Peter, 4, Discovers Culture Shock

Peter, 4, and Margaret, 6, the grandkids, had spent a long day with their parents in airports and airplanes. They had flown all the way from Calgary to Cartagena in Columbia.

 They looked around as they stepped out of the taxi. They had never seen such a street before.

Cartagena was founded in 1533. The Old Town was built with rampaging pirates in mind.

A pirate horde, rushing to plunder the homes of the rich merchants and the governing class, would have found themselves entangled in what amounted to a communal fortress. They’d be channeled into narrow streets enclosed by almost blank walls three stories high. The walls ran the length of the street, from one intersection to the next.

Every few meters a heavy wooden door, strapped with wrought iron, protected a residence on the other side. A narrow portal, also heavy and studded with iron, was built into each big door to give day-to-day access.

Small windows protruded out over the street. From behind iron bars a defender could surreptitiously observe what was happening up and down the street, and fire a musket too.

A Cartagena door, Old City. 

Today restored versions of the original homes can still be found behind some of those doors. Each home is built around a central courtyard that’s open to the sky. Trees grow in the courtyard, flowers of many colors bloom.

The old house Peter, Margaret, and their parents stayed in would be called, in North America, a bed and breakfast. It was the home of an extended family­­­­­—a British father, a Columbian mother, several grown sons and daughters, their spouses, some grandchildren. Overnighting friends came and went. Occasionally paying guests showed up too.

The house had been immaculately restored. Old wood. Rich tile.

Rooms on the ground floor opened directly into the courtyard. Rooms on the second floor opened onto a balustraded balcony running along three sides of the building.

The night we arrived several doors were open. Silhouetted figures—parents and children in some cases—could be seen moving around inside the dimly lit rooms.

Peter gripped Beth’s hand. “Mommy. Who really lives here?”

At 6, Margaret seemed to grasp the concept of foreignness. When the family arrived in Cartagena, she already understood other countries existed, other languages, people of different pigmentations.

But Peter, at 4, seemed to be trying to figure out how the whole world could change so much in just one day, while they were on the plane.

Much was waiting to be learned . . .

Tortoise doubt.

Not sure about flamingos either.

The hammock lessons were easy.

Margaret says she still remembers this, 25 years later.

Not an Alberta tree.

Kids don’t need to be taught beach.

The matriarch where the family stayed loved children. She continuously talked to Margaret and Peter in a soft, pleasant voice, in Spanish, and indulged them with special treats.

Towards the end of the visit Beth asked Peter, “Do you like Señora?”

“Yes. But she fills us up with words. We don’t understand any of them.”

A kid can learn a lot in a foreign country.

Peter and Margaret had adult supervision.

NEXT POST        

I have no idea what the next post will be. I do know we won’t publish again until this date next month.

I’m putting a lot of time and energy into managing a major renovation project. Barbara says I’m getting testy at publication time. She’s making me cut back.

The 25^th of each month is our new posting schedule.