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.