I’m still not sure the reason, and whether this was just an exceptional period of hellish heat or some climate-changed enhanced nightmare scenario (it was winter, after all), but Cartagena is the hottest place I’ve ever been. Luckily daytime hours afforded many more convenient options, and the next day I was able to scuttle from one shadow to another to La Olla Cartegenera, an old-fashioned restaurant with an impressive, rainforest-themed backroom. Like many spots on the Bocagrande, La Olla seemed to have a Middle Eastern slant to the menu. Middle Eastern immigrants have a long history in Colombia, responsible for contributing dishes like quibbe (which pops up here and across the rest of the Caribbean, often denoted as ‘quipes,’) but I’m not sure why all these places were clustered in this one neighborhood, otherwise dominated by pale white resort towers and pizza places. Whatever the case, I skipped the falafel for a seafood sampler, hoping to get a quick overview of the local offerings. As see above, this included rock lobster, prawns in garlic sauce, some nicely marinated grilled fish and a smattering of shrimp.
I knew something was amiss when I arrived in Cartagena, the hour nearing midnight, the temperature still in the high nineties. Our hotel was located on the long strip of Avenida San Martin in the Bocagrande resort zone, and I was reasonably confident I could pick up a quick takeout dinner after landing without much fuss. The nearby picado place, however, didn’t do takeout, the hotel restaurant was a casino bar called ‘Masters,’ and the area was otherwise populated by uninspiring fast food options, from El Corral to Burger King to Kokoriko, Still, stubborn despite the late hour and the ridiculous humidity, I was determined not to waste this precious foreign meal on a ordinary burger. I ended up drenched in sweat at around one a.m., having ranged much further down the strip than necessary to land on a tiny Venezuelan takeout spot, where I purchased some mediocre arepas. I was bowed but not defeated.
I’m still not sure the reason, and whether this was just an exceptional period of hellish heat or some climate-changed enhanced nightmare scenario (it was winter, after all), but Cartagena is the hottest place I’ve ever been. Luckily daytime hours afforded many more convenient options, and the next day I was able to scuttle from one shadow to another to La Olla Cartegenera, an old-fashioned restaurant with an impressive, rainforest-themed backroom. Like many spots on the Bocagrande, La Olla seemed to have a Middle Eastern slant to the menu. Middle Eastern immigrants have a long history in Colombia, responsible for contributing dishes like quibbe (which pops up here and across the rest of the Caribbean, often denoted as ‘quipes,’) but I’m not sure why all these places were clustered in this one neighborhood, otherwise dominated by pale white resort towers and pizza places. Whatever the case, I skipped the falafel for a seafood sampler, hoping to get a quick overview of the local offerings. As see above, this included rock lobster, prawns in garlic sauce, some nicely marinated grilled fish and a smattering of shrimp.
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Following a recent visit to the Bronx Zoo, I ventured into the wilds of Van Nest, a small, diverse neighborhood just outside the southeast gate. The western fringe of this area, dominated by the Cross Bronx Expressway and the city’s last remaining stretch of NYW&B tracks, seems to firmly prove Jane Jacobs’ theory of border vacuums, a depressed stretch of boundary wasteland marring the appearance of a place better known as the childhood home of Regis Philbin and Stokely Carmichel, and which boasts what may be the most ornate station in the subway system, or at least the one most resembling the property of a Spanish landowner.
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