Christmas in Jardín: Kevin & Linda's Story from Chicago

Linda here. Well, Linda and Kevin, but let's be honest — I'm the one who's going to do most of the talking. Kevin will jump in when he has something to add. He always does.

(Kevin: She's right. I do.)

We are both sixty-three years old. We retired last year — Kevin from thirty-five years of teaching high school history, me from twenty-eight years of nursing. Our kids gave us a trip to Colombia for our retirement gift, which, I'll tell you, was a bit of a surprise. We were expecting maybe a cruise to Alaska. Our daughter Emily said, "Mom, Dad, it's time you saw something that isn't the Midwest." She wasn't wrong, but Colombia? We had to look it up on a map. I'm not proud of that, but I'm being honest.

We spent a few days in Medellín first, which was lovely but very big and very loud. Then our Airbnb host said, "If you want to see the real Colombia, go to Jardín for Christmas." She helped us book the bus and a room at Isla de Pascua hostel. When she said "hostel," I looked at Kevin and Kevin looked at me and we both thought: aren't we about forty years too old for hostels?

(Kevin: We were wrong. Very, very wrong.)

First Impressions: Oh My Goodness

The bus ride was an experience in itself. Four hours of mountain roads that made Kevin grip the armrest like his life depended on it. But the scenery — good Lord, the scenery. I kept smacking Kevin's arm and saying "Look at THAT" until he asked me to please stop hitting him.

When we arrived at Isla de Pascua, I think my exact words were: "Kevin, this is not what I expected a hostel to be." It was gorgeous. Gardens everywhere, mountain views that belong in a painting, and a pool — a pool! The room was clean and comfortable, the staff spoke enough English to help us out (our Spanish is limited to "gracias" and "dos cervezas, por favor"), and everyone was just so... kind.

That first evening, we walked down to the main plaza and I actually gasped. The Christmas decorations were up and the entire square was glowing. Lights wrapped around every tree, the Basilica lit up like a cathedral from a fairy tale, and families were out everywhere — kids running, couples walking, old folks sitting in those adorable painted chairs. Kevin bought us two cups of hot chocolate from a street vendor, and we sat there watching the town sparkle, and I thought: Emily, you genius.

The Novenas

Now, I grew up Catholic in the South Side of Chicago, so I know a thing or two about Christmas traditions. But I was not prepared for the novenas in Jardín.

For anyone who doesn't know (I didn't until the hostel staff explained it), the novenas are nine nights of prayer and celebration leading up to Christmas. Every evening, people gather — sometimes in homes, sometimes in the plaza, sometimes at the church — to pray, sing villancicos (Christmas carols), and eat. Especially eat.

Our second night, the hostel arranged for us to attend a novena at a local family's home. Kevin and I walked into this house full of strangers and within five minutes, someone had put a plate of buñuelos in my hands and a cup of natilla in Kevin's, and a little girl was pulling me by the hand to come sing.

(Kevin: The buñuelos. Linda, tell them about the buñuelos.)

The buñuelos. Oh, the buñuelos. These little fried cheese balls that are somehow crispy on the outside and soft on the inside and I ate approximately eleven of them. The grandmother of the family kept bringing more and saying "Coma, coma" — eat, eat — and I was powerless to refuse. Kevin counted. Eleven.

We didn't understand most of the prayers or songs, but it didn't matter. We clapped when everyone clapped, hummed when everyone hummed, and by the end of the night, the family patriarch was teaching Kevin to play tejo in the backyard while I helped the women in the kitchen make empanadas. My empanada-folding technique was terrible. They loved me anyway.

The Food (Kevin's Section)

(Kevin here. Linda said I could have one section. I'm using it for food.)

Listen, I'm a meat-and-potatoes guy from Chicago. I like a good hot dog, a good deep-dish pizza, and a good steak. I was not expecting to have some of the best meals of my life in a tiny mountain town in Colombia.

