CARTAGENA, Colombia -- Like a sweet reward at the end of a meal, Cartagena beckoned me every December as my family prepared for the journey to our beach apartment in this Colombian port laced with history and Spanish fortresses.
Once there, while my siblings removed the dust covers from the sofas, got the fans started, and turned the fridge on, I always ran straight to the living room window, swung it open, and looked nine floors down at the fruit vendors on the grayish beach. Strong, beautiful black women with bowls full of blood-red papayas, fat mangoes, and ripe watermelons on their heads announced their treasures in operatic calls as they walked gracefully among a crowd of bodies and rows of canvas tents facing an olive green sea. Tasting the artificial sweetness of a very cold Kola Romn, my favorite local beverage, I'd kick off my shoes and take in the raging heat, sea scents, and explosion of colors that Cartagena threw at us each time.
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