Cartagena, Colombia

by BJM Publishing, posted in Adventure, Travel

A long time ago, 1987 to be exact I had the good fortune to tag along with a travel agent who was checking out Cartagena for her agency in order to make suggestions to their customers on where to stay, what to see and do and rate some restaurants. Not a hard assignment really. We stayed at the Hotel Capilla del Mar which had opened only two years previous. I recently looked it up and the rates are still very reasonable (at least off season) and the reviews complimentary, especially regarding the breakfast buffet. Other things going for it are the proximity to the beach, the rooftop pool and the friendly staff; and though we took a cab from the airport at the time, they now offer a shuttle bus.

At that time the luxury hotel of choice which we walked to was located at the very end of the peninsula – the Hotel Caribe. As Cartagena’s historic premier property, it was the city’s original grand resort (built in 1945). Known for its beautiful neocolonial architecture, expansive tropical gardens, and prestige, it remained a legendary social hub and flagship for high-end travelers throughout the 1980s. We only had cocktails there as we were not members of the posh elite.

We did however, have a great time in Cartagena. Seeing what looked like 15 year old kids toting machine guns was a little off putting but I’m pretty sure things have changed since then. During the late 1980s and 1990s—the height of Colombia’s drug war and internal conflicts—visible military personnel carrying automatic weapons were a common security measure in major cities and tourist zones to deter cartels and insurgent groups. While you don’t have to worry about a war-zone atmosphere, modern safety concerns have shifted to opportunistic street crime. The biggest nuisances on the beaches today are incredibly aggressive street vendors, pickpockets, and overcharging scams.

We body surfed in the ocean and sun bathed by the pool and bought fresh fruit when we needed a snack and walked for long distances on the beach, stopping every so often at a little pizzeria or patio for a refreshment and later on at night to listen to local musicians and RELAX.

Perched on the highest point in Cartagena, Convento de la Popa (The Convent of the Stern) is an absolute must-visit for the best panoramic views in the city. Built by Augustinian monks in the early 17th century, the convent gets its unique name because the hill it sits on resembles the stern (la popa) of a ship. Historically, it served a dual purpose: a sanctuary for faith and a strategic lookout point to spot approaching pirate ships.

Today, it offers a peaceful, historic escape from the bustling streets below. The convent features a stunning, Spanish-style interior cloister filled with bright, cascading flowers and beautiful colonial arches.

Travel Tip: Do not attempt to walk up the hill, as the path isn’t safe for pedestrians. Instead, take a licensed taxi or an organized tour right to the entrance at the top. It’s best visited in the morning or late afternoon to catch the golden light and avoid the midday heat!

Castillo San Felipe de Barajas is a formidable fortress dominating the Cartagena skyline, and is a designated UNESCO World Heritage site.

Located on the Hill of San Lázaro, it was strategically positioned to protect the city from landward attacks and to guard the vital entrance to the bay. Built in 1657 and expanded significantly in 1762, the fortress was virtually impregnable. The fort is designed so that if attackers managed to breach one section, the defenders could retreat to a higher point and fire down onto the captured area. Its geometric angles left absolutely no blind spots for approaching enemies.

One of the most fascinating features is the vast underground network of tunnels. At the very top of the fortress, a massive Colombian flag flies proudly, providing a great backdrop for photos. Just like La Popa, it offers incredible views of the city, but from a closer vantage point. You get an excellent look at the Old Town walls and the surrounding water.

Travel Tip: There is very little shade on the fortress, and the stone traps the heat, making it feel like an oven by midday. Visit early in the morning right when it opens, bring plenty of water, and wear a hat!

Just outside the Walled City, Getsemaní is the cultural heartbeat of Cartagena. Historically a working-class neighborhood settled by artisans and freed slaves, it has transformed into a vibrant hub of street art, music, and local life. Gathering on the walls to watch the sun sink into the Caribbean Sea is a daily ritual.

  • What to do: Walk down the colorful, umbrella-lined Calle de las Sombrillas and check out the political and cultural murals.
  • The Night Vibe: In the evening, head to Plaza de la Trinidad. Locals and tourists gather here to eat street food, drink cold Aguila beers, watch street performers, and listen to live music.