The trout. They serve trout everywhere in Jardín and it is always fresh, always perfectly prepared, always accompanied by these incredible sides — patacones (fried plantains that changed my understanding of what a side dish could be), rice and beans that are somehow better than any rice and beans I've had anywhere, and avocado. Avocado with everything. I'm not complaining.

We went to several of the restaurants around the plaza and never had a bad meal. Not once. And the prices — Linda, back me up here — the prices are almost embarrassing. We had a full dinner for two with drinks for less than twenty dollars. In Chicago, that doesn't get you an appetizer.

The dulces deserve special mention. These are traditional sweets — made from guava, coconut, arequipe (a caramel that should be illegal), and other things I can't remember because I was too busy eating them. Linda bought a box to bring home and then ate half of it on the bus back to Medellín. I'm not judging. I ate the other half.

(Linda: He's judging. But the dulces were worth it.)

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve in Jardín was unlike anything we've ever experienced, and we've had sixty-three Christmas Eves each.

The plaza was packed. Families everywhere. Music from every direction — a band playing traditional Colombian Christmas music, kids with tambourines, someone with a guitar. The Basilica was lit up and there was a Mass that we attended even though we understood maybe ten percent of it. The music during Mass was beautiful — not the solemn organ music of our church back home, but joyful, rhythmic, with drums and flutes. Kevin had tears in his eyes. He'll deny it.

(Kevin: I won't deny it. It was beautiful.)

After Mass, we went back to Isla de Pascua where the staff and guests had organized a small Christmas gathering. There was music, there was aguardiente (a licorice-flavored spirit that Kevin took two sips of and declared "interesting," which is Kevin-speak for "I will never drink this again"), and there was the most incredible sense of community. People from six different countries, sitting around in a hostel in the Colombian mountains, celebrating Christmas together. A young woman from France played guitar. A couple from Brazil sang. Kevin told his famous (to us) story about the time he accidentally set the Thanksgiving turkey on fire, and even though half the people there didn't speak English, they laughed at his gestures.

We called our kids on Christmas morning from the hostel garden, surrounded by flowers and hummingbirds, and when Emily asked how we were doing, I said, "Honey, this is the best Christmas present you've ever given us." She cried. I cried. Kevin pretended he wasn't crying. The hummingbird at the feeder did not cry but seemed supportive.

What Surprised Us Most

We expected beautiful scenery. We got it. We expected good food. We got it beyond our wildest imagination. What we didn't expect was how welcome we felt.

We are two white-haired Americans who speak approximately four words of Spanish and look exactly like what we are — retired Midwesterners who are slightly confused by everything. And yet, everywhere we went in Jardín, people went out of their way to help us, include us, feed us. The woman at the fruit stand who patiently taught me the names of fruits I'd never seen. The old man in the plaza who challenged Kevin to a game of checkers and beat him soundly while laughing the entire time. The hostel staff who drew us a map of town with little stars marking their favorite spots.

This is what travel is supposed to be. Not checking boxes on a list, but being genuinely changed by a place and its people.

Our Advice (From Two People Who Thought They Were Too Old for This)

1. You're not too old for a hostel. Especially not Isla de Pascua. Get a private room if you want privacy, but don't skip the communal spaces. That's where the magic happens.

2. Come for Christmas. If you can swing it, Christmas in Jardín is extraordinary. The decorations, the novenas, the community — it's Christmas the way it's supposed to feel.

3. Eat everything. Budget calories, not money. The food is cheap and magnificent. Try the trout, try the buñuelos, try the dulces, try the bandeja paisa. Tell your diet you're on vacation.

4. Learn some Spanish. We barely spoke any and still had a wonderful time, but I wish we'd learned more. The locals appreciate the effort.

5. Don't rush. We had five nights and it was perfect. Jardín isn't about seeing everything — it's about feeling everything.

To Emily, Jake, and little Sophie back in Chicago: thank you for pushing us out of our comfort zone. To Isla de Pascua and the people of Jardín: thank you for making two clueless Americans feel like family.

We'll be back. Kevin's already looking at flights.

(Kevin: I am. The buñuelos are calling.)

— Kevin & Linda, back in the cold but warmed by the memories