So when I began telling people that I was trading London for the other Queen City across the pond, I got my fair share of strange looks. And those looks got even stranger when people found out I was coming here without a job.

My journey to Charlotte started in 2007 when I began a campaign to convince my boyfriend Alex, who is now my fiancé, to move to America. I had moved to London in 2006 to get my master’s degree. Shortly after arriving I knew I was going to love it there, but it would never be home. I wanted to raise a family one day and give my kids a childhood like mine – filled with evenings being pulled in a little red wagon, picking apples at the orchard and catching minnows at the local park… I just didn’t see that life in London.

Why Charlotte?
I knew that making the jump from fast-paced London to my hometown of Indianapolis would be a stretch for Alex, who’s London born and bred. Although Indianapolis has a lot to offer, neither one of us was willing to deal with the cold winters. Alex has enough trouble driving on our side of the road, even without snow.
I initially thought we should move to Nashville because of its weather. But it wasn’t just the lure of long summers spent by the pool that excited us. Then we thought Charlotte might be the better choice for a number of reasons – the cost of living is low, seven Fortune 500 companies are headquartered here, and our friends and family told us that Charlotte is a great place to raise kids.

A high school friend, Andrea Wright, moved here in 2009 and within 90 days she had a job, a place of her own and had enrolled her daughter in a great school. I knew that it was possible to make a living in Charlotte, but would it be right for Alex and me?
Our virgin visit

As we gathered our luggage from the plane’s overhead compartment, during our first trip to Charlotte in 2009, I had to refrain from jumping up and down with excitement. Would it be rude to push all these people out of the way so we could move faster? Alex was excited, too, yet he didn’t know what to expect from a southern American city.
As we waited at the luggage carousel for our three red suitcases, I realized that I had four days to convince Alex, and myself, that Charlotte was where we should make our next move.

Turkey burger bliss
On that first night, our friends Davis and Sheree took us to The Counter, a burger place in SouthPark. For Alex and I it seemed miraculous that we were able to park so close to the restaurant, and to top it off they offered us a table outdoors next to a fountain! Alex was slightly shocked that what I had told him was true: Charlotteans can eat outdoors without being rained on, and with no need for a warm jacket.

It was a perfect, warm evening even if the humidity did nearly knock us down as we left the air conditioning for our patio table. But after “summers” in London, where the temperature never hit 80 degrees, Charlotte felt like paradise.

We opened the menu and found a restaurant unlike any we had come across before. We could actually specify what kind of meat we wanted for our burger. I chose turkey since it’s impossible to find a turkey burger in London; for once I didn’t have to make my own at home. We could then choose the size we wanted – Alex naturally chose the largest, just to see how big American food really is. We then added toppings like sun-dried tomatoes, guacamole and ginger soy sauce. Already, this was shaping up to be the land of opportunity in Alex’s mind – and we’d only ordered dinner.

Hanging out uptown
Since we were staying uptown, we walked from our hotel to the EpiCentre, taking it all in. As we strolled along we noticed how clean the streets were and how nicely manicured the plants and bushes were. But we only passed a few people on each block. It was a weekend, but this city center seemed almost desolate. I could see it on Alex’s face and I knew immediately he was thinking: “She’s got me moving to this boring ol’ place where nothing is going to happen and I’m gonna hate it.”

How did I assure him that uptown was a happening place to be when it was my first time here, too? Was uptown lively on normal days? I had to think fast so I reminded him that London’s financial district, The City, is a ghost town on the weekends and Charlotte’s exactly the same. He turned to me with his head cocked to the side, one eyebrow raised, and said, “We’ll see.” Secretly, I had no idea, but I hoped I was right.

Thankfully, when we arrived at the EpiCentre we walked past bars packed with people laughing or dancing to loud music. Uptown Charlotte was looking up – and even better, Alex still believed that I knew what I was talking about.

We made our way to the movie theater. London certainly has its share of nice cinemas, but as we walked into the EpiCentre Theater our feet sank into the plush carpet and we were surrounded by crushed red velvet. Alex looked at me and whispered, “Oh baby, I think we’re going to love this.”
We made our way upstairs to have a drink before the show started. We sat down in the lounge – a high-ceilinged room, with a long bar filled with attractive servers. For a moment we felt like we were back in London sipping wine with the city’s finest.

We then snuggled together on the VIP couches – all for less than we’d spend at a regular London movie theater – to settle in and watch the show. Save for the woman loudly giving  her husband a running commentary throughout the movie, it was the best film experience we’d had in years.
We took advantage of the myriad food choices every chance we got while staying uptown –whether it was unlimited Brazilian meats at Chima or some of the best seafood and cheesy grits you can find at Lavecchia’s. But nothing topped our post-movie EpiCentre choice – Jason’s Deli. Now I know you might think Jason’s doesn’t hold a candle to a more upscale uptown restaurant, but London’s version of deli food is generally a pre-made sandwich, the kind you can get at a gas station. In London, if I wanted to customize a prawn sandwich with mayo on white bread, well, I was out of luck.

We may not see any movie premieres with A-list stars in Charlotte, but we knew we could have a great night out on the town.
Is that what you call a lake?

I’m thinking, “Wait a minute. Why am I going? Isn’t this one of the world’s most desperate places? Don’t they kidnap people there? Sixty years of civil war between the leftist FARC and ELN, government sponsored paramilitaries massacring entire villages—am I crazy? We sponsor the government there with billions—Plan Colombia—which would make Americans an obvious target, hmmm.  I remember the FARC captured three Americans several years ago and they only recently were rescued. There’s still a war going on!  I didn’t mention the narcotics trade with Colombia at its core. You know, cocaine, marijuana, the drug cartels? This could be a grave mistake. I should buy more insurance.
ColombiaWith Cartagena located on Colombia’s Caribbean coast, you can see why the drug trade starts here. Centrally located between the US and the cocaine growing parts of South America to its south, it’s a just short hop across the Caribbean and you’re in the drug import/export business.

Nonetheless, Cartagena is an architectural jewel. It has 500-year-old buildings and intact, original city walls—murallas—with intact bulwarks and towers, surrounding the entire original city. An official UNESCO World Heritage site, it also has Castillo San Felipe, the largest fort Spain ever built in the New World. It took 100 years to build and looms large over the city.

Flying in on Avianca, an airline that serves as the flag carrier of Colombia, getting free drinks, I’m thinking, “This may not be too bad. Drinking helps. “More whiskey, please?” Upon landing, the entire plane erupted in loud cheers and rapturous applause.

Though the taxi leaving the airport went through the nicest parts of the city, along beaches and the better neighborhoods near the water, I had a sinking feeling that I may not have made the wisest vacation choice. The beaches had dingy, coarse, mud-colored sand, and the weather was more humid than Charleston in August. The streets were garbage strewn, filled with questionable looking people. I didn’t notice the drug dealers or the prostitutes—both male and female—until later, as they generally come out at night. The taxi driver overcharged me and wanted a tip. Even getting a taxi was a pain, as everyone near the cab had an outstretched palm.

The place my wife Beth and I chose in advance was both windowless and airless. Pulling into the street of the hostel was a disappointment, to say the least. Again, hordes of people outside, wandering like zombie extras from “Shaun of the Dead.” One aging beggar had his hand out before I even had my bags. The street smelled like rancid garbage, gasoline, and spilled cheap liquor. The old city looked more like a crime-ridden dump than a UNESCO heritage site, but I resolved to wait out initial impressions. I gave the place a chance to impress, and it did—eventually.

Cartagena is a cultural cousin of Havana in geography, appearance, musically, and even the strange accents, where the locals drop not only endings but consonants as well. Here salsa is king, and nearby was the city’s most famous club, the Café Havana. People outside the club were dancing in the streets—one even dancing with a broomstick. I visited the club often, drinking fabulous mojitos—Cuban or Colombian rum only—and realized, This place rocks. Watching the teams of bartenders—mashing the mint leaves, adding double shots of rum, all done with  a flair—was worth the small cover. It looked like the place was brought over from Havana brick by brick.

I found other bars as well, all interesting, some dirt cheap—ice cold beers 60 cents each—to more classy types in the old city, like the intimate Via Apia, where every night is a party. You can live large like a tourist and drink at American prices or you can drink like a Colombian and drink heavily for next to nothing. Word of warning though: do not drink too much like a Colombian because when you get the cheap stuff from the corner gro, the bottles aren’t sealed and they sometimes add water or worse. When I bought rum at the corner store they would pull out a little paper cup and let me sample it. Many locals drink aguardiente, literally “firewater,” which, when good, tastes like licorice flavored swill—worse if you get the cheap stuff.
Cartagena Colombia
Our Spanish school, Nueva Lengua, was good. My teacher for three weeks, Daisy, was great. The school was more expensive than most in Latin America, and the teachers were uniformly excellent. Residing at the Swiss Residial (that’s its name—no sign on the street), we made friends, practiced our Spanish, figured out the local accents, and began frequenting clubs while exploring the city of two million and its surrounding countryside.

One excursion was visiting the Totumo Mud Volcano about an hour away. It’s a shabby, sad little volcano, maybe 150 feet tall. You walk to the top on some rickety stairs to the crater, filled entirely with mud and plop yourself in. It’s hundreds of feet deep but no one sinks. You lie on top and the local dudes give you a total rubdown and massage before you can escape. It’s pretty inexpensive, so you do it all and the locals expect and receive well-earned tips. After the mud rubdown you walk shakily to the nearby lagoon and the local women grab you, strip you, and wash the mud from you. When it’s over you feel shook up but better than when you started. Their beautiful lagoon where you wash the mud off is a polluted affair so you hold your breath as long as possible, never daring to swallow anything. Any money you happen to have on you during any of these processes is stealthily removed. Most of us left our valuables behind in a locked, guarded van.