You cannot leave without eating local Caribbean food. La Cevicheria (made globally famous by Anthony Bourdain) is still a legendary spot for fresh, lime-cured seafood, though you should expect a wait!

Doris was widely considered the most traditional, upscale, and celebrated restaurant in Cartagena during the 1970s and 1980s (famous for its exquisite seafood and massive lobster festivals), it unfortunately has closed it’s doors but we had a splendid seafood dinner there. Unlike Doris, La Langosta Latina is still around, successfully serving seafood in Cartagena for nearly 40 years. Opened back in 1985, it is one of the city’s true legacy seafood establishments. It retains a very traditional, white-tablecloth, upscale Caribbean-classic atmosphere. Because it sits slightly outside the frantic main tourist grid of the Walled City, it usually offers a more relaxed, white-glove dining experience that recalls Cartagena’s golden era of dining.

Colombia produces anywhere from 70% to 90% of the world’s finest emeralds, Because Cartagena is a massive cruise ship and international tourist hub, it is flooded with high-priced tourist traps, aggressive commission-seeking tour guides, and outright street scams. Always buy at a reputable shop and ask for a certified authenticity Guarantee. Never buy on the Street as they are almost universally fake. Don’t take recommendations from tour guides, taxi drivers, and in some cases hotel concierge as their will be 10 -30 % kickback commissions added directly to the price tag. Walk in on your own. You can get a lovely stone at a decent price if you know what you are doing.

Now the main reason I wanted to tag along besides the fact that my room was paid for was that I would be able to go scuba diving in just a bathing suit in temperate 82 – 84 degree water and see colorful coral life and dense schools of colorful reef fish: blue tangs, parrotfish, triggerfish, angelfish, and macro life like seahorses and arrow crabs; instead of a rubber suit dive in the usual weeds and old truck tires of cold, murky Canadian lakes. You don’t always have to go all the way to the islands. There are some fascinating spots closer to the city lines, including a collection of about seven intentionally sunken barges, ships, and even an airplane that create excellent wreck dives

That to me was the highlight of the trip, when you are swimming below the water and marvelling at all the activity, color and beauty of the ocean, it is like time stands still and another different world opens up. It was simply breathtaking and something I shall never forget. Image below is AI generated as I did not possess an underwater camera at the time

On Friendship

by BJM Publishing, posted in Family and Friends, Adventure

“The most beautiful discovery true friends make is that they can grow separately without growing apart.”

There are four types of friendship –

Acquaintances – those you have at work or school but don’t make plans with outside of that sphere, and those that you meet on your travels.

Casual friends are those in your group that you see from time to time and enjoy their company but don’t go out of your way to pursue. Those you share hobbies with or light-hearted social engagements.

Close Friends are those you get together with and have deep, philosophical discussions, catch movies together, go out to dine from time to time and have the same values. You know you can trust them and they provide a space where you can vent and grow without being judged.

Lifelong Friends are those that know where the bodies are buried. They have and will always have your back. When they call and ask you to come and pick them up no matter where or when, you go no questions asked because they would do the same for you.

True friends stab you in the front – Oscar Wilde

I think you need to have the ability to laugh at yourself and take the piss out of a friend that is getting too high on themselves and you should do all right in life! Gauche, but true, live, love and laugh.

On a Carousel trying to catch up with you

by BJM Publishing, posted in Adventure, Art

I am an avid fan of the merry-go-round or carousel if you prefer. Riding a carousel is something almost everyone can do. But it’s more than just going around in circles.

The joy of the carousel is the simple pleasure of being free to go somewhere but nowhere at all. Merry-go-rounds are the luxury of time. For those few minutes, nothing is asked of us but to enjoy the ride.

I appreciate the painstaking effort of the carvers who made such exquisite pieces of art for the wonderment of children and adults a like. Though most carousels I remember had horses and chariots, organ music and lights there have been many made with circus animals, aquatic creatures, and bugs.

Bryant Park carousel

New York City is home to 14 carousels, each with its own distinct personality and history. Le Carrousel is an adorable 14-horse carousel in Bryant Park at 40th Street between 5th and 6th Ave. It has a French style that goes with the rest of Bryant Park.

Le Carrousel is open daily from 11am – 7pm almost all year round. It costs $3.00 per ride. This is the only one I had the opportunity to photograph during the time we were visiting.

Closer to home and an upcoming trip, I hope to get some good photos of the Lakeside Park Carousel in Port Dalhousie, Ontario which is about an hour and a half from our home in Kitchener, Ontario. Built in the early 20th century, it is one of the few remaining wood hand-carved carousels in Canada still operating at its original location, celebrated for its craftsmanship and nostalgic charm. It features 68 hand-carved wooden animals and four chariots and costs 5 cents a ride. Can you believe that?

Situated within Lakeside Park, a scenic area popular for picnics and beaches, the carousel evokes early 20th-century leisure culture. It is also referenced in the song “Lakeside Park” by the Canadian rock band Rush, which memorializes summertime memories at the site—further cementing its place in Canadian popular culture.

I am eagerly awaiting the day we go and will post photos when it happens. In the meantime, what kind of outings do you enjoy?

Taken too soon – Remembering Jim Croce

by BJM Publishing, posted in Music

American folk and rock singer-songwriter known for his warm baritone voice and narrative-driven songs.

Jim Croce was born to an Italian-American family in South Philadelphia in 1943; a self-taught guitarist who also played the accordion, he died in a tragic plane crash in 1973 just 30 years old. Spent years working odd jobs—truck driver, teacher, and DJ—while trying to break into the music industry.

In 1972, he partnered with guitarist Maury Muehleisen and signed with ABC Records. Achieved fame with classics like “You Don’t Mess Around with Jim,” “Operator,” and the #1 hit “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.”

His song “Time in a Bottle” became a #1 hit after his death.

Inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame in 1990 and won a posthumous American Music Award in 1974.

Time in a Bottle

How do you tell nowadays, anyways!

by BJM Publishing, posted in Art, Miscellaneous
how about we handle the truth

It’s a wild world out there, and frankly, the “bullshit meter” has to work harder than ever.

Bullshit often relies on outrage or extreme validation. If an article makes you feel immediately furious or smugly “right,” it’s likely designed to bypass your logic.
The Test: Ask, “Is this trying to inform me, or is it trying to make me feel something?”

Don’t just look at the website name—look at the URL and the “About Us” section. URLs that mimic real news sites (e.g., .co instead of .com) or sites that lack a clear masthead or editorial policy are a red flag. Don’t just read the site itself. Open a new tab and search for the site’s name. What do other reputable sources say about their credibility?

Quality writing links to primary sources (original studies, official transcripts, or direct data). A post that says “Scientists say…” without naming the scientists or linking to the actual study is likely bullshit. Click the links. Sometimes, a “source” is just another blog post from the same author, creating a circular loop of nothingness.

Search for the topic on a site known to have the opposite bias of what you’re currently reading. If the “facts” differ wildly, the truth is usually buried somewhere in the middle.

If you see a “breaking news” photo that looks too perfect, right-click and “Search Image with Google.” You might find that the “current” photo is actually from a protest in 2014 or a movie set.

A liar knows the truth and tries to hide it; a bullshitter doesn’t care what the truth is—they just want to get a reaction.

IDIOMS, not IDIOCIES

by BJM Publishing, posted in Miscellaneous

“An idiom is a phrase or expression whose meaning cannot be understood from the literal definition of its individual words. It is a figurative saying peculiar to a specific culture or language, where the group of words has a generally understood meaning different from the literal interpretation“

Body Parts

Cold feet: Being nervous or reconsidering a decision. Its modern usage meaning “lack of courage” appeared in American fiction in the late 19th century. One theory suggests it comes from gamblers who would claim to have “cold feet” as an excuse to leave a poker game before they lost any more money. An older Italian “Lombard proverb” also linked cold feet to being out of money.

Pulling someone’s leg: Joking with someone or teasing them.

Pulling the wool over someone’s eyes: means to intentionally deceive, trick, or mislead someone to prevent them from discovering the truth. It implies manipulating someone by hiding facts, often for personal gain. It is an informal idiom often used to describe someone being foolish or tricked

A chip on your shoulder: Holding a grudge or being easily angered.

Get off my back: Stop bothering or pressuring someone.

Bite off more than you can chew: Taking on a task that is too difficult. This idiom emerged in 19th-century America and refers to the practice of chewing tobacco. People would offer others a “plug” of tobacco, and greedy individuals might take a bite so large they couldn’t handle it comfortably or would even get sick.

Break a leg: A way to wish someone “good luck,” usually before a performance. This theatrical well-wishing began in the 1920s. Because theater folk are notoriously superstitious and believe wishing “good luck” actually causes bad luck, they wish for the opposite. Some suggest it refers to “breaking the leg line” (entering the stage past the side curtains, known as “legs”) or bending the knee in a deep bow after a successful show.

Cost an arm and a leg: Something that is excessively expensive.

Living hand to mouth: Having only enough money to satisfy immediate needs without any savings.

In over my head: to be involved in a difficult situation that you cannot get out of

By the skin of your teeth: To barely succeed at something or to narrowly avoid disaster.

Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater: is an idiom advising against losing valuable things while trying to eliminate unwanted ones. It means avoiding overreactions that discard good aspects along with the bad. Common examples include quitting a job over one minor issue or scrapping a whole project due to small errors

Animals

When pigs fly: Something that is impossible or will never happen.

Bring home the bacon: To earn a living or provide financial support for a family. Its origin likely stems from 16th-century country fairs where people competed to catch a greased pig; the winner literally “brought home the bacon”.

Raining cats and dogs: Raining very heavily. While there are many theories, one of the most common involves 17th-century street drainage. During heavy storms, debris and unfortunately drowned animals would be washed through the streets, making it look as though they had fallen with the rain.

Like a blue-arsed fly: Running around frantically or being very busy (common in UK/Australia).

Like a chicken with its head cut off: Acting in a frantic, disorganized, or senseless manner. Similar to above.

The elephant in the room: A major problem or controversial issue that is present but everyone is ignoring.

Let the cat out of the bag: To accidentally or prematurely reveal a secret. This phrase likely traces back to a medieval market scam. Merchants would sell what they claimed were valuable piglets in sacks (known as a “poke” –  buying a pig in a poke). If the buyer was suspicious and opened the bag, they might find a worthless stray cat instead—thus “letting the cat out of the bag” and revealing the secret.

A man on a galloping horse wouldn’t notice: Used when a small mistake is insignificant and won’t be seen by someone passing by quickly.

Get off your high horse:  It is used to tell someone to stop judging others or behaving as if they are better or more important. The phrase originated from medieval times when high-ranking people rode very large horses.

Miscellaneous

Hit the nail on the head: To describe exactly what is causing a situation or to be precisely correct. This phrase has been around for centuries, appearing as early as the 15th century. It is a simple metaphor for accuracy and skill—a carpenter who hits a nail perfectly on its head is doing the job exactly right

Piece of cake: Something that is very easy to do.

Break the bank: To be extremely expensive or to spend all of one’s money on a single purchase.

Born with a silver spoon in your mouth: Born into a wealthy and privileged family.

In the red / In the black: These terms come from traditional bookkeeping, where accountants used red ink to show losses (debt) and black ink to show profits.

Time is money: An expression used to emphasize that time is a valuable resource and should not be wasted.

and on that note, I think I will call it a day: to stop working or end an activity for the time being……

The Mirador in San Miguel de Allende

by BJM Publishing, posted in Adventure, Travel

There are certain experiences in life that sound charming in theory and feel like a personal vendetta in practice. The Mirador in San Miguel de Allende falls neatly into that category.

Now, if you’ve never heard of it, the Mirador is essentially a scenic lookout perched above the town, offering postcard-perfect views of terracotta rooftops, church spires, and that golden, late-afternoon glow that makes everyone briefly consider quitting their job and moving to Mexico. It’s lovely. Truly.

Getting there, however, is another matter entirely.

Let me translate it into Canadian: imagine climbing the stairs of the CN Tower for fun. Then add a dash of the Grouse Grind for personality. Sprinkle in 30-degree heat and the faint suspicion that you’ve made a series of poor life choices. That’s the Mirador walk.

Naturally, this is how our day unfolded.

The plan, you see, was simple. Innocent, even. A quick stop at El Manantial, a charming little bar we had spotted in a YouTube video. It promised excellent margaritas, Day of the Dead murals, and swinging saloon doors, which frankly sounds like the beginning of a very good decision. After that, a civilized dinner on a rooftop near the Jardín. Easy.

