dusk, idle bets.

An idle bet in that mountain town called Boquete, and direction changes.

I arrived in the blessed cool of nightime. Streets illuminated by the warmth of so many people in curb side cafes, laughing. I arrived to the Getsemeni with the sound of salsa breezing in my ear and the stars, clear up in the sky.

Cartagena is like a dream. Those delicious and infrequent dreams that take bits of memories from past loves and plaster them together with that sweet hue of fondness.

It feels like Paris, like Barcelona, like Santiago, like Montreal.

There is some kind of magic here, undoubtedly. Somewhere, buried in the mortar of the old city walls, the bricks of fossilized coral, the slow moving hands of the clock tower, the chipped yellow paint of so many buildings, or the flooded tunnels of the Castillo, there is some magic.

This city has a brightness, with so much yellow, orange. It makes the sun feel closer, like it could be touched only by running fingertips along those old walls of those old buildings.

Burning.

The city seers and laps steam into the Bay at midday. And when the rain comes, it comes hard, making swimming pools out of potholes, sidewalks.

In the evenings, the waning sun burns down the backs of buildings, alleyways, and turns everything golden for that small bit of time. It marks out small pathways for that dry lightning that billows to the sea every night in this season. Those white flashes casting strange shadows off the tips of roofs, down onto busy streets.

So the dusk burns down to fires in the sky and sultry struts through that old town, with vendors selling mangoes, and fried cornmeal and cheese cakes, and fresh fruit juices, beer. It vanishes to the bare bulbed delight of cabinas of book vendors and the smell of grilled meat, potatoe, the constant click of horses and carriages, and the warm tones of music always in the air.

An idle bet and I find Columbia.

san blas, translated.

I arrived to San Blas in the biggest storm. I was on a tiny boat crossing the water to that island called Diablo when the sky turned dark gray and the ocean got so angry. The waves stood up and went over the boat with so much fury. It was stunning, frightening.

I arrived drenched to the bone... papers, clothing, identity, self.

The islands of the Kuna Yala are beautiful, isolated. I could almost wrap my arms around them and carry them away. They are small, perfect, drowned into the ocean as they are. Yet, I walked around them and felt lost, after Bocas and so many people and...

The sand of Diablo was clean and white and burnt toes in the midday sun. The water was a blue that lives mostly in dreams. The sky was always clear, bright, except at noon when the rain came through, always. It hammered on the grass roofed huts and dripped dampness, down onto hammocks.

At night the leaves on the trees made the sound of raindrops and the sky blew the wind around the slats of those huts, and I dreamt of things that have passed and people I miss and...

I dreamt of speaking perfect Spanish, articulating all those things that need out, with that softness that flows the words off the tongue, loose. I dreamt of what I should have said, and I woke up wondering where to find all those words lurking around my subconsious. Words of perfect Spanish for...

I dreamt of goodbye. And missing things.

I bought a new camera in the city and I kept trying to take photos, to start the archive of experience over, but all I can remember is those pictures I took at the last goodbye, and how I wish I could get just those back.

Now.

I lost a bet and came to Columbia. Sweet Cartagena.