In Cartagena we worried at first about crime in our neighborhood, Getsemani, not known for its safety after dark. Seemingly populated by shadowy characters; bums, drunks, drug dealers, hookers, beggars, and loud, screaming (sometimes singing) vendors and hucksters—people selling anything from coffee to Chiclets to jewelry.  It was cheesy yet romantic, just like the movies. It seemed like half the population was sleeping on sidewalks or in doorways. On one street there was an internet café next door to a love hotel—pay by the hour, please—and then a restaurant/bar with speakers blasting, then hookers, then the corner gro where beer was cheap and you drink outside and there was always a crowd of drunks, many already collapsed on sidewalks. Those places attracted hookers who smell easy money when they see it.  Drug dealers were added to the street mix, well spaced along the way. I didn’t notice them at first until my Spanish improved. Then I realized they were whispering, “Coca, marijuana, chicas, muchachos?”

Luckily, my personal reality was different. First, the crime problem is not as bad as it seems. Unlike most large South American cities, you really can wander around old Cartagena at night, even in our section, Getsemani, which is on the verge of gentrification. Once the street people see you more than once, they don’t bother you. The entire country, especially the touristy old city, has soldiers and police on every corner. Not oppressive figures, they say hello to you when they’re not on their cells talking to their girlfriends. All carry machine guns, at first disheartening, to say the least, but their job is just to be visible. The authorities don’t want tourists and travelers robbed, kidnapped, or raped, and the system works. As a result, the old city really jumps at night and you don’t need to take radio taxis at night like other Latin cities.

Armed with our improved Spanish, we continued exploring. Unlike our loaded Euro pals, Sebastien and Susanne, who opted for tours, we set out on our own. We headed north in the vicinity of Santa Marta, another old, historic Colombian city. Taking a break from the heat and humidity, we opted for the mountain village of Minca, fifteen miles into the Sierra Nevada above Santa Marta.

Up a huge hill, we rented a cozy cabin shaded by a fully loaded mango tree. Owned by a German expat named Cris, he explained, “They call me Cris, short for Cristobal, but my real name is Ronald. Why they don’t call me Ronaldo, I’ll never know.”

From our cabin hiking trails extended farther into the Sierra. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have dreamed of following trails like this in Colombia.  Talking to Cris, he said the rebel group FARC hasn’t been active here in ten years. “Last time they came through they broke into the local liquor store and stole 20 bottles of aguardiente. Eight years ago some tourists were kidnapped and killed (actually it was 2003) on the way to the Lost City, but it’s been quiet ever since. They just wanted people to know that they’re still around.”

Several days in the mountains brought cooler weather but the drawback was no hot water so we returned to the lowlands—the torrid zone—so at least cold water showers would be tolerable. After two days of torrential downpours and no electricity—we couldn’t even find our cabin after dark—we headed for small beach town/fishing village Taganga and then Tayrona National Park, farther up the coast.

Taganga was an enjoyable, tranquil, trippy place, but we left to visit the nearby tropical paradise of Tayrona National Park, as it was our mission to get off the grid. A fisherman took us in his boat, to the most distant part of the national park. Because of guerrilla activity, Tayrona Park is often closed by the Colombian authorities, seemingly at random, as they do not want any international “incidents.”  We got dropped off at what we thought was the most isolated part of the park, but it was crawling with backpackers. So much so that there was a water shortage, no showers and high prices for just renting a hammock in miserable, fetid conditions. I soaked my hat in cold water to cool my brow and someone yelled (in Spanish), “Stop wasting water!” We immediately hiked out, taking a trail to Arrecifes Beach, where we were pursued our agenda of hammock testing and beachcombing. Under every shade tree were tiny restaurants, juice stands, potato chip vendors, even horses and mules.

We continued our beachcombing—funny this was guerrilla territory not long ago—visiting a place called La Piscina—the Pool—where our touring Euro friends, Sebastien and Susanne found us. They say anything can happen in Colombia and it usually does, and this was a perfect example. We joined them on their tour, though we’d already covered the areas they were going. We decided to meet them later that evening at their hammock spot, located outside the park, in Los Angeles—Los Angeles, Colombia, that is.

We hiked out of the park, walking a good six miles through dense jungle foliage, dodging blood-sucking insects and horse, burro, and mule traffic, finally getting a ride near the end from a park service shuttle. We flagged down a local bus, Colombian style, on the highway to Los Angeles, and then it was another brief hike to our new hammocks at another palm-sheltered, secluded beach. When our friends finally showed up, after dark, they thoughtfully brought many cold Aguilas, the local brew.

Back in Cartagena, I learned to love the shabbiness, the sleaze, the music, the smells, the sultry ambience, the casual way the people dress. The local people are so happy seeing visitors that they shake your hand, telling you how brave you are to visit their country.
But, I still had some problems. Once, several delinquents jumped onto our slow-moving van as it slowed for a curve. We didn’t know if they were robbing us or just aiming for a free ride up the mountain. Another time someone grabbed me while I was walking alone down a dark Cartagena street, demanding money. I pushed him out of my way and just said no.

By then I had my favorite juice bar, the Ceiba, where they showed me pictures of fruits I never heard of, like maracuya and nispero. Their inexpensive juices, blended with milk, were an entire meal, rich and tasty. Though the Cartagena beaches were not good—crowded, polluted and filled with vendors—the only way to get away from them was staying in the water.  I finally found a rooftop pool that was spectacular, catching breezes and with a million dollar view. Too bad it was my last full day in seedy Cartagena.