2025 Sailing Trip - A Morning Swim, Afternoon Cocktails, and Magical Evening at Holmes Mansion

At 2am Ana and I trade places – she cozies into the v-berth and I begin my shift in the cockpit. She has kindly left me a lovely, glass lake with not a breath of wind as SeaLight motors up the middle of Lake Ontario. For the next hours I watch for boats (just one freighter), contemplate life, drink decaffeinated hot beverages, and watch a movie on the laptop. It is the best possible kind of overnight passage – uneventful.

By 6am the north-east wind has picked up, blowing directly at us, and it powers up quickly to sustained levels around 20 knots – much stronger than forecast, but nothing SeaLight can’t handle. The waves build quickly to about a metre, which slows our progress as we crash into the big ones, stalling the boat. Ana joins me in the cockpit as it’s getting too bouncy in the v-berth and she naps a bit while I keep watch. Then she takes watch while I have myself a cockpit nap.

By late morning we have turned north past Prince Edward County and find calmer waters as the winds slacken. I’ve kept myself busy changing out water hoses in two of the heads while Ana’s kept watch, getting sweaty and gross in the process. It’s time for the morning lake bath so we cut the engine and glide to a stop then jump in the water for a very refreshing dip, shaking out the cobwebs and rinsing off the rig. But we don’t linger long as we have dinner plans and still many miles to go.

We reach Portsmouth marina in Kingston mid-afternoon and stop for a diesel fill. The trip across the lake with full motor and no sailing consumed 95 litres of fuel, which is nearly a gallon per hour, quite a bit higher than our usual average of .85 gallons per hour. I will have to keep an eye on that.

SeaLight pulls into the dock of Holmes Mansion at precisely 5pm, clocking a journey time of 26.5 hours from end to end of Lake Ontario. Our friends Andrew and Victoria are there to catch our lines. It is lovely to see them again, and after a quick swim off their dock we set up in loungers for a happy hour drink. We catch them up on our news, they catch us up on theirs, then we just talk about silly things and get so busy we make ourselves late for happy hour on the house deck! We hustle ourselves up to the house, mix up rum and cokes, then settle in on the comfy chairs and look down on the yard, beach, massive boathouse, concrete jetty dock, the expansive estate, and the million dollar view over the pristine Bateau Channel. The conversation turns to finance.

“You know, I’m doing pretty good, making decent money,” says Andrew as he spoons some beluga caviar on his bellini, then passes out some premium Dominican robusto cigars and snifters of French brandy. “But like, where the hell does it all go? I can’t figure it out.”

I look at Ana. She looks at me. We both look at Andrew. I then attempt a sage-like response.

“Mister Holmes. See that high class deck lounger you are sitting in? I want you to do a slow 360 degree rotation and have a good look around. Therein, you will find your answer.”

“Hmmmm, yes, I see what you mean. Anyway, more caviar?”

Out of nowhere (ahh...that's where Victoria has been.) comes a gourmet dinner of rib eye steak, salmon, asparagus, salads, and focaccia bread and we enjoy it slowly, very slowly as we continue our conversations, never finding cause to pause. We learn we have been invited for Sunday Funday tomorrow with their friends Adrian and Sarah, whom we also know, and most recently met up with them for dinner in Charleston, South Carolina during our trip last year. Then again with just Adrian a couple nights later for a real blinder, which took several days to recover from.

After dinner we make a bold move back out to the deck, but with the propane fireplace now activated, providing a mesmerizing show of insect incineration as the seductive flame draws them in and vaporizes them instantly. From his phone Andrew actives the forest lighting, boathouse lighting, and dock lighting and it is a scene of the utmost beauty, but is soon interrupted by the explosions of a US bombing campaign over Kingston. Upon further investigation we realize it is just neighbourhood folks setting off fireworks, but we’re so enclosed by trees and the Holmes Mansion that we can’t see any of the light explosions.

