After eleven hours of canal transit, Cartagena was our last real port day. Old stone fortresses, colonial courtyards, streets painted every color, and 32 degrees in the shade. We hired a private driver for the day.
First stop: Castillo San Felipe de Barajas. A 400-year-old Spanish fortress built on a hill to defend against pirates. Tunnels running through it in every direction, walls thick enough to stop cannonballs.
Next: Convento de la Popa, the highest point in the city. A monastery from 1607 sitting on top of a 150-meter hill. The courtyard inside is full of bougainvillea and colonial arches, and the terrace looks out over the entire coastline.
Then we drove down into the Old City. Narrow streets, massive wooden doors with iron studs, walls in turquoise and yellow and coral. Every corner looked like a postcard someone had over-saturated, except it actually looks like that.
We stopped at a park on the way back. And there, among the trees, were macaws. Bright red, blue, yellow. Giant beaks. Massive wingspan. Colorful and winged.
Like me.
I liked them. They had good energy. Wings used for looking incredible. We understood each other.
That evening was New Year’s Eve. Which meant another formal night. Nicholas broke out the tuxedo. I wore my suit again. We looked sharp.
We counted down at midnight somewhere in the Caribbean Sea. Another year. Another set of adventures logged.
A few sea days later, we pulled into Fort Lauderdale. Sun, palm trees, flat ground that doesn’t move. Strange sensation after two weeks.
I got a custom suit, a canal crossing, and a friend who was a macaw. Not a bad way to end the year.
Now if someone could explain to Nicholas that cruises count as vacations and not floating offices, we’d really be getting somewhere.