Courtly Cartagena

     I wrote this piece for the April 2003 issue of National Geographic Traveler.

     Never mind why I brought my surfboard to Cartagena, Colombia's jewel of a colonial seaside city—its waves, it turns out, are even more relaxed than its inhabitants.
     The point is, the board is hanging out both back windows of our taxi (my wife, Nancy, and I crouching beneath it), and our driver is about to shoot us through an opening in the fortified wall surrounding Cartagena's Old City... but I'm not sure the board will squeeze through.
     It does—phew—and we proceed, horn blaring, down alleys in the city's historic center, which is lined with a dress parade of 16th-century Spanish colonial buildings. Coconut vendors jump back, mothers shoo their kids onto sidewalks, and ice cream peddlers on bikes stop and stare at the surfboard.
     "Now this is ambiente," says Nancy, a Guatemalan who has sung the praises of Cartagena—a UNESCO World Heritage site—since we met. Technically, ambiente means ambience, but my wife uses the term to mean the ambience she prefers: hot and loud, with plenty of action. Oh, and with a beach nearby.

A narrow street in Cartagena's historic district.

Rich History
     Cartagena de Indias (its official name) sits by a bay on Colombia's Caribbean coast, founded by conquistadores in 1533 as a port for shipping gold to Spain. The convoys of gold-laden galleons soon attracted the attention of pirates and privateers, including Sir Francis Drake ("El Draque"), who attacked Cartagena in 1586 and reportedly stripped the town of ten million pesos, a giant emerald, and the cathedral bells.
     In response to this and like attacks, the Spaniards surrounded the city with walls and ramparts 50 feet thick, and had four nearly impregnable forts built, by slaves—at the time among the most formidable engineering feats in the Americas. Today, with the gold and pirates long gone, the walls protect another treasure: the city's rich trove of colonial architecture.
     I know what you're thinking: That's great, but why would one choose to vacation in conflict- Colombia? For this reason: Cartagena has traditionally been considered a place apart by Colombians, a distinction that has kept it neatly out of the political and military turmoil the country has been subject to—so much so, in fact, that it is a popular stop for U.S. cruise ships.

Cartagena Harbor

The Colonial City
     Eventually the taxi reaches our inn, Hostal Tres Banderas, a restored colonial mansion in the Old City—just the sort of sun-faded aristocratic residence that sometime Cartagena resident and Nobel Prize-winning author Gabriel García Marquez describes in his bestselling novel Love in the Time of Cholera. We pass through grand, high-ceilinged rooms to our guest room. In a Spanish-style courtyard a fountain splashes, and geraniums and bougainvillea seem to fill every spare space.
     Once we're settled in our room, with its exposed beams and pimiento-red walls, we set out to explore the Old City on foot. Walking along the narrow streets of el centro, we pass colonial mansions similar to Tres Banderas, painted in rich, saturated shades of pumpkin, indigo, scarlet, and mustard. Many have wood balconies and doors, complete with centuries-old knockers in the shapes of lions, anchors, mermaids.

Hostal Tres Banderas

Sweets and Statues
     Soon we arrive at Plaza de los Coches (Square of the Coaches), the most central of the city's plazas, with its tall, ocher-colored clock tower. Nearby lies the entrance to what was once the largest slave market in the New World; slaves were brought from Africa to, among other things, mine the precious metals the Europeans valued.
     From here we wander into the arcades of the Portal de los Dulces (Portal of Sweets), where gray-haired señoras—many descendants of slaves—sell candies made of coconut, papaya, and other tropical fruits. We buy an assortment and finish it by the time we reach the Church of San Pedro Claver, located on the plaza of the same name and built of golden coral stone.
     Dedicated to a Spanish missionary who was so intent on helping slaves that he declared himself a "slave to slaves," the church's cavelike interior is silent. We cautiously approach San Pedro's skeleton, in a glass case built into the high altar, when bells—apparently announcing the next Mass—chime out, surprising us. We then follow a staircase up to the second floor, where Nancy backs into a statue and nearly jumps out of her skin. We decide it's time for a little fresh air.

The Church of San Pedro Claver

Plaza San Diego
     For dinner that evening we walk over to Plaza San Diego, where restaurateurs promoting everything from arroz con pescado (rice with fish) to Argentine barbecue try to lure us to their tables. Choosing one, we sit under an enormous ceiba tree and sip tall glasses of mora con leche (a kind of blackberry milk shake) as three young men, two with guitars and one with maracas, sing boleros. The night is warm—about 75 degrees—and a salty breeze ruffles our hair.
     "I could sit here forever," says Nancy.
     So could I.
     But we don't: There's more to see.

Plaza San Diego

Bocagrande

     The next morning we explore Bocagrande, the newer section of town that is home to Cartagena's high-rise hotels and Internet cafés. As we walk along Avenida El Malecón, we watch families frolicking in the calm surf to the beat of merengue tunes blasting out of hundreds of CD players. Someone has even sculpted the Last Supper in sand.
     We scarf down a breakfast of beans, patacones (fried, semi-mashed plantains), and passion fruit juice in the courtyard of the 1940s-vintage Hotel Caribe, then buy two gelati at Heladería Italiana Cartagena. A man approaches us with a sketch of a Spanish galleon in Cartagena's harbor. It is obviously a copy.
     "This is original," he says in English, licking his finger and rubbing it onto the paper. “I painted it myself.”
     Since he only wants 5,000 pesos ($3), I buy it.
     When we get back to our hotel, we find our host, Manuel Rey, stretched out on a rattan rocker on the patio.
     "Time for siesta," he says.
     Good idea; we do the same.

Bocagrande:  Cartagena's modern section.

Torture and Tunnels
     We set off later that afternoon for the Palace of the Inquisition (which was about to undergo renovation), incongruously located along lovely, tree-filled Parque de Bolívar. This place is not for the squeamish: Various instruments of torture used to wrest confessions from innocent people are displayed in the dungeon, including an iron maiden, a rack, and a set of thumb screws. For gruesome narration, pay for a guide.
     Almost as dungeon-like are the tunnels we snake through in the massivc Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas, once the strongest fort in the Spanish colonies and the pride of Cartagena. The tunnels allowed soldiers to dart protected between the fort's key parts, a necessity during long sieges.

     We walk some of the passageways, wondering at the thickness of the walls, the advanced-for-its time water system, and the fort's sheer size. I could see how Spanish naval hero Don Blas de Lezo, dispatched to defend Cartagena in 1741 from an assault by 27,000 British soldiers, held them off with a mere 3,000 troops: He had this fort—and the three others.

The Palace of the Inquisition

Saying Goodbye
     On our last night in Cartagena we took a sunset carriage ride through the Old City—touristy, yes, but the best way to see the intricately carved stone doorways and bougainvillea-covered wood balconies that were built to be seen at a horse's pace. As we c1ip-clopped along streets with names like Calle del Estanco del Aguardiente (Street of the Firewater Warehouse), we could almost hear the ghosts of pirates and slaves and viceroys whispering, "Stay, stay."

     Sure...but what do we do with the surfboard? 

Let the Good Times Roll! (with Kids)

     Mardi Gras is just around the corner, and if you've never taken your kids to New Orleans, the week before Fat Tuesday is a great time to do it.  What follows is an account of a trip I took to the Big Easy with my son Andres in February 2009.

Don't be afraid to take the kids to New Orleans for Mardi Gras.

     My seven-year-old son Andres and I are standing on the streetcar tracks in the middle of St. Charles Avenue, fighting to grab our share of the beads, stuffed animals and other goodies members of the Pegasus Krewe are throwing off their floats.

     We’re obviously novices compared to the local families that line the boulevard, with kids perched on specially-constructed ladder seats, ice chests filled with food and non-alcoholic beverages, and plastic garbage bags waiting to take home the parade loot.

     You may think of Mardi Gras as a bacchanal of crazy college kids, and apparently, in some parts of the French Quarter, it is.

     But in most of New Orleans, Mardi Gras is a family affair—a G-rated event your kids will love. And if you take the family the first weekend of carnival season, you’ll get all the excitement with fewer crowds.

     So, as the Cajuns say, laissez les bon temps rouler! Let the good times roll!

Fish and the French Quarter

     Andy was asleep the night we drove into the French Quarter--ten days before Fat Tuesday--so I carried him to our room on the top floor of the Hotel Bienville, which is housed in what was once a 19th-century cotton warehouse. After I got Andy into bed, I lingered on the terrace in the humid 65-degree air, smelling the potted jasmine and admiring the view of the Missisippi and its twinkling bridges.

     The next morning, when we stepped out onto Decatur Street, Andy was surprised.

     “This is New Orleans?” he said. “It looks like Guatemala!”

     With its cracked and patched sidewalks, its narrow streets decorated with the previous night's garbage, and its French and Spanish colonial architecture, the French Quarter does have a distinctly foreign feel. And since we’d lived in Central America for a time, Andy was qualified to make the comparison.

     But the Crescent City’s imperfections are part of its charm, and soon Andy was just as interested as I was in what the Big Easy had to offer.

     After a late breakfast at the hotel buffet (which was included in our rate), we walked two blocks to the Aquarium of the Americas, where we spent two hours admiring every possible type of sea creature in exhibits highlighting the Gulf of Mexico, the Caribbean and the Mississippi River.

     Then we hurried back to the French Quarter for our early lunch reservation at Antoine's, a temple of classic Creole cuisine since 1840. As we rushed down Royal Street to the restaurant, we passed a preacher calling the city to repentance via megaphone, several twenty-somethings playing their guitars for tips, and a trio of young black men singing "Two Kinds of Love" a capella.

My Dinner (well, lunch) with Andres

      Antoine's main dining room is all white, from the walls, to the table linens, to the terrazzo floor, although the waiters wear black jackets. Our waiter’s name was Jerry, and he looked like George Hamilton—tan included.

     “What can we get for the little gentleman?” he asked, referring to my son, who was fascinated by the multiple forks and knives on the table. Andy ordered chicken fingers and pommes de terre Brabant, a Creole staple of fried, cubed potatoes that Jerry promised was similar to French fries. I ordered oysters Rockefeller (a dish Antoine’s invented in 1899), Creole gumbo, and trout amandine.

     Andy was pleased with his selections, which he proudly pronounced “just as good as Wendy’s or McDonalds."

     I wasn't a fan of the oysters--the pasty green sauce that covers them was just too pungent for me--but the trout and the gumbo could not have been better. For dessert, we split a mouthwatering portion of bread pudding with pecans.

No Rain on These Parades

     Stomachs full, we headed Uptown for the afternoon parades.

     After an hour or so, when Andy had amassed a large pile of beads, cups, and other items on the grass, a police officer turned to him and said, "We need to get you a bag!"

     He found one somewhere, and as he gave it to Andy, I asked him if I had to worry about exposing my son to anything unseemly as the parades continued.

     "Oh, no," he said, "that's only in the French Quarter--and there's not even much of it there. For the most part, Mardi Gras is family-oriented."

      Hours later, half-way through our third family-oriented parade, I was ready to call it quits. But Andy was determined to stay until the last string of beads had been thrown.

      Once that finally happened, we crossed the street to the bed and breakfast where we would spend our second night in the Big Easy.

     The Hubbard Mansion was built less than a decade ago, but it's an exact copy of a pre-Civil War Greek Revival house in Natchez, Mississippi. As we crossed its wide front porch, our host, Don Hubbard, noticed Andy’s bag of parade spoils, and I mentioned how much fun he'd had acquiring them.

     “I took my kids to the Rose Parade one year," said Don. "They said, 'Daddy, nobody’s throwing anything!'”