As the evening proceeds, whatever stamina we had left drains away and we call it a night. We walk back to SeaLight, happy to be here with our friends, happy to have the first and longest leg of the trip completed, and looking forward to a lengthy and restful sleep.

2026 Sailing Trip - A Trip Across the Lake

We reverse out of our slip at Newport Yacht Club at precisely 2:30pm on Friday, July 10, 2026. I motor SeaLight down the channel backwards until I reach the green marker buoy then turn sharply to swing the bow through 150 degrees of rotation and get us pointed towards the harbour exit.

Then, we are on Lake Ontario.

The thoughts that routinely circulate in a clockwise direction in my mind – work problems, things to fix in the house and yard, maintenance tasks on the vehicles, dinner planning, exercise planning, banking reconciliations, and that damn Extreme song that plays on infinite repeat in my brain like a busted jukebox - dissolve like instant coffee in boiling water, and I am left with contemplating only the present. The soothing hum of the diesel engine. The slight chop on the water. The warm breeze on my face. My smiling wife.

It is a nice day to be on the lake. It is a nice day to be alive.

Nearly five months have passed since I wrote for pleasure, a long gap for me. My morning writing ritual has been completely replaced by a new hobby – learning Portuguese. Ana and I will be returning to the Azores in October and I’ve decided it’s long past time to muscle in on that language and draw strings between the hundreds of words I have learned over the many years of being part of a Portuguese family. I want to be able to hold up a conversation with Ana’s crazy cousins, aunts, and uncles, as well as the few non-crazy ones. No, we won’t be talking politics or religion or medical procedures, but I do hope to be able to ask somebody to pass me another cupcake or direct me towards the nearest water closet.

We pass a few sailboats and powerboats near the coastline, and see a freighter or two in the distance, but the lake is quiet as we cut through the waters, heading at 85 degrees towards the far end of the lake. Ana puts on a bathing suit and takes a cockpit cushion and pillow and a book out to the front deck of the boat. I join her and we relax and read as the autopilot assumes steering duties.

“I don’t think we ever did this, even once, the entire time we sailed to the Bahamas,” Ana says as she leans over and kisses my cheek.”

“We did sit on the deck, but never with the cushions, and rarely so relaxed.”

“Why?”

“Too salty for cushions,” I reply. “And little time to relax when navigating new waters every day.”

“Well, this is lovely,” Ana says, then rolls onto her back to continue reading her steamy Heated Rivalry novel.

It is a nice day to be on the lake. It is a nice day to be alive.

By the time we’ve had dinner and cleaned up it is already 9:30pm and we’ve been tricked into thinking it much earlier because of the lengthy days. We are now into US waters and there are no longer any boats within sight. We watch half a show on the laptop in the cockpit then I head down for some sleep as Ana takes the first watch of the evening.

Our planned destination is Kingston, Ontario, still nearly 20 hours to the east.

Cartagena, Colombia - Saying Goodbye to the Tropics

Saturday had arrived and it was time to go home.

Our server at dinner last night told us the temperature rocketed up into the 40's in Cartagena in July. I simply found that impossible to believe. So this morning I had a look at the climate profile for this city and found that the daily highs and lows barely change throughout the year: daily highs between 31 and 32 and daily lows between 24 and 26. The only difference is there's some precipitation throughout the summer months and barely any the rest of the time. In fact, between December and March you can expect at most a day or two of rain. I suppose Canadian seasons have their charms, but consistently clear and hot days in a magical city was welcome in February.

This trip has been an eye-opener for Ana and I. We've realized our lived experience with Latin America is now over 25 years old, and based on our time in Colombia, it seems likely that many of the truths we hold about these places have changed, probably for the better. All the parts we loved about these countries were brightly reflected in Cartagena - the kind and gentle people, the music, the weather, the fun language, but above all the raw joy and unbridled enthusiasm for life, no matter what sort of life one has. The parts we did not like - the crime, the dirtiness, the chaotic streets, the unreliable power infrastructure and government systems - well, Cartagena leads us to believe those have improved. This trip has reignited our interest in Latin America and I expect we will make more visits to this part of the world soon.

