Dear Diary: Five Days in the Most Colorful Town on Earth

I graduated from the University of Copenhagen in June with a degree in anthropology and absolutely no plan for what to do next. My friends were applying for master's programs and consulting jobs. I bought a flight to Bogota.

My mum thought I was being impulsive. My dad reminded me that he'd done the same thing after his degree — except his destination was Thailand in 1989, which he still calls "the best bad decision I ever made." I was hoping Colombia would be my version of that.

I'd been traveling for three weeks when I arrived in Jardín, and I was starting to feel something I hadn't expected: confidence. Not the fake, Instagram-caption kind. The real kind — the kind that comes from navigating bus terminals in a language you barely speak, from eating things you can't identify and loving them, from trusting strangers who turn out to be exactly as kind as they seem.

First Impressions

Nothing — no photo, no blog post, no travel vlog — can prepare you for the colors of Jardín. I stepped off the bus and my first thought was: did someone paint this town yesterday? Every building around the main plaza is a different shade of something vivid — turquoise, marigold, coral, lime. The window frames are painted in contrasting colors. Even the chairs in the park are multicolored. Coming from Copenhagen, where the palette runs from grey to slightly different grey, it felt like stepping into a children's book illustration.

I found Hostel Isla de Pascua through another backpacker's recommendation, and checking in felt like arriving at a friend's house. The staff greeted me by name — I'd booked by email — and showed me to a dorm bed that was cleaner and more comfortable than half the hotels I'd stayed in. There was a pool. A pool! In a hostel! In a mountain town! I wrote in my journal that night: "I think I've found a place where I might stay longer than planned."

The Market That Changed My Morning

On my second day, I woke up early and walked to the Saturday market. I should say here that I'm not a morning person. In Copenhagen, I'd sleep until noon on weekends and consider anything before 10am an act of violence. But something about Jardín rewires your internal clock. Maybe it's the roosters. Maybe it's the light. Maybe it's the fact that the best things happen early.

The market was overwhelming in the best possible way. Towers of tropical fruits I'd never seen before — lulo, guanábana, granadilla. Women selling fresh arepas on griddles, the corn smell mixing with coffee and wood smoke. A man with a cart of hand-carved wooden spoons. Another selling fresh cheese wrapped in banana leaves. I bought a bag of mandarins for about fifty cents and sat on the church steps eating them, juice running down my chin, watching the town come alive.

I wrote four pages in my journal that morning. I described every color, every smell, every sound. I tried to capture the way the light fell on the Basilica's stone facade, turning it gold. I failed, but the trying was the point.

The Locals

In Denmark, we have a concept called "janteloven" — the unwritten rule that you shouldn't think you're special or stand out. It makes us reserved, polite, a little distant. Colombians — and particularly the people of Jardín — are the complete opposite of janteloven, and it was the most beautiful culture shock I've ever experienced.

People here talk to you. Not in the "trying to sell you something" way I'd encountered in bigger cities, but in a genuine, curious, "where are you from and what do you think of our town?" way. A woman at a tienda invited me to sit down and taught me how to play tejo — the traditional Colombian game where you throw metal discs at small packets of gunpowder. When I hit my first target and it exploded with a satisfying bang, the entire bar cheered. I felt like I'd won an Olympic medal.

The señora who ran a small restaurant near the plaza noticed I came back three days in a row and started greeting me with "¡Mi danesa!" — my Danish girl. She made me try bandeja paisa, explaining each component with pride: the beans, the rice, the chicharrón, the plantain, the avocado, the egg. It was enormous. It was incredible. I ate every bite.

Solo Travel and Finding My People

I'd been nervous about traveling alone. My parents were nervous. My friends sent articles about safety. But here's what nobody tells you about solo travel in a place like Jardín: you're never really alone unless you want to be.

At Isla de Pascua, the common areas are designed for connection. The pool terrace, the garden hammocks, the shared kitchen — they're all spaces where conversations start naturally. On my second night, I met a group of travelers who were planning to hike to a waterfall the next day. By the third day, we were a little family — sharing meals, swapping book recommendations, staying up too late talking about our lives back home.

There was something powerful about being far from everything familiar and realizing that I could build community from scratch. That I was interesting enough, brave enough, capable enough to navigate this on my own. My journal entry from that night says simply: "I think I'm going to be okay."

The Things I'll Carry Home

On my last morning, I walked around Jardín alone. I visited the Basilica one more time and sat inside, listening to the silence. I bought a hand-woven basket from a local artisan as a gift for my mum — the cestería tradition here goes back generations. I took one more walk along the river and let the sound of the water fill the space where my anxiety usually lives.

I came to South America looking for something, though I couldn't have told you what. I think I found it in Jardín. Not a revelation, not an epiphany — something quieter and more lasting. I found evidence that the world is bigger, warmer, and more colorful than my small Nordic corner of it had led me to believe. I found proof that I can be brave. That strangers can become friends in a day. That a bowl of soup and a genuine smile can feel like the greatest luxury on earth.

I'm writing this from a bus heading to the coast, and I already miss Jardín the way you miss a person, not a place. I'll come back. I'm sure of it now. But for the moment, I'll carry the colors with me — marigold, turquoise, coral — stitched into the lining of a confidence I didn't have eight weeks ago.

To every recent graduate wondering what comes next: maybe the answer isn't another application. Maybe it's a bus ticket to a town you've never heard of, in a country that will surprise you in ways your degree never could.