After just two boutique hotel misfires, Elenka found a Heavenly roost in Cartagena, called Pierre Casa Boutique. We’re now staying in a lovely big room in an old colonial building. Just outside our bedroom door, there’s a courtyard, where plants grow and lizards frolic in the greenery. Because suites at the Pierre Casa Boutique Lux Villa are barely advertised, customers are few. This gem has just seven rooms, so we have the swimming pool pretty much to ourselves.

Yesterday morning Elenka and I breakfasted with the only other guests, a group of four. The meal commenced with just us and the two elders of the four. After smiles were exchanged, Elenka started off by telling them we were from Canada. They simply nodded their heads. Did they dislike Canadians? Or was it a language issue? Under such circumstance I always use the same three words. 

‘Where you from?’ I said.

The woman said Germany, to which I responded with a short sentence, in German. She then turned and started talking softly to her husband. I told Elenka to play with the fruit on her plate for awhile. I needed to hear the words they spoke. The short, clipped sentences they used were not German. 

Fifteen minutes later, the woman’s maybe 40 year-old daughter, along with her husband arrived. After nameless introductions, Elenka asked the daughter if mommy was from Germany. The definitely non-German daughter told her yes. As the daughter was about to turn her head, I jumped in saying, ‘We asked because your mother’s words sound sort of like Portuguese, maybe?’ For that I got nothing more than a nervous glance.

Then the daughter’s husband jumped in, maybe to show his excellent command of English. This was a man, perhaps of East Indian descent, but his accent was thick Spanish. As the conversation or rather his preaching about Latin America went on, he explained to us that planned murder never occurs within the coveted walls of Old Town Cartagena.

Still wondering about the group of four, this morning I wore my Bayern München football jersey to breakfast. If a German sat at our table, the jersey was sure to be pointed out. Not a stir was seen  or heard.

Today, the talkative one spoke on less scary topics. While the man’s been here, there and just about everywhere else in the world, he has lived in the Dominican Republic for a number of years. He explained that roughly half the population of the D.R. are white, while the other half are Black. He said, be they Black or white, the entire nation considers themselves to be one and same, pure Dominican Republicans. I was about to give him a ya sure response, but he started in again, saying that many Black and white men from the northern part of the Americas (US and Canada) travel to the D.R. in search of exotic sex. He told us that when the non-prostitute Spanish speaking women are approached by sex seekers it oftentimes becomes funny. Because the procurers won’t understand what the women are saying, it’s common to hear them jokingly yell, laugh and/or scream about how they would never, ever have sex with a Black or white gringo. 

In the Dominican Republic it’s all about your Nationality, not the colour of your skin. While it does demonstrate an unjust prejudice toward many USAers and Canadians alike, I did find the topic both interesting and thoughtful.