Friday, March 10, 2023 – Boston to Cartagena (Author: J)
I booked our JetBlue flight to Cartagena about a year in advance. Our trouble with the flight began almost immediately. In the months between our booking date and our departing flight, JetBlue changed our flight schedule multiple times. Each change whittled down our layover in New York. About 3 months out, I noticed that our layover in JFK was less than an hour. Fortunately, there was an earlier Boston to JFK flight available. Unfortunately, it was at 5:30 a.m.
We were less lucky with our flight home. Our layover at JFK was shortened to 90 minutes; I was leery but accepted the change because we did not have other options. JetBlue had no other flights from Cartagena and flights on other airlines had doubled in price in the months since we booked. A few weeks after accepting the change, we received a notice from JetBlue that our tickets for the connecting flight to Boston had been cancelled because the layover was too short. According to the agent with whom I spoke, our only options were to cancel and receive a credit or sleep in the airport overnight and fly home at 7 a.m. the next morning. (The rationale was that I had used travel vouchers to pay for half the cost of our flight. JetBlue had presciently applied the vouchers to the leg of the flight they had booted us from and so were – in their view – entitled to keep the cash we had paid for the second half of the flight cost).
As a result of all this flight shuffling, our travel day began at 2:15 a.m. By 2:45 a.m., we were in the back seat of an Uber headed for Logan Airport. This was my first time prebooking an Uber for a flight. It’s something I have been wary of because it often takes 20 minutes or more for an Uber driver to agree to schlep out to our suburban home. That meant that if anything went wrong with our prebooked car, we would not have a great backup option. It turned out that there was no reason to worry. Our Uber driver was on time and there was no traffic. As a result, we arrived at the airport so early that security was not even open.
Security opened sometime between 3:30 and 4 a.m. The line moved quickly and we were at our gate with plenty of time to spare. Our flight boarded on time and we were soon on our way to New York. It was an uneventful flight, punctuated by the soothing sounds of hacking children. So. Many. Sick. Children. On a plane! I guess the era of staying at home when you are sick is officially over.
Our early flight meant a long layover, so we decided to have a sit-down breakfast at JFK. We picked the first restaurant with open tables and asked to be seated. The host/server led us to a booth that was already filled with other travelers’ suitcases. I asked if we could sit elsewhere, a request that was apparently problematic. We were shown to a new table, this one surrounded by boxes of condiments. And then we waited. 25 minutes passed without anyone coming to take our order. Eventually, the bartender came over to check on us. He then found the host/server and asked him to take our order. “Not right now,” came the response.
At this point, we moseyed a few feet to another one of JFK’s fine breakfast establishments. They seated us and someone actually took our order. What we learned from these events is that every sit-down restaurant in JFK terminal 5 serves the exact same menu. You are therefore advised to make your restaurant choice based upon how well staffed each location appears to be. D and I had eggs for breakfast. P had pancakes. The total cost for 3 breakfasts was more than $100. “Don’t worry,” I assured D. “This will be the most expensive meal of our trip.” Spoiler: I was correct.
Our flight to Cartagena boarded on time. As we took off, our pilot made the usual welcome announcements and signed off by saying, “Unfortunately, I cannot promise a smooth flight.” The pilot was either terrible at predicting turbulence or amazing at avoiding it because the four hours that followed were some of the smoothest in my recent travel experience. Our pleasant flight culminated in an early arrival, putting us in Cartagena before 3 p.m. local time. We exited the plane, walked across the tarmac in sweltering heat, and entered the airport terminal.
Immigration at Rafael Núñez International Airport is one of the circles of you know where. Now, I have not actually read Dante, so I can’t tell you which circle. But it’s the one where you have to stand in a crowded and muggy room for hours on end with no access to food or restrooms and no way to tell when your punishment will end. We joined the back of the line. At this point, our guardian angel appeared in the form of woman with a thick New York accent. She informed us that she had been in line for nearly three hours without any discernable progress and suggested that we find the line for families and people with disabilities.
D decided to investigate; he took P with him to “prove” that he had a family and they set off in search of a security person. I found this to be an odd choice because the result was that the only person in our group who speaks any Spanish was left standing in line while two people who speak no Spanish went to talk to a Spanish-speaking security person. D came back to report that there was no family line. Then, the security person came to convey with hand gestures that D had it backwards. There was a line for families. It was over there. We found the line. We got in it. And then we stood in it. And then we stood in it some more. Periodically, a cheer would go up from the crowd and then people would shuffle forward a few inches. After about an hour of this, we reached the front of the family line. We presented our passports to an immigration official, received our stamps and welcome, and exited the airport. I often think of those who were not lucky enough to bring a child or a full body cast with them to Cartagena. I hope that one day they too will receive that coveted passport stamp, or at least a dispensation to use the restroom.