We had already been walking for about half an hour when we wandered through a park hosting an art show, paintings, sculptures, the kind of cultural detour that makes you feel pleasantly accomplished. Then we exited the park, consulted our GPS with blind faith, and spotted a staircase. A staircase that, in hindsight, was less “shortcut” and more “ominous prologue.” Up we went.

At the top, we paused, lungs filing a formal complaint, and were rewarded with a sculpture of a giant hand, which I had seen online and never located. “Well,” I thought, “this is going splendidly.” A bonus discovery. A triumph. That, as it turns out, was the last coherent positive thought I had for quite some time.

Because just around the corner… more stairs. And then more.

And then the slow, creeping realization. That dawning horror. The mental replay of earlier advice: “Don’t walk to the Mirador. Take a cab. You’ll thank us.” We had, in fact, taken a cab up there previously for precisely this reason. And now, like two stubborn protagonists in a cautionary tale, we were doing the one thing we had explicitly been trying to avoid. “For fuk’s sake,” I muttered between gasps, “how stupid are we?”

The stairs came in waves. You’d crest one set, heart pounding like a percussion section, only to round a corner and be greeted by another flight, waiting patiently like it had all day to ruin you.

We stopped at least four times. Possibly more. Time loses meaning when you’re negotiating with your own cardiovascular system. Thankfully, we had a bottle of water, which we drained with the reverence of people who now understood the value of hydration on a spiritual level. The sun, meanwhile, had decided to participate enthusiastically, turning the whole ordeal into a slow roast.

There were two other women making the climb. One looked about half my age and stopped just as often, which provided a small, petty comfort. Misery loves company, especially when it’s wheezing beside you. At one point, while we were paused and pretending this was all part of a fitness plan, my husband casually remarked, “If I have a heart attack, just roll me down the hill. It’ll be easier for the medics.”

By then, I had entered a new phase of the journey: open hostility. I was swearing like a long-haul trucker and no longer cared if we ever reached the restaurant, civilization, or the afterlife. And then, finally, the summit.

We reached the top around four o’clock, having left the house at 2:30. A brisk outing, if you define “brisk” as “an endurance event.”

We found El Manantial, collapsed into two chairs, and ordered margaritas with the urgency of people who had just survived something mildly heroic. Ken disappeared to the washroom. I sat there, oddly fascinated by the fact that I didn’t need to go. Not even slightly. It turns out that when you sweat out your entire body weight, certain systems take a break.

After a restorative pause and the slow return of dignity, we made our way back down toward the Jardín. I stationed myself in the square, listening to mariachi bands and contemplating my life choices, while Ken secured a reservation at Trazo 1810. And here’s the important part: it has an elevator. A glorious, civilization-affirming elevator.

Dinner was lovely. Wine was involved. The moon rose obligingly, casting that soft silver glow over the rooftops as if to say, See? Worth it. And in fairness, it did save the day. As for the Mirador? The view is undeniably beautiful. The journey up? Character-building, they say.

Personally, I feel I’ve built quite enough character already. Another glass of wine, por favor!

The 1938 Hispano-Suiza “Xenia”

by BJM Publishing, posted in classic cars

Some cars are just on another level—so exotic and impressive that they make everything else look ordinary. Most countries are lucky to have even one “legend” to their name. You’ve got the American Duesenberg SJ, Britain’s 12-cylinder Rolls-Royce Phantom III, Germany’s supercharged Mercedes SSKL, and France’s massive Bugatti Royale. But then there’s Hispano-Suiza. These cars were in a league of their own. No expenses were spared on their creation ensuring they were the best ever built.

The brand started back in 1901 when a Swiss engineer named Marc Birkigt convinced his Spanish boss, Emilio La Cuadra, to pivot from electric buses to motor cars. The name “Hispano-Suiza” literally means Spanish-Swiss, a nod to the Spanish money and Swiss engineering behind it.

During the 1920’s and ‘30s the company produced the vehicles that established its reputation among the elite of the world’s great motor cars. The H6, which debuted at the 1919 Paris Motor Show is still considered one of the greatest cars ever made.

When the Great Depression hit in the ’30s, most luxury carmakers panicked as their pool of wealthy buyers dried up. But Hispano-Suiza doubled down, refusing to compromise on their huge, powerful, over-the-top designs. While they eventually stopped production in France by 1938, they kept things going in Barcelona until World War II began.

