In the crisp morning air, I found myself wandering through the labyrinthine alleys of the historic district. The cobblestone streets whispered stories of old, as I made my way to about four or five banks scattered throughout the area.
The first was Bancolombia, a grand dame of finance with its imposing Greek-style entrance. But today, it stood guarded by iron railings, with only a small door ajar on the far left, where a vigilant police officer kept watch. He shook his head firmly and gestured toward the next destination.
Onward I went, scanning for another “banco.” Stepping inside one, I was directed across the street, but alas, that banco also met my request with a regretful shake of the head.
The fourth bank was tucked away in an office building, accessible through a side entrance. A lively crowd had gathered there, forming a patient line. Nearby, a local man with striking metal ear piercings leaned casually against a guide screen, deep in conversation with an older gentleman. After some time, he broke off and beckoned a stunning young woman over. “Uh… no, English? Soso,” she said apologetically, waving her hand and pointing me across the road.
The fifth bank loomed ahead, a green-themed titan with circular windows like a futuristic vision. Approaching a banker in a sleek suit, I was relieved to find he spoke a smattering of English. Displaying the words “I want to exchange currency” on my phone screen, I explained my mission. With polite precision, he informed me, “Not this office,” and directed me to Western Union instead.
With renewed determination, I set off once more, tracing a winding route near the famed Gold Museum. Along the way, vibrant stalls overflowed with colorful fruits and hand-knitted goods, their hues dancing in the sunlight. Armed police officers patrolled the area in a loose formation, while tantalizing smoke rose from a bustling sausage cart in the middle of the road.
It was at this moment that frustration bubbled over. Lost in thought, I continued walking and somehow ended up on the backside of a street I’d passed three times before. There, to my delight, signs advertising currency exchange greeted me from every corner. At the edge of the street, nestled unassumingly, was a tiny Western Union shop.
As I queued against the sun-warmed wall, the Latin American sun bathed me in its golden glow, casting light on the still-unripe fruits of spring. The humid air mingled with the scent of gasoline, and my stomach growled loudly with hunger. To my dismay, Western Union announced they’d reached their daily limit for US dollars and could no longer assist.
Undeterred, I stormed into the neighboring establishment and exchanged my money there with fervor.
One US dollar equaled over 4000 pesos—a staggering amount that left me both relieved and astonished.
