Honeymoon, Hostel-Style: Why We Chose Jardín Over a Beach Resort

When we told people we were spending our honeymoon in a hostel in rural Colombia, the reactions ranged from polite confusion to genuine concern. My mother asked if we'd "considered Bali." Max's best mate texted, "Mate, you're meant to CELEBRATE marriage, not punish it." Even our travel agent gave us a look that said, "I've failed you both."

But here's the thing — and we say this seven days in, sunburned, slightly over-caffeinated, and more in love than the day we got married — Jardín was the best honeymoon decision we've ever made. And yes, we stayed in a hostel. And yes, it was perfect.

How We Got Here

A bit of context: Max and I met in a hostel in Vietnam four years ago. I was a nurse from Melbourne on a gap year. He was a tradie from Perth who'd saved up for six months of backpacking. We bonded over a terrible game of pool and a mutual distrust of anyone who packs more than one pair of shoes. We've been together since.

So when the wedding was done and the question of "where to honeymoon" came up, fancy resorts felt wrong. We didn't fall in love over room service and infinity pools. We fell in love over shared dorms and bad Wi-Fi and the thrill of discovering somewhere new together. We wanted a honeymoon that felt like us.

Colombia was Max's idea. "South America," he said, scrolling through flights. "Somewhere with mountains and coffee and no one we know." Jardín appeared in a blog post about Colombia's hidden gems, and the photos sealed it. When we found Hostel Isla de Pascua and saw they had private rooms with mountain views, a pool, and a garden that looked like something from a romance novel, we booked seven nights without hesitation.

The Private Room

Let's address the elephant in the room: yes, you can have a romantic honeymoon in a hostel. Isla de Pascua's private rooms are gorgeous — clean, comfortable, with wooden furniture and windows that open to the mountains. We woke up every morning to birdsong and the smell of coffee drifting up from the kitchen. No alarm clock. No itinerary. Just the two of us and the slow, golden mornings of a Colombian mountain town.

The key is the balance. We had our private space when we wanted it, but the hostel's common areas gave us the social energy we love about traveling. We'd spend mornings alone — reading in the garden, swimming in the pool, being disgustingly romantic over breakfast — and evenings with the other travelers, sharing bottles of wine and stories on the terrace.

The Horseback Ride

On day three, we booked a horseback riding trip through the hills outside Jardín, and I'm going to be dramatic about this: it was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.

The horses were calm and well-cared-for, led by a local guide named Diego who seemed to communicate with his horse through telepathy. We rode through coffee plantations, along ridgelines with views that stretched to the horizon, and down into a valley where the only sounds were hooves on earth and birds calling from the canopy.

At one point, we stopped at the top of a hill and Diego pointed to the valley below. "Jardín," he said simply. And there it was — the whole town spread out beneath us, the Basilica's spire catching the sunlight, the patchwork of green fields and red roofs, the river winding through like a silver ribbon. Max squeezed my hand. I cried a little. Diego pretended not to notice, which was very gentlemanly of him.

The Food

We came for the mountains but we might go home for the food. Every meal in Jardín was an event.

The trucha — fresh trout from the local rivers — is worth the flight from Australia alone. We had it grilled with garlic and lime at a tiny restaurant near the plaza, served with coconut rice and a salad that tasted like the garden it came from. We had it again the next day. And the next.

But the revelation was the local food culture beyond the restaurants. A woman at the market made us arepas de choclo — sweet corn cakes filled with cheese — that were so good Max tried to propose to her. (I reminded him he was already married. To me.) We discovered dulce de guayaba, a dense guava paste that pairs with fresh cheese in a combination so perfect it should be illegal. We drank fresh-squeezed juices every morning — lulo, maracuyá, mora — and I developed a passion for agua de panela with lime that I will carry to my grave.

One evening, the hostel organized a group dinner in the garden. Someone had cooked a massive pot of sancocho — a Colombian stew with chicken, plantain, corn, and potatoes — and we all sat at a long table under string lights and ate together. Max said it was "better than our wedding reception," and he wasn't wrong. The food was simpler, the company was warmer, and nobody asked us when we were planning to have children.

The Simple Pleasures

Here's what I want other couples to know: romance doesn't require champagne and rose petals. Romance is Max bringing me coffee in bed because he woke up first and found the kitchen. Romance is sharing a hammock and reading in silence for two hours. Romance is watching the sunset from the hostel terrace, wrapped in a blanket, while the mountains turn purple and gold.

We spent an afternoon at a coffee farm learning how beans go from plant to cup, and there was something deeply romantic about learning something new together — about sharing the experience of discovery. We hiked to a viewpoint above town and got caught in a rainstorm, sheltering under a tree and laughing like idiots while the rain pounded the leaves around us. We slow-danced in the plaza at night to music coming from a bar, and an old couple sitting nearby smiled at us and raised their glasses.

These moments cost nothing. They required nothing but being present, being together, and being in a place beautiful enough to make presence feel like a gift.

Why a Hostel Worked

People assume hostels are for broke backpackers in their early twenties. Some are. But Isla de Pascua isn't that kind of place. It's the kind of hostel that understands travelers come in all shapes — solo adventurers, couples, families, digital nomads, honeymooners who prefer authenticity over luxury.

The private room gave us our space. The common areas gave us community. The pool gave us afternoon bliss. The staff gave us recommendations that no travel app could match — the best bakery, the secret swimming hole, the restaurant where the owner's grandmother still makes the recipes.

We spent a fraction of what a resort honeymoon would have cost, and we had ten times the experience. We didn't just visit Jardín — we lived in it, ate from it, laughed in it, and fell more in love because of it.

The Verdict

Seven nights later, we're leaving Jardín with full hearts, full stomachs, and a phone full of photos that look like they belong in a travel magazine but actually just capture two sunburned Australians being absurdly happy in the most beautiful small town in Colombia.

To every couple planning a honeymoon: skip the brochures. Forget the overwater bungalows. Find a mountain town with good coffee, better food, and a hostel with a private room and a pool. Then do absolutely nothing, beautifully, for as long as you can.

We'll be back. Probably for our anniversary. And the one after that. Max has already started saving.