Our trip home went perfectly - our airport transfer was on time, flight was on time, and Canadian immigration was quick, despite being pulled into secondary screening with the question "Why would you go to Colombia?"

What was our answer?

 "Why not? And you should go too."

Cartagena, Colombia - Cartagena Has Great Knockers

There’s no denying it – the knockers in Cartagena are spectacular.

When it comes to variety, shapeliness, size, and beauty, no other knockers compare to Cartagena knockers. There are knockers everywhere, practically everywhere you look, and it’s hard to take your eyes off them. Knockers here are displayed with pride and range greatly in size. The smaller ones are cute, shapely, and perfectly functional. The larger ones – and there are some very weighty and grand ones here in Cartagena – can be more difficult to manage but handling them is immensely pleasurable. Some knockers are so large you need to use both hands.

Knockers here vary in age. The newer ones are beautiful, almost sassy in their appearance, and are a pleasure to operate. Many of the older ones seem to have suffered a bit from either overuse or neglect and can be a little finicky, but remain majestic and impressive. I’ve noticed some knockers seem to have been rebuilt with different materials, and in some cases even made larger, providing a noticeably different look and feel. The owners of these seem to be consistently pleased with their knockers as they showcase them with pride. There’s no doubt there are many experts in Cartagena in knocker reconstruction.

I think some tourists come here specifically for the knockers. I saw one man on a busy street walking right up and touching all the knockers he saw, in some cases aggravating the owners. I didn’t touch any myself, but I took a lot of photos of them, and had Ana take some of me standing beside the most impressive knockers, smiling like a crazy man. I can’t wait to show all these knocker photos to my friends back home.

For our last full day in Cartagena we did much of the same – had a slow, leisurely breakfast at the hotel, walked over to Juan Valdez for a slow, leisurely coffee, retuned to the hotel for a slow, leisurely swim in the pool, then walked to the end of the peninsula to El Laguito beach and had a slow, leisurely lunch and drinks at the Punta Las Velas beachfront restaurant. The beach was full of people up to all sorts of tomfoolery. A young beach entrepreneur was hired by the family patron to rub what looked like cooking oil over the ladies. They really enjoyed it and he was quite daring in the application of the oil. An older man beneath a ratty blue beach umbrella whipped off his shorts and bent over to give us a great view of his dangling beauties, then fortunately put on some swimmers. A vallenato (accordion-driven Colombian folk music) band appeared out of nowhere and gave a private performance to a family a bit further up the beach. Little kids were running around, chasing each other. Vendors walked the beach with platters of freshly caught fish and when somebody bought one, they would rush it back to a hidden kitchen then reappear a while later with the whole cooked fish and sides on a foam plate. Lunchers would then toss the still-meaty fish heads from their meals to the troupes of seagulls who would attack it (and each other) until there was nothing left. It was a lot of fun.

Late in the afternoon we Uber’d into the city and visited the sloths again in Centenario Park. The smaller one was up in the trees, slowly ascending then descending, stopping periodically to munch on bunches of juicy leaves. We couldn’t spot the larger one.

It was Friday night in the city and the place was exploding with activity, even busier than when we were here Tuesday. We strolled the Getsemani neighbourhood, admiring the artwork, the beautiful people, flashy evening revelers, the incredible lighting, the scenes in peoples’ living rooms, doors wide open, diners in cool restaurants, drinkers in boutique lounges, a team of breakdancers who’d set up in the middle of an intersection, doing egg  beaters and headspins, popping and snapping, and who’d clear out momentarily when traffic built up too much and the blasting car horns became unbearable. We passed so many food carts, cooking up arepas, cheeseburgers, sausages, ham and cheese buns, and skewers of grilled meats. The smells were delicious, food mouthwatering, and the city’s sonic orchestra of music, conversations, laughter, motorcycle engines, and singing rang out, decorating the air.

