As the plane touched down at El Dorado International Airport in Bogotá, the Andes outside my window were cloaked in a soft mantle of morning mist. The high-altitude capital, perched at 2,640 meters, welcomed me with a crisp 15-degree Celsius breeze—a world apart from the fiery, spice-laden image I’d conjured of South America.
Wandering through the cobblestone streets of La Candelaria, the old town’s colonial facades stood as silent witnesses to centuries of history. Around Bolívar Square, the grandeur of the neoclassical Bogotá Cathedral meets the sleek lines of the modern Palace of Justice. In 1993, this city was one of the most dangerous on Earth, yet today it cradles treasures like the Gold Museum, where the pre-Columbian gold raft—a miniature version of the legendary “El Dorado”—invites quiet contemplation of a bygone era.
From Santo Domingo station, the cable car ascends to the mountaintop, revealing Medellín sprawled below in all its glory. Once the epicenter of Pablo Escobar’s drug empire, this “City of Eternal Spring” now enchants global travelers with its vibrant charm. In Comuna 13, a neighborhood once synonymous with violence, colorful murals transform the walls into an open-air art gallery, each stroke telling stories of resilience and rebirth.
As night fell, locals gathered around Fernando Botero’s iconic “fat” sculptures in Botero Plaza, their exaggerated forms casting playful shadows that seemed to poke fun at life’s weightiness.
Over the Caribbean Sea, the plane soared above the kaleidoscopic waters of the San Andrés Islands, leaving me breathless. Yet even more mesmerizing was Cartagena’s Old Town, a living relic encased within thirteen kilometers of weathered walls. Like a forgotten fairy tale, its streets brimmed with magic.
In Getsemaní’s Trinidad Square, African drumbeats merged with Spanish guitars, while Palenquera dancers swirled in puffy skirts, embodying the city’s rich cultural tapestry. García Márquez’s words echoed in my mind: “More magical than fiction.” Here, history doesn’t fade—it simply dons brighter clothes and keeps dancing.
On the serpentine mountain road from Armenia to Salento, our jeep navigated through lush coffee plantations, shrouded in the ethereal mist of the Andes. Towering wax palm trees, ancient giants whose trunks once provided material for phonograph records, stretched skyward like nature’s own cathedral spires.
At dusk in Cocora Valley, the setting sun bathed the palm forest in golden light. As we rode through what is said to be the tallest palm forest in South America, small creatures darted across the path, their movements unhurried, almost meditative.
In Tayrona National Park, the layered hues of turquoise and emerald in the Caribbean Sea dazzled the eye. After a two-hour trek, the hammocks strung along Cabo San Juan beach became the perfect vantage point. With waves lapping gently against the roots of the palms, I understood why the Tayrona people revered this place as sacred.
Before departing, I found myself swept up in the exuberant “Battle of Flowers” parade during the Barranquilla Carnival. Dancers clad in feathered regalia, colossal floats, and the thunderous rhythm of cumbia music transformed the entire city into a living canvas of color and joy.
In a land that has weathered the storms of countless wars, each day of peace feels like a gift worth cherishing. From the vibrant museums of Bogotá to the remote tribes nestled deep within the Amazon, from the awe-inspiring underground sanctuary of the Salt Cathedral to the enigmatic stone giants of San Agustín, Colombia revealed to me the power of transforming pain into art and history into something as rich and timeless as a fine wine.
I reached for my notebook, its pages guarding a dried Cattleya—the very flower that symbolizes this nation. It served as a gentle reminder: Colombia is much like its coffee—its first sip may carry a bold bitterness, but it leaves behind a sweet, lingering aftertaste that stays with you long after the cup is empty.
