Let me say this first, because the internet is weird and people love to misunderstand tone:

I love Colombia.

I’ve lived here for more than five years. I’m not leaving. I’m not “fed up.” I’m not doing one of those dramatic expat confessionals where somebody films themselves in soft lighting and says, “I need to tell you the truth about life abroad.”

No.

This is home.

But Colombia has some things in it that would trigger an American lawsuit so fast the paperwork would be filed before lunch.

And once you’ve lived here long enough, you start noticing them everywhere.

Not in a scared way.

Not even really in an angry way.

More in a “wow, America really did decide nobody can be trusted with anything ever” kind of way.

Because that’s the real contrast.

In the United States, we have built a civilization based on the assumption that every object is trying to kill us and that at least one person will help it.

So we wrote a law for every railing, every outlet, every stair, every ladder, every window, every wet surface, every vaguely pointy object, and every possible moment of bad judgment.

We have regulations to protect the careless.

Regulations to protect the unlucky.

Regulations to protect the guy who thought flip-flops and a folding chair were a safe way to clean his gutters.

Colombia, on the other hand, looked at all of that and said something closer to:

“You’re an adult. Figure it out.”

And honestly?

There’s something kind of amazing about that.

So here are ten things in Colombia that would be illegal in the United States by noon.

Not next year.

Not after a committee review.

Not after a city council study.

By noon.

In the United States, balcony railings are serious business.

They have code.

Measurements.

Inspectors.

Liability language.

And some poor contractor somewhere knows exactly how many inches tall a railing must be because someone once leaned too hard in 1978 and a law was born.

In Colombia?

My balcony railing is basically at hip level.

That’s not me exaggerating for comedy. That is me standing on my balcony six stories up and realizing that in America this entire structure would require a legal team, a permit revision, and probably a local news segment titled Are Our Buildings Safe?

Here, people lean on these railings.

They put drinks on them.

They host parties next to them.

They casually exist around them without carrying the same deep, institutional fear Americans have been trained to carry around anything elevated.

And somehow, mostly, everyone survives.

Which really does force an uncomfortable question:

Are Colombians more balanced?

Or are Americans just exceptionally torpe?

I don’t know.

I’m just saying one country wrote federal-height laws, and the other one trusted vibes.

American windows are controlled.

They open a little.

They stop.

They allow in air and not much else.

They are designed by a society that assumes if a window can open 100%, eventually someone will try to exit through it by accident, stupidity, or a very bad Tuesday.

Colombian windows?

They open like doors.

Wide.

All the way.

Fully committed.

And on a high floor, that means you are standing next to a full human-sized opening into the atmosphere.

No little safety stop.

No cautious half-open American logic.

No “for your protection” plastic limiter.

Just air.

Space.

Consequences.

And depending on where you are in Colombia, there might not even be a screen.

So in Bogotá, that mostly means fresh air and no problem because the altitude keeps mosquito drama low.

In warmer places, it means you are now sharing your room with nature on whatever terms nature prefers.

In the U.S., if a building had windows this open on a high floor, there would be disclaimers, warning stickers, and likely one lawyer somewhere whispering, “This is our moment.”

In Colombia, the window is just doing what a window does.

It opens.

If you want to understand how different the two countries are, just walk.

American sidewalks are expected to be even, predictable, and legally boring.

A slight lip in the concrete?

Potential problem.

A crack?

City complaint.

A sudden drop?

Class action energy.

In Colombia, sidewalks are more like obstacle courses with civic ambition.

One section is brick.

The next is tile.

The next is uneven concrete.

Then a random slope.

Then a dip into a driveway.

Then a step you didn’t see.

Then a section that simply stops believing in continuity.

Sometimes a sidewalk doesn’t end so much as lose interest.

And then there are the signposts.

Or more accurately, the remains of signposts.

A sign gets removed, but instead of removing the whole post, someone cuts it a foot above the ground and leaves behind a metal stake aimed directly at your future tetanus booster.

These things are everywhere.

And if this sounds like I’m overdoing it, I promise you I’m not.

You can walk through Bogotá and see six separate things in ten minutes that would shut down an American municipal department for weeks.

In Colombia, you just keep walking.

Carefully.

In America, a manhole cover is one of those invisible things you don’t think about unless a ninja turtle comes up through it.

Because it’s there.

It stays there.

It belongs there.

In Colombia, there are times when the cover used to be there.

Past tense.

Because metal has value, and sometimes the cover becomes someone else’s solution to a different problem.

So now there is just… a hole.

In the sidewalk.

In the road.

In the park.

In the middle of what was supposed to be ordinary walking.

No cone.

No flashing barrier.

No dramatic municipal response.

Just a hole and the expectation that you will notice it before your leg does.

This is the kind of thing that would cause a full public meltdown in the U.S.

An emergency work order.

Three agencies blaming each other.

A local TV crew.

Maybe a city hotline.

In Colombia, it’s more like:

“Yeah, watch out there.”

That’s the system.

This one took me a while to fully appreciate, which somehow makes it worse.

In American cities, fire escapes are part of the visual language.

They’re in movies.

They’re in TV shows.

They’re in the mental architecture of what a city building is supposed to have.

In Colombia?

Not really.

A lot of buildings just don’t have fire escapes.

And that would already make Americans nervous.

But then add the bars on the windows.

Which means the stairs are the plan.

That’s it.

That’s the whole emergency philosophy.

Primary route: stairs.

Secondary route: also stairs.

Tertiary route: I guess we all become more spiritual very quickly.

Now, obviously, buildings have internal systems, and obviously life here is not a nonstop disaster movie. But to an American brain trained on multiple backup pathways, diagrams, evacuation routes, and worst-case planning, it’s hard not to notice that a lot of Colombian buildings seem to have made one very clear strategic decision:

“We believe in the stairs.”