Our next order of business was to head into the departures area of the airport to find an ATM. We were successful at finding the bank of ATMs, but not at withdrawing money. We tried every one of the machines and obtained not one peso. This would have been a problem if we were hoping to take a taxi. Fortunately, I had arranged (and prepaid) a transfer through Intrepid Tours. It took a few minutes to locate our driver and then we were on our way. Twenty minutes later, we approached Hotel Bantu. Then we drove around for a bit while our driver asked people for directions to Hotel Bantu. Finally, we arrived at Hotel Bantu.
(Photo: hallway outside our room at Hotel Bantu)
Check-in was quick and easy. In minutes, we were in our room and on the phone with our bank trying to figure out the ATM card situation. We never did get the issue resolved. One of my work colleagues who travels to Africa frequently subsequently told me that the issue is probably our decision to change banks. She has advised that I suck it up and reopen my account at Bank of America because, while their customer service leaves something to be desired, their bank cards actually work in other countries. As a work-around, I set up a pin on one of my credit cards and we were able to use it for cash advances without incident. The downside is that we racked up $50 in cash advance fees using this method. Paying off each withdrawal as soon as it posted does seem to have avoided interest charges.
While I was trying to figure out the bank situation, D and P headed up to the hotel’s rooftop pool. The pool has my vote for best feature of the hotel. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in ambiance. While swimming or sunning yourself, you can hear the sounds of music from various rooftop bars, admire the charming terracotta rooftops of the historic center, and even watch flocks of parrots fly by.
(Photo: view from rooftop of Hotel Bantu)
After a short swim, it was time to get ready for our dinner reservation at Alma. We made ourselves more presentable and then headed out on foot. The historic center was packed with people. That, coupled with the uneven sidewalks, meant that I spent most of the walk looking down at my feet. At one point on our short walk, P and I became separated from D. When we rejoined him, he was visibly upset. I assumed that he had been worried about us and started to assure him that we were fine. He cut me off and explained the issue. Apparently, the instant that D no longer had a wife and child in tow, he was surrounded by friendly prostitutes plying their trade. Because I had shared stories about men being drugged and robbed in Colombia, D viewed the ladies of the night as a threat. P and I promised that we would do better in our role as bodyguards and we continued our journey. (The entire journey was about 7 minutes; Hotel Bantu’s other best feature is that it is centrally located).
We arrived at Alma right on time and were seated immediately. We ordered fruity drinks for the adults and an Inka Cola for P and settled into vacation mode. Alma is located in the Casa San Augustin, a group of colonial era homes that were converted into a boutique hotel. Alma’s dining area is in an interior courtyard where you can dine under the stars while admiring the historic details of the building. We ordered a mozzarella and tomato salad that featured tomatoes four ways (whole, diced, chutney, and dried, I think) and lobster empanadas for starters. They were delightful. We also ordered the two vegan entrees for dinner – along with a side of fries for P. They were equally delightful. I was particularly enamored with the creative use of vegetarian ingredients in my bean dish which had lentil croquettes, chickpeas in a cheesy tasting sauce, and a variety of vegetables that complemented the flavors of the beans.
(Photo: Entryway of a building in the historic center)
About thirty minutes into our meal, a group of college-aged couples arrived and were seated next to us. The group pulled out an assortment of selfie paraphernalia and started taking photos. Thus, the rest of the meal passed with me being periodically blinded by the light that the group had brought to ensure that their shrimp photos looked professional. I did not handle the situation the mature way; instead of directly asking the group to knock it off, I mumbled rude things about them under my breath. If this had been my only experience with twenty-somethings, I think I would have been inclined to buy into the negative Gen Z stereotypes. But, since I am fortunate enough to work with an amazing group of students, I know that Gen Z has many positive traits that offset their love of making duck faces in front of plates of seafood.
After a mostly lovely meal, we walked back to Hotel Bantu. Pro tip: make sure Google maps knows that you are on foot. After walking in circles for ten minutes, I took the phone from D and realized that he had set it for driving directions. The poor phone thought we were repeatedly driving the wrong way down one-way streets. We eventually made it back to the hotel and turned in for the night. P’s plans for a relaxing bath were dashed when we discovered that the hotel does not have hot water in the evenings. (It actually does not have hot water after about noon; I have no explanation for this, and I am reluctant to recommend the hotel as a result). Instead, we read for a bit. Then we piled ourselves with blankets to counter the air conditioning that appeared to be permanently stuck at “Artic” and went to sleep. Our trip was off to an interesting start.
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