I’ve lived in apartments my whole life.

I thought I understood the concept.

You get a kitchen with an oven.
A bathroom with the light switch inside the bathroom like civilized people intended.
A washing machine inside the apartment.
A front door with one lock.
Maybe two if somebody in the building had trust issues.

That was my framework.
That was my model.
That was, as far as I knew, what an apartment was.

Then I moved to Colombia.

And within about a week, I realized I had apparently been living under a deeply regional interpretation of domestic life.

Because Colombian apartments are not wrong.
They are not broken.
They are not dangerous.
They are just designed as if someone took the general idea of “apartment,” translated it through a completely different cultural logic, and then committed to that logic with absolute confidence.

And I say all of this with affection.

I genuinely do.

Because once you’ve been here long enough, you stop seeing these things as strange and start seeing them as normal. But in the beginning? In the beginning, they will absolutely confuse you, concern you, or make you question what you thought you knew about buildings.

So if you’re an American — or really anyone coming from a more North American apartment model — here are ten things about Colombian apartments that will make you pause, adapt, and eventually laugh at yourself for ever thinking your version was universal.

This one really gets Americans.

Because in Colombia, many apartments come with what’s called a cuarto de servicio — a maid’s room.

Now, if you’re American, that phrase does not land casually.

If a normal apartment in the U.S. came with dedicated household staff quarters, that would not be treated like a standard real-estate feature. That would be a sign that either the house belonged to someone very wealthy, very old-money, or both. That’s not “middle-class apartment bonus room” territory. That’s “your family has a crest” territory.

In Colombia?

It can just be there.

A perfectly regular apartment.
A pretty normal layout.
And then, tucked somewhere off to the side, a small extra room with its own tiny bathroom, like the apartment expected domestic staff to be part of the design logic from the beginning.

And often, that little bathroom is so compact it feels like it was designed by someone trying to save square footage with moral determination. Toilet, showerhead, maybe a sink, maybe just the memory of a sink.

At first you stare at it because your brain has no category for “unexpected servant quarter.”
Then, like every foreigner before you, you eventually turn it into an office, storage room, or awkward little guest setup.

The apartment had a plan for that room.
You just arrived later to the conversation.

American kitchens are dramatic now.

They want to be seen.
They want open concept.
They want islands.
They want bar stools and pendant lighting and an audience.

Colombian kitchens, on the other hand, tend to feel more private. More compact. More… determined to exist without needing your admiration.

A lot of them are closed-off rooms rather than wide open social zones. And the counter space often feels like it was designed for people who make fast, efficient decisions and do not need twelve surface areas to prove they’re cooking seriously.

You get enough space for maybe two actions at a time.
You can chop something or set something down.
You choose.
The kitchen believes in decisive people.

And then comes the oven situation.

There may not be one.

Not a small oven.
Not a weird oven.
Not an oven hidden in some clever European drawer.
Just… no oven.

You get a stovetop.
Sometimes four burners.
And the apartment kind of looks at you like, What more were you planning to do in here?

This confused me at first until I realized something important:
Colombia has bakeries everywhere.

Like, everywhere.

There is almost always some place nearby making bread, pastries, snacks, things that in the U.S. might push people toward home baking simply because the neighborhood is not doing enough for them.

In Colombia, the neighborhood is the oven.

So the apartment outsourced that function to the block and never felt the need to apologize.

This is one of the most Colombian combinations imaginable.

Every window has bars.

Metal bars.
Decorative bars.
Serious bars.
Bars that say, “We have thought about security.”

And then:
no screens.

So the apartment has absolutely committed to keeping out certain categories of intruder while giving mosquitoes a completely open invitation to participate in your evening.

That is a very specific design philosophy.

The bars make sense once you’ve lived in Colombia a bit. They’re normal. They’re part of the built environment. But the lack of screens is what really surprises North Americans, because in our mental framework, those two things should be connected.

They are not.

And then there’s the curtain situation.

A lot of Colombian apartments do not come with curtