May, 1995 (continued):
The next day I was taken on a tour of Radio Caracol; at the time they operated nine stations in Bogotá alone — which was extraordinary to me as a pre-radio consolidation American.
Among the people I met was one of their program directors, Tito Lopez. When we were introduced in his office, he turned to a shelf behind him and pulled down…one of my videotapes: Building A Winning Morning Show.
After the tour, Sr. Gallegos and I flew to Cartagena for the sales meeting. In the Bogotá airport I noticed an American institution with a slightly different name: “Whopper King.”
One nice thing I can say about Avianca Airlines: Even on one-hour flights (e.g., the flight to Cartagena), they served they passengers a very nice meal.
To many people, Cartagena is one of South America’s tropical paradises. But the city has a long and tragic history. Starting in the 17th Century, swarms of Europeans ravaged the area in search of “El Dorado,” the fabled city of gold which was thought to exist primarily due to the ubiquitous use of gold for religious and ornamental use.
The Spanish decimated much of the indigenous population and enslaved the rest. Cartagena was used as a storage point for the treasures looted by the Spanish from the New World. As a result, the city became a prime target for pirates (including a number of the British variety who subsequently were elevated to knighthood).
Finally, tired of endless attack from pirates, the city built a wall around the entire city. This is not uncommon in Europe, but it’s unique in South America. (The wall still stands.)
Hotel Caribe
Cartagena is a beach resort where it’s always hot & humid. (For some reason, it’s very popular with Canadians.) I stayed at the Hotel Caribe. Good location, nice rooms…and spectacularly mediocre food. (I had been looking forward to sampling more traditional Colombian cuisine.)
Some of the Caracol attendees warned me the food wasn’t very good there, but I assumed they were being overly critical. They weren’t. You won’t get sick from eating at the Caribe…but it won’t add to your epicurean memories, either.
Upon our arrival at the airport in Cartagena, we were greeted by music of a papallera band. It’s kind of like Bavarian folk music with a Spanish twist. Carlos groaned upon hearing it; he much preferred the Bee Gees, Foreigner, and Elton John.
Frustrating moment upon check-in: I did not have any Colombian currency, and I wanted to exchange a U.S. five-dollar bill for five one-dollar bills, to use as tips.
Yes, the front desk had American currency.
Yes, they had five one-dollar bills.
No, they would not exchange them for my five-dollar bill. For that, I would have walk six feet across the lobby to officially exchange American dollars into Colombian pesos and then back to U.S. dollars (each time paying a commission and a transaction fee, which essentially would have eaten up my five bucks).
“Look,” I said. “I don’t want to exchange currency. I have five U.S. dollars; you have five U.S. dollars. All we need to do is trade, and we’ll still both have five U.S. dollars.”
Sorry, no. Impossible. Hotel policy.
Really dumb. Really frustrating.
But I still say the Colombians I encountered with were quite nice.
Surreal moment in Cartagena: I picked up the phone in my room and, at first, had trouble getting an outside line. So I dialed the hotel operator (“9” in Colombia) to ask for help. She put me on hold, and I got to listen to their prerecorded music.
What music did the Hotel Caribe play while its guests were on hold? “Home on the Range.”
The next morning I drank guayaba juice with my breakfast. Nice, kind of like pineapple, only smoother and not as sweet. At 10:00 am, I was supposed to meet my interpreter, who had been hired by Caracol. After going over a few details with her, I would have several hours free before I was scheduled to speak.
Sr. Gallego had insisted that I take time to visit the “old town” portion of Cartagena. Rather than hole up in my room and work on my computer, I figured I’d use those few free hours to enjoy a rare bit of sightseeing.
I was at the meeting room at 10:00; the interpreter was not.
Nor was she there by 11:00 am.
Nor by noon.
She finally showed up at 1:00 pm.
Did she not know we had been scheduled to meet at 10 am?
Yes, she explained, but she wanted to give me time to sightsee during the morning, so she decided to come three hours later.
Oh.
So much for sightseeing.
Next: The most embarrassing moment of my public speaking career.
