Last night, in the taxi at 2:00 am, I saw something romantic in Barranquilla, something right out of a García Márquez digression. In fact, I noticed the “phenomenom” hours beforehand, but I didn’t recognize it as romantic until 2:00 am, when I asked the driver what was going on.
My roommate Elena and I were hoofing it to (where else) La Troja, where we were impatiently being waited for by some friends. Our lateness was on account of having stopped by a little wooden bar crammed in-between some cement on Calle 72. Just the fact that the bar is constructed from wood makes it notable, but this establishment is irresistable because it is painted yellow, blue and red. Flag colors, Caribbean colors. We ended up being courted there by a trio of gentlemen: a refined paisa from Medellín here on business, the old German speaking sailor-type who owns the bar, and a mess of a Barrinqillero whose eyes pointed different ways and who was uninteligable in any language.
When we finally removed ourselves from the company of these characters, we had to walk several blocks through prostitutes to reach La Troja. The prostitutes thinned out as the street lighting became more reliable, and they were replaced on Carrera 46 with old and young men wearing white and sombreros, sitting in plastic chairs lined up along the curb, as though they were waiting for a parade. Dozens, maybe hundreds of men, watching the street. Some of them were playing instruments, most were just watching, and they applauded our passing. Were we the parade they were waiting for?
No. Because four hours later, most of them were still there. I asked the driver why, and learned that here, in the Parque de Músicos, musicians come and wait for work on weekend nights. At the end of the night, it’s a cement plaza surrounded by prostitutes and full of musicians. Que romantico!
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