Our dinner reservation was for 7 and we arrived right on time. The restaurant Sierpe was empty, but within an hour it was jammed. Our server was efficient and friendly and the food was incredible. We started with a shared crab dip, which was bright yellow, loaded with crab fibres, other seafood, and a thin veneer of faintly scorched cheese. I had a fish filet, which was ridden by snails, mollusks, onions, and shrimp, bathed in a yellow sauce creating a delectable slurry of flavour, and accompanied by coconut rice and mixed greens. Ana had the cutest mini crab sliders. At one point our server came by, pointed to Ana’s meal, smiling and blasted out a rapid set of unusual words -  Bob Esponja Pantalones Cuadrados. Ana and I looked at each other in pure confusion as we didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. But he didn’t give up. Instead he pulled out his phone, hammered in some words, then showed us an image of SpongBob Squarepants. Ana’s meal was crabby patties! And they were damn good.

Our plan to go partying in Getsemani and hit some of the fantastic bars we’d passed and voyage late into our final night was flummoxed by all the delicious food being processed internally and instead we sauntered back to the park and plopped down on a bench to absorb these last moments in the tropics.

Cartagena, Colombia - How to Spot A Colombian

It’s been a little tough figuring out who’s Colombian here and who’s a Latino tourist. The Colombians don’t have an easily distinguishable accent or a unique phrase they use like, for instance, the Dominicans who say “Como tu ta?” or the Costa Ricans who say “Pura vida!” or the Puerto Ricans who can “Que chevere!” or the Mexians who say “Que onda?” or the Cubans who say a bunch of stuff but you can barely understand any of it because they speak so fast and chop off half their words. Maybe there are some specific Colombian linguistic traits and we just haven’t been here long enough to identify them. But, in any case, I can only assume most of the vendors and workers we see are Colombian. Based on that, I have identified a few Colombian-specific traits, and not just with people, but with the way things look and are done around here.

First, they keep things clean. Every morning there’s an army of dudes in Slipknot jumpsuits with brooms sweeping shit up. You just never see that in other Latin American countries. The streets are dirty as hell and they don’t even notice it. Today we even saw a kid with a leaf blower in the Bolivar Plaza who was blowing leaves and food wrappers and dirt into the waiting dustbins of the Slipknot jumpsuit crew who scooped it up and put it into garbage bags. Oh, and speaking of that, there’s actual public garbage cans around to put your trash in. In most other Latino countries you just throw it on the ground or, preferably, in a stream or river that will wash it down to the nearest processing facility (I assume).

Second, they are really slow walkers. I don’t know how many times this trip we got stuck behind a few locals walking on the skinny sidewalk, blocking the whole thing, chatting to each other and moving at a sloth’s pace. A sick sloth. Some, even as slow as a fully dead sloth.

Third, and this applies to the dudes only, but they really like to pick their balls. They get right in there and swirl things around then pluck away at their jeans or jumpsuits or dress pants or whatever they are wearing and whatever social class they are in. I’ve got no problem at all with the occasional package adjustment, it’s just that here they do it right in the open, beside food carts, in line at the grocery store, at the medical clinic (might be a reason for it in that case), but really I guess they just like their junk lining up properly, or are just trying to remedy the incessant sack stick that’s so common in these viciously hot countries.

Lastly, the vendors here are fucking annoying. Every morning we step out of the hotel and the exact same lady asks us if we want to buy a tourist package to the Rosario Islands. Every day we politely say no. She takes a couple more swings at us then gives up. We walk twenty steps to the traffic light and there’s another guy there with the exact same laminated plastic sheet with island pics trying to sell us a tourist package to the Rosario Islands. We politely say no then cross the street, then there’s another person there who has the exact same laminated plastic sheet who tries to sell us a tourist package to the Rosario Islands. This goes on all day, everywhere we go, and it’s usually tourist packages to the Rosario Islands, but also city tours, packets of fresh fruit, bracelets, fridge magnets, cocaine, sunset cruises, watches, sunglasses, purses, restaurants specials. But you know what’s even worse than being harassed by street vendors all day? Being poor in an expensive city and trying to provide for your family.

In any case, Ana and I really feel comfortable here. We love the culture, the people, the food, the weather, the music. We’ve spent a lot of time in Latin America over the years, living in a number of Spanish speaking countries and visiting many others. Despite not speaking Spanish very often, it comes back incredibly fast for Ana (slower for me), but within a couple days we’re having pretty decent conversations with people. Of course, when Ana and I debrief after a particularly intense conversation with a local it usually turns out that I didn’t have a goddamn clue what was discussed, despite thinking I did. I blame it on my mono-lingual Saskatchewanese roots. Anyway, during this trip a renewed interest has been stirred in my soul and I feel like we could spend more time in this part of the world, despite previously thinking we’d seen enough of Latin America. We have not.

After a slow morning, our big goal was to find a great cup of coffee. The coffee in all the local cafés and restaurants has been bunk. Ana tried Starbucks yesterday and the coffee was rank there too. Remember the other day how I was picking on Juan Valdez and his dumb ass mule? Well, there is a chain of coffee shops here called Juan Valdez so we decided to give it a try. We went to one in the old city. The coffee was excellent. I had an Americano and Ana had a café latte. Of course, it cost about eleven bucks, but I suppose that’s what you have to pay for a decent cuppa, even in Colombia.

We walked the old city, up one street, down another, up a different one, back down another. We walked to the city wall, ascended a ramp, then walked the ramparts for a while, and along the way a young vendor latched onto us and began an unsolicited city tour, showing us Shakira’s house then a home of Pablo Escobar expropriated by the state then told us all about the cocaine situation in the country, then when we tried to vamos he whipped out his inventory of bracelets. I did the chivalrous thing and pushed Ana towards him while I went over to urgently inspect the rock wall. After identifying one bracelet she disliked the least, he demanded she buy it for 70,000 in lieu of paying for the free city tour. The faster she walked away, the faster the price dropped. Finally she gave him 15,000 to go away, so she got a bracelet for about five bucks which will make a fine gift for Stella.

Around this time, we came across Mr. Cigar - a cigar shop. Ana left me there with the shopkeeper/mansitter while she went shopping for half an hour. It was glorious. I smoked a local Colombian cigar and drank a Club Colombia beer, by myself, indoors, on a comfy couch, accompanied by a fine jazz playlist, surrounded by original artworks. This doesn’t normally happen to me on Thursdays in February.

We found our way back to Bolivar park and beneath the shade of the palms had a pre-planned fruit lunch which we had brought from our hotel room inventory – apples, plums, bananas, and a couple of granola bars. Next up was the free Museum of Gold, right across from the park, and it was total crap, but the AC was phenomenal so we stayed there for a bit.

By now we were sweaty, tired, and thinking of the hotel pool, but there was still time to buy a fake Rolex so I left Ana to do battle with a street vendor (strategically located directly across from the street from the real Rolex store) and I walked around for a while. I know from previous experience that it takes Ana exactly 27 minutes to try on enough watches to narrow it down to one or two, do some negotiating, decide on one, then have the vendor add or remove the required number of links. I also know from previous experience not to ask how many watches one needs (the answer is one, or none these days with a smartphone in every pocket), because that’s the wrong question to ask. The right question to ask is, “At that price, do you think you should pick up another one?”

As the end of our trip approaches, we’ve pretty much abandoned the long hot walk between our hotel in Bocagrande and the city centre in lieu of Uber rides that cost between three and five bucks. Of course, the cost isn’t the issue, it’s the exercise, but we’re doing plenty of walking once we get to the city so we’re okay with that.

