Juliana's parents were visiting, so Laura and Herman dropped me off at Hostel Fatima in the central La Candelaria district of the city I visited on the first day.
I was surprised to find that the several hostels I called before them were fully booked. I settled in around mid-morning while my bunkmate Steven (Australia) was still asleep.
I made good use of the free, fast broadband internet in the inner courtyard. Later, when Steven woke up, we talked, went out for lunch, played chess, and generally got along well. He had previously met a guy named Todd (California), whom he planned to go out with that evening.
I had plans to attend a birthday party of Laura's friend, but they never materialized. Not having a cell phone has been a problem when it comes to coordinating social activities.
Todd arrived at the hostel while Dominic (England), on the older side of the backpacker spectrum like me, enjoyed a drink in the hostel bar.
We started in La Candelaria by hitting a bar and grabbing pizza. Both places were packed with young people, predominantly students, enjoying the start of their Friday night.
Next, we hopped in a taxi and rode north to Zona Rosa, a district densely populated with bars and clubs. We met up with one of Todd's lady friends, her sister, and a few Colombian guys at a bar.
I believe Nasser (Florida) joined the crew here, along with another older American guy who lived and worked in Colombia.
We had a few beers and shots of Aguardiente, Colombia's favorite anise-flavored liquor, before heading off in search of a club. This turned into an unnecessarily long ordeal-the kind of situation that happens when too many people try to reach consensus.
We eventually entered a bar with a dance floor and some lounge-like seating. It was packed but not overcrowded, and I liked the vibe. The male consensus was that every woman in the place was beautiful.
As is typical in Colombian bars and restaurants, bottle service is standard, so we got a few small whiskey bottles (I think). Unfortunately for me, the Colombian company we arrived with didn't speak much English, but it didn't matter too much once we were dancing.
The bar closed down at 3 am, and we meandered into the street where typical end-of-the-night nonsense and chatter occur. One Colombian guy started screaming ¨Billy Corgan¨ in my direction, taking my photo.
Dominic, Steven, and I shared a taxi back to the hostel, where I faced a flight to Medellín the next day.
