Unfamiliar Magic

Lights twinkled invitingly and our weary eyes were dazzled by the modern nightlife teeming from the aged colonial architecutre of the Old Towne. We were underdressed in our worn traveller's clothing; starstruck, as it were. As we aimlessly wandered the crowded, cobbled streets, we were drawn to a small square where time seemed to tick with more ease. With plentiful benches and lush, green vegetation, this place was a haven with its sparkling fountains as if from a dream. In the center of the symmetric garden was a bronze statue of Bolivar, northwestern South America's hero. Plaza de Bolivar was a sanctuary even within walled in streets of Old Cartagena. The ancient, twisted trees were strung with strands of lighted orbs. We slumped onto one of the benches, mesmerized by what lay immediately around us. Quieter than the hopping bars and restaurants with an eclectic mix of pop and traditioinal Latin American music, a guitarrist was strummed mindlessly in one corner and the fountains murmured faintly behind him. Children sqealed with delight; two men had prepared bowls of a soap solution and a special stick and string so oversized bubbles could be blown. The bubbles rose up overhead, vanishing into the starry night, or bursting on Bolivar's bronze stead. People chatted, but reverently, respecting the magic of this place. We bought ice cream from a vender who passed by and guzzled up the tepid night for hours. We experienced a myriad of wonders as we spent the next five days exploring the rest of the active city. But, night after night, before turning in, we found ourselves strangely drawn back to the plaza. We would travel from across the city just to pass the nights away wordless there. We were hopelessly enchanted by the vibrance of that square, cast and protected by Bolivar.