One of the coolest stories from this era involves André Dubonnet, a wealthy heir to the aperitif fortune and race car driver. He commissioned the 1938 “Xenia”—named after his late wife—which is basically the peak of pre-war Art Deco design. It’s a sleek, curvy, one-of-a-kind masterpiece that looks like it’s from another planet. He won a sports car race at Boulogne with it in 1921.

In the end, Hispano-Suiza was a perfect mix of world-class engineering and pure style. Marc Birkigt eventually retired in 1950, and in a fitting twist, the French side of his company ended up merging with Bugatti.

A collage of luxury cars from long ago era

Can you guess the other luxury cars in the above collage? Which is a kit car?

DON’T LIE NO MORE

by BJM Publishing, posted in Miscellaneous

A poem by Beryl McGuinness

There’s a hole in my soul

That can’t be filled

Empty words and broken trusts have left me less than thrilled

Don’t try and play another angle, I have seen them all

Be a man, don’t be a dick, I know each and every dirty trick

What don’t you get when I say that I don’t want to play,

I can’t be nice and hang around to make your day

You are on your own, set adrift, I just don’t give a shit

A humanoid, no emotion and numb a bit

Been knocked around and made to feel inferior

But a light’s gone off in this one’s interior

I deserve the best and will not rest till I find an equal

I can be on my own but not alone, and happier.

Feel free to turn it into a country song!

Gregory Clark – legendary fisherman and writer

by BJM Publishing, posted in Adventure, Miscellaneous

The man I’m about to tell you about was a giant—though he stood shorter than most.

biography of writer Greg Clark

His name was Greg Clark. Before the world got loud and digital, Greg was the voice of Canada. Back in the day, he was more famous than the Prime Minister, and for good reason. The editorial director of Weekend Magazine, once described Clark as “a man so Canadian that no other land could possibly have produced him.”

He started out as a bit of a rebel—failed out of the University of Toronto twice—before landing at the Toronto Star in 1911 where his old man was an editor. But the real world came calling in 1916. Greg went over to the mud and blood of the Great War. He survived three years in the trenches, winning the Military Cross for bravery at Vimy Ridge.

When he came home a Major, he wrote a story that still haunts the neighbourhood in Toronto. It’s called “One Block of Howland Avenue.” You see, every single young man on his block died in that war, except for Greg and his brother. When they finally came home from the war their father met them at the beginning of the street and begged them to take the long way around—to go through the back alleys—so the grieving neighbours wouldn’t have to see two sons coming home when theirs never would.

Greg carried that heart into his writing. In the ’20s, he sat across from a “tall young squirt” named Ernest Hemingway at the Toronto Star. Greg actually told the kid to give up on fiction and stick to reporting! He laughed about that later, of course, once Hemingway became… well, Hemingway.

Through the 30’s, Greg was the man people turned to. He covered the big stuff—the Lindbergh trial, the forming of the UN, the coronation of a King—but his greatest moment was at the Moose River Mine. When every other reporter packed up and gave up on the trapped miners, Greg stayed. He was there, in the silence of the woods, when the first faint tap-tap-tap came from the earth. He got the scoop because he had the patience to wait.

Though he was too old to fight in the second war, he went back as a correspondent. He saw the Blitz, Dunkirk, and the front lines in Italy. He lost his own son to that war, a blow that would’ve broken a lesser man. But Greg kept writing. He moved to the Montreal Standard and Weekend Magazine, sharing tales in his column, “The Packsack,” that felt like a warm letter from an old friend.

He won everything—the Order of Canada, the Leacock Medal, honorary doctorates. But if you asked him? He’d probably tell you his proudest moment was being inducted into the Canadian Fishing Hall of Fame.

He died in ’77, and most of his nineteen books have slipped out of print, which is a damn shame. He knew how to find the “human touch” in the darkest of times. He lived through the horrors of war and the heartbreak of losing his son and wife, yet he still wrote with a rhythm and a grace that made you feel like the world was going to be alright.

So, next time you’re in a dusty old bookstore, look for his name. Scour the shelves for a bit of Greg Clark. We could all use a little more of his integrity and his humour in our own lives today.