special.
I checked out of the love hotel the next morning and found another hotel just outside the walled city with one last room for about the same price. Then I did what one should always do when newly arrived in an enchanting city steeped in history and culture beautifully situated on the Caribbean coast – I went to the mall.
I knew that on my way from the bus terminal to the center of town the day before I had passed a huge mall complete with multiplex cinema, and I had a vague sense of what direction it was in, but not such a good sense of how far it was. Three and a half hours later, I finally arrived at the mall, which, as it turns out, was about 12 miles outside of town through some incredibly dodgy neighborhoods. But no matter, I was finally there and totally jazzed about the chance to watch a real movie in a proper, air-conditioned movie theater and buy some clothes because all of mine reeked by this point. I was majorly jonesing for some jeans, as my thighs had missed the feel of denim something awful for an entire month! And anyone who knows me, knows that I like to buy a certain “cut” of jeans which roughly approximates the fit – and function – of control-top panty hose.
Well, the mall was a bit of a disappointment, since all the American movies they were showing had been dubbed in Spanish (rather than subtitled). But I did manage to pick up some jeans, and apparently I’m down to a size 28 – that Roraima trek really did the trick!
Here are some snapshots of Cartagena.
Holiday decorations
Me up on the wall with Cafe del Mar in the background
Shots of the Old City
In Cartagena, I also hit my first gay bar in weeks: Lincoln Road. I met up with yet another pocket gay (they´re everywhere down here) named Jorge, who escorted me around town. Jorge is essentially the "Rob Sweeney" of Cartagena: he knows everybody, never pays a cover and is immediately greeted by the bartenders, waitstaff and DJ upon entering any bar. It was so fabulous to finally be at home with Kylie, Madonna and Cher, as well as Hollister, Abercrombie and vintage Polo. I ordered a screwdriver and was served a half-liter bottle of Smirnoff with a pitcher of O.J. and a dish of sliced limes, all for about $12. How much do we love Cartagena???
Me and Jorge
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