For a long time we read it before seeing it, in García Márquez. Now we go. Cartagena and its ochre walls, its bougainvillea balconies, its furnace heat. Bogotá at two thousand six hundred metres, where ajiaco is eaten scalding out of necessity. And the coffee belt, the wax palms of Cocora, the fincas still picked by hand. Vallenato is not listened to quietly.