      We checked into our room, which was furnished with 19th-century antiques in the style of Louis XIV.  The room also had large windows overlooking St. Charles Avenue.  After devouring an entire King Cake--a Mardi Gras specialty--we took the streetcar (don't call it a trolley!) back to the French Quarter, where we walked to Jackson Square.

Jackson Square and Square Donuts

     Jackson Square, which was laid out as a miltary parade ground in 1721, became fashionable in the 1850s, when Baroness Micaela de Pontalba--the daughter of a Spanish duke--built the first apartment buildings in the United States on two of its sides.

     We sat down on a bench to admire the twin Pontalba Buildings, as well as the Saint Louis Cathedral, which dominates the third side of the square.

     Andy was itching for a buggy ride, so we climbed on board with a guide named Nick and a mule named Jackson. During the half-hour tour of the French Quarter, Nick pointed out Nicholas Cage's house, referred to Brangelina several times, and begged us not to refer to the iron structures that hang out over the sidewalks as balconies—they’re galleries!

     As the sun began to set, Nick dropped us off in front of Cafe du Monde, our next destination.

The cafe, which has been serving its signature beignets (fluffy square doughnuts) since 1862, is a New Orleans institution. But it's not for the glucose intolerant.

     "That's way too much sugar!" Andy cried when our beignets arrived, covered with more white powder than a Utah ski slope. In spite of the sugar, they didn't last long.

Cajun Plantation

     The next morning, we left the Big Easy, crossed the Mississippi River, and headed off to Assumption Parish in the heart of Cajun Country.

     Two hours later, we arrived at Madewood Plantation, a National Historic Landmark outside Napoleonville.

     Madewood is a classic Southern mansion--white, two stories, with six Ionic columns across the front.  Built around 1846 as the center of a sugar cane operation, Madewood is one of the few surviving plantation houses that accept overnight guests.

     Aside from a couple of honeymooners, we had the place to ourselves. As I wandered the parlors and inspected the dining room, Andy ran up and down the the grand stairway without a single velvet rope to stop him.

     We stayed in the second-story Mystery Lady Room, named for the anonymous subject of a portrait hanging over the fireplace. Andy found her a little spooky. The room was also furnished with two, four-poster beds, a number of antique chairs and tables, and an antique chamber pot with the warning, "Do not use."

     "As if," said Andy.

Son of a Gun, We Had Fun

     After breakfast the next morning in the grand dining room, we drove fifteen minutes to Attakapas Landing on Lake Verret. Here we met Captain Ginger Rushing and her pontoon boat for a tour of the bald cypress and tupelo gum swamps.

     We zipped across the lake and headed into the bayous--narrow fingers of slow-moving water--where Ginger, who was wearing red Converse, Levis 501s and a ski cap, pointed out bald eagles, red-tailed hawks, several types of turtles, and alligators, which were sunning themselves on fallen logs.

      As we explored a spot where hundreds of pieces of Native American pottery had washed up on shore, Andy played Indiana Jones while Ginger told me the tragicomic tale of the feud between Leroy and T-Man, two competing Cajun convenience store owners. In the end, Leroy won when T-Man died.

     Later, as we passed T-Man's former haunts--a simple wooden shack on wooden pilings--Ginger offered a sort of eulogy.

     "It was a nice place while he was alive," she said. "He had a pool table, a bar. But don't try to use the bathroom without buying anything! He didn't allow that. At least a Coke and some chips."

     On the way back to the landing, Captain Ginger let Andy drive the boat.

     As we left Napoleonville, we passed a small brick building with a hand-lettered sign that said "Dairy Inn." There was a trooper parked out front (generally a sign of good food), so we stopped for lunch.

     I ordered a shrimp po’ boy dressed—meaning covered with mayonnaise, tomatoes, pickles, onions, catsup, and I'm not sure what else. It was surprisingly good.

     Andy ordered Cajun fries.

     On our way back to New Orleans, we again crossed the Mississippi River--wide, calm, and sparkling in the afternoon sun.

     “Dad,” said Andy, surrounded by his Mardi Gras beads, “can we come back next year?"