The hotel pool had a real vibe going on today. There were many more people than usual and everybody was having a good time. We relaxed on the loungers, had cold beers, floated in the pool for a while, discussed the trip (and future trips), then eventually returned to the room to relax before going out for late dinner at a restaurant down the street. I had the most amazing seafood stew, with fresh mussels, clams, octopus, fish, shrimp, and other sea treats in the thick yellowy broth, while Ana had grilled chicken and we shared the accompanying green salad, coconut rice, and plantain. I hadn’t even seen a hot dog for several days so the culinary situation had improved significantly.

Cartagena, Colombia - Sloths, Monkeys, and Scary Tunnels

The urgent winds of yesterday had snuffed themselves out and today’s faint breeze did little to mask the inescapable heat. It was hot…damn hot. We’ve been averaging about 12 kilometres per day walking, but those kilometres today did not come easy.

After a leisurely breakfast we walked into the city centre and headed straight for the Centenario Park in search of animal life. The park was indeed open to the public today and it did not take us long to find a gaggle of tourists looking up into canopy. Two sloths creeped along the bamboo branches; one bigger, one smaller. We waited there for quite some time and surprisingly the smaller one made its way right down to the ground and nestled herself in the base of the bamboo, maybe having a poo? She didn’t seem too bothered by all the tourists taking photos of her, but then again it’s hard to tell with sloths as their faces don’t give much away and they don't seem capable of being in a nervous hurry. The larger one stayed high in the trees and at one point was hanging upside down while he scratched his head and armpits and fluffed up his hair. They certainly are beautiful creatures.

We found a couple of small monkeys in the park but were unable to spot any of the iguanas who also live there, but were probably high up in the trees. We remained there for some time enjoying the shade and reluctantly left to walk to our next destination – THE MALL – where Ana was hoping to pick up some new shorts.

Not being an enthusiastic mall rat, I instead opted for a comfy chair and sat pleasantly comatose while Ana browsed the stores. I was still very surprised at the scarcity of American and Canadian tourists, maybe because there is so little English spoken here, even from people in the tourism and service industries. I’ve been hearing English speakers maybe once per day. During our walk today we saw a skinny, older dude wearing a Chang beer singlet, tagged with a little Canadian pin. A couple of days ago in the Getsamani neighbourhood we saw a short, loud, middle-aged American dude with bulging biceps and skinny legs trailed by his partner, a Brazilian lady, heavily modified with facial leveling/plumping and these balloon butt implants that drew passing eyeballs like super magnets. We’ve seen a few backpackers, all speaking Spanish. Haven’t noticed a single German, Cloggie, Brit or Dane, which is highly unusual. It’s all Latinos here, and better for it.

Ana came away empty handed as she couldn’t find anything she liked and didn’t feel the need to spend a hundred bucks on clothes she didn’t love. She reported the clothing prices were astronomical, like jeans for $250 or basic t-shirts for $50. Fortunately, the food court places were reasonable and Ana picked up a Big Mac combo while I went for a Colombian bowl that had rice, guacamole, shreds of pork, tomatoes, beans, plantains and other unrecognizable additions. It was good.

We stepped out into the heat and walked a short distance to the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas, a Spanish fort whose construction began in 1536 and was expanded over the following hundred years throughout constant attack and sieges by the British, French, and enterprising pirates. We nearly melted like Wicked Witches of the West as we climbed the steep hills to the top, exposed to the sun the entire way. Views from the castle were stunning but the biggest surprise were the tunnels. We entered in multiple spots through stairways which led to a network of deep underground tunnels. One in particular was fairly steep and maybe only five feet high and we continued down and down the claustrophobic tube until water started pooling on the ground then got a little freaked out as this was an ideal scene for a horror movie.

We called up an Uber and were soon back in the air conditioned bliss of our hotel room and didn’t leave for the rest of the night.

Cartagena, Colombia - Sweaty and Ready

Cartagena at night was an explosion of light, people, colour, and music. I was dumbstruck as I absorbed the Tuesday evening scene playing out around us – vendor food carts with the smell of charcoal grilled meats penetrating the air and drawing customers, a massive yacht full of tourists, with a helicopter on top for rides, palm tree trunks wound with thousands of brilliant lights in Centenario Park, teenage soldiers in camo carrying automatic weapons, standing near military trucks, trying to remain serious while swaying to the music, a stage in the distance with a band sweating through salsa tunes to a gyrating crowd, DJ spins and flashing lights bursting skyward from three rooftop clubs within the old city walls, thousands of people, young and old, tall and short, tourists and locals, a dizzying array of complexions, features, fashions, and Spanish accents, the faint smell of ocean air penetrated by lady perfumes, manly scents, and food smoke. Everything was going on. Everything was moving. Nothing was dormant. There was joy in the streets.

We met our new friends Surbhi and Jitu at a restaurant called Mexitixa, impossible to pronounce, but easy to find. It was Bife de Caballo for Ana and a Tomahawk Pork for me as we enjoyed a four piece band and two flashy dancers chucking down moves. It was lively and loud and we had to holler at our friends across the table. Post-dinner activities found us strolling through the Getsamani neighbourhood with its magical lighting and hordes of partygoers, artists, and revelers. We had drinks on a three-level rooftop with a salsa band in one corner, DJ in another, and recorded music blaring from another creating an indecipherable yet somehow enjoyable Colombian jambalaya of sound.

This is not what I expected for a Tuesday night.

Leading up to our evening escapades was a slow day. I went for a morning ocean swim on the far south end of the peninsula which was mostly blocked from the steady and strong 40 kph west winds whipping the hotel coastline into a foamy latte. The swim was brief and enjoyable, but at 7am there were already vendors pestering me during the walk – Mama Rosa the beach masseuse, food cart vendors, coffee vendors, old men offering sheets of authentic Cartagena fridge magnets, men and women trying to sell me a day trip to Isla Rosario for the hundredth time, taxis offering rides. An enterprising bunch trying to make their way in a difficult world.

We more fully explored our local area, wandering into residential neighbourhoods and one scruffy beach on the east side of the peninsula full of local dudes that set off Ana’s spidey senses so we turned around and retraced our steps. Ana visited shops, malls, and galleries but found nothing of interest besides respite from the heat, which was kept manageable by the strong winds. We found a rental car place and after a lovely chat with the owners booked a car for tomorrow for a solo trip to Playa Blanca, 90 minutes south of Cartagena. We had coffee at an Authentic Colombian Café which held great promise. I drink coffee rarely, saving such episodes for special places and moments when I can fully enjoy and indulge. Well, the Americano sucked. It was awful. We theorized that the good Columbian coffee beans were universally exported and Juan Valdez and his dumb ass donkey are national traitors.

With supplies from the grocery store we had a backpacker lunch in the room – tuna sandwich, local sweet plums, bananas. It was delicious. From here we visited the pool and discovered that the February sun only creeps into the lounger chair area around 3pm, but the powerful rays needs little time to make mincemeat of tender Canadian skin, so an hour of that was more than sufficient.

When it was time to leave for our dinner date we called up an Uber. Though we thoroughly enjoy walking, taxis and Ubers are very cheap here, and a 45 minute walk through late afternoon heat in our dining and dancing clothes seemed ill advised. Nevertheless, after traveling a quarter of the way there in crushing and confused traffic, which came to a complete standstill, we abandoned our driver and walked the rest of the way. We theorized that the International Conference on Agrarian Reform and Rural Development (ICAARD) which had brought thousands of delegates into Cartagena for a four day jamboree, was causing this psychotic mess of congestion, and we began to reconsider the next day’s plan for a car rental, which would force us to struggle through the city at both rush hours.

After 45 minutes, we arrived in the city centre, sweaty and ready.