For those of you who don’t know, I’m on a boat. Well, a ship, really. As my father tersely instructed me when I called him from Miami on my way to the port, “You’re going to be on a ship, and a ship is a vessel that can carry boats.” For the next four months, my home has twelve restaurants, a pool and a disturbing tendency to shift underfoot when the seas are rough. Regarding that last trait; I spent the better part of a day walking like a drunk when the seas were declared “moderate.” God help me and my poor balance if and when we encounter “rough” water. On a side note, yoga is even harder when your yoga studio has a gentle roll to it.
Yesterday, we stopped at our first port of the first cruise of my onboard contract. I woke up that morning to realize that the engines were no longer thrumming beneath me and that I could walk in a straight line to the bathroom without pitching side to side, banging into the closet and mini-fridge. I went up on deck to see our port: Cartagena, Colombia. I was in South America. I checked to see if I felt any different. I was sweaty and hungry, so no, no different.
On the advice of one of my co-workers, we caught a cab to the Old City immediately upon debarkation. As we drove through the city, in between my dumb references to “Romancing the Stone,” I thought that the city looked like a cleaned-up version of Rio. The bright colors of the houses looked a little newer and it was notably free of Rio’s ubiquitous graffiti. It looked a little wealthier, a little more organized. But then again, I was in a cab, coming from a cruise ship, to a destination that is used to receiving tourists. The Old City was reached through a high, yellow stucco arch and the buildings beyond were what I always think of when I picture colonial architecture in the tropics. The houses and shops were painted in all manner of bright colors, their balconies dripping bougainvillea. We walked through the streets, stopping in leafy squares, buying the ripest watermelon and best tasting limeade I’ve ever had.
The Old City was overrun with folks whose ships were ported in Cartagena for the day. We were there at the same time as the Cunard Line’s Queen Victoria, and I hate to say it, but I took an immediate dislike to the boat. It just looked snooty with its big, swoopy prow and navy blue painted bottom. No offense to the passengers onboard, but I just think our ship looks friendlier, more approachable…cuter. I swear, I can anthropomorphize anything.
The street vendors, hawking dubious “designer” merchandise, must have all cribbed from the same playbook. Everything every one of them was selling (Cuban cigars, sunglasses, maracas, CDs, paintings) had a “special, promotional price…one day only!” Billy Mays had nothing on these guys. Also, if something was ten bucks, you could always talk them down to eight and if you only happened to have seven bucks, they’d take that, too. I haggled for “Gucci” sunglasses, but I paid full price for a beautiful rosary because I didn’t want to bargain for something religious. Of course, the rosary salesman offered me three for twenty. It was a special promotion. One day only.
I stopped in at a church because I always love visiting churches, wherever I go. I’m a Christmas and Easter Lutheran, at best, but churches are reliable for their ability to surprise me. This one had the best postcards I had seen in Cartagena, and a gorgeous enclosed garden full of a green hush and peace. I took a picture in the garden and a local tour guide thought I had caught him in the picture, so he said “Thank you for taking me home with you!”
When my group stopped to take a breather, I took pictures of a group of men gathered together under umbrellas with manual typewriters sitting on stands in front of them. They were there to type up official documents for a small fee. While I was taking the pictures, a man asked me where I was from. I tried my best to put together a decent response in Spanish, but I regret to inform you that Ms. Pearson’s excellent instruction in junior high has not survived with me through adulthood. That didn’t bother the man, though. He spoke English. His name was Jose, and he had lived in New York a few years ago. I said that I thought Cartagena was a beautiful town and he said “Yes. But maybe I think New York is better.”
I wish I could tell you why I liked Cartagena so much, but I just don’t have the right words. I have moved around the US so much that the general process of getting acclimated to a city is becoming rote. I can easily adapt to the public transportation, I never forget the name of the local grocery store chain, and I am rarely surprised by my new home. It’s no special talent to be able to do this; all it means is that I’m totally rootless and almost always unable to answer the question “Where are you from?” I don’t know where I’m from anymore. I guess I liked that Cartagena was so foreign to me, so outside my realm of experience, so new.
We left the city in the afternoon, and I hid inside to avoid watching it retreat behind the ship. We were soon back on the open water, heading off to new ports in other countries. I know I’ll find something incredible in each of them, I know I’ll be surprised by them, I know my heart will be very, very full when I disembark for the final time, but Cartagena will always be special because it was the first place that took me entirely by surprise.