And honestly, that’s more confidence than I personally have.

America has potholes.

Colombia has geological episodes.

I’m not talking about those annoying little tire-thump potholes that make you mutter something rude and keep driving.

I’m talking about potholes that feel old enough to have history.

Potholes that could absolutely swallow a small car if given the emotional opportunity.

And what really separates the countries is the response.

In the U.S., a pothole gets reported.

There are forms.

There are complaints.

Someone in public works is now having a difficult day.

In Colombia, if a pothole gets big enough, sometimes a local guy just fills it himself and asks for tips.

That is not satire.

That is community problem-solving with a shovel.

And speed bumps?

Those often aren’t painted either.

So you don’t discover them visually.

You discover them spiritually.

In the U.S., electricity is treated like a known threat.

Everything is regulated.

Outlets near water are protected.

Panels are labeled like aircraft controls.

Inspectors exist specifically to stop people from doing exactly what they are most likely to do.

In Colombia, electricity often feels more like an agreement.

A loose but ongoing agreement between you, the building, and forces not fully explained.

There are old outlets.

Extension cords.

Power strips plugged into power strips.

Entire rooms running off what appears to be one heroic electrical decision made years ago and never revisited.

And yet a lot of it just… works.

Not because Americans are wrong to regulate things.

But because Colombia is constantly reminding you that much of what Americans consider unthinkably unsafe is, here, just normal life that nobody writes speeches about.

That doesn’t mean I recommend getting casual with electricity.

It does mean the threshold for “this would never be allowed” gets crossed a lot faster here than it does in the U.S.

American stairs are standardized.

Every step is supposed to be basically the same because somewhere, sometime, someone proved that humans do best when the staircase does not suddenly improvise.

Colombian stairs?

They have personality.

The first step is one height.

The second is another.

Then a shorter one.

Then one that feels strangely deep.

Then one that barely qualifies as a step.

Then maybe the handrail disappears halfway down because apparently the wall got tired.

Using some staircases in Colombia is not walking.

It’s adapting.

You learn quickly that stairs here can be less of a system and more of a conversation.

And once again, this is where the American and Colombian philosophies split beautifully:

America says,

“Let us eliminate every possible inconsistency before someone gets hurt.”

Colombia says,

“Watch where you’re going.”

Neither system is entirely wrong.

One is just a lot more relaxed.

Colombia is stunning.

That is one of the great truths of this country.

Mountains, overlooks, dramatic landscapes, trails that make you stop and think, “This is absurdly beautiful.”

And then you look right and realize the trail is now six inches from a cliff with no railing, no warning sign, and a local family calmly eating snacks like death is something that happens to other people.

In the U.S., this kind of trail would have barriers, notices, closure tape, liability boards, and probably at least one dramatic phrase about your personal responsibility.

In Colombia, the view is the view.

The trail is the trail.

And the cliff is making no promises.

There is something almost refreshing about the honesty of it.

No one is pretending nature has been made safe.

It hasn’t.

You are in it.

Act accordingly.

And weirdly, that can feel more respectful than the American tendency to wrap every natural risk in signage until the wilderness starts to feel like an HR department.

Now we come back to the tetanus situation.

In the United States, healthcare is a maze.

You need the right provider, the right network, the right referral, the right paperwork, the right mood, and perhaps a blood oath with your insurer before anyone touches you with a needle.

In Colombia, you can walk into a pharmacy — a droguería — explain what’s wrong, and there is a very real chance you leave with both the medicine and the treatment.

Sometimes this includes injections.

Sometimes in the back room.

Sometimes behind a curtain.

Sometimes with less theatrical buildup than getting a sandwich made in the U.S.

And the amazing part is not just that this happens.

It’s that it is treated as completely ordinary.

Because here, the pharmacy is not just a place that sells things.

It’s part of the treatment chain.

In America, this would create so many licensing questions that no one would sleep for a month.

In Colombia, it’s Tuesday.

And somehow, once you get over the shock of it, part of you starts to appreciate the efficiency.

It would be easy to turn this into a joke about Colombia being reckless and America being civilized.

But that would miss the deeper point entirely.

What this really reveals is that the two countries have profoundly different relationships with risk.

America has tried to engineer bad outcomes out of existence.

Colombia has accepted that bad outcomes exist and expects adults to navigate them.

America believes safety should be designed into everything.

Colombia believes common sense should still be part of the system.

Now, obviously, neither model is perfect.

American overregulation can become absurd.

Colombian underprotection can become very real, very fast.

But when you live abroad long enough, you start to notice that the American way is not “normal.”

It’s just American.

And the Colombian way is not “chaotic.”

It’s just built on different assumptions about adulthood, responsibility, and how much hand-holding society is supposed to provide.

That’s one of the most useful things about living outside your home country.

You stop assuming your defaults are universal.

I’m not saying Colombia should become more dangerous.

I’m not saying America should start handing out balcony railings that end at your thigh and calling it character.

I’m just saying this:

There is something strangely clarifying about living in a place where the world has not been padded for your protection.

You walk differently.

You notice more.

You assume less.

You rely a little more on your own judgment.

And sometimes, honestly, that feels good.

Not because danger is fun.

But because adulthood feels a little more real when society isn’t trying to bubble-wrap every staircase, outlet, cliff, and sidewalk crack into submission.

Colombia has plenty of things that would be illegal in America by noon.

And yet, somehow, life keeps moving.

People keep laughing.

The sidewalks remain chaotic.

The pharmacies remain bold.

And everybody seems more or less fine.

Maybe not because the system is safer.

But because the people inside it are still expected to participate in their own survival.

That’s a very different kind of society.

And once you’ve lived in it, you see the United States a little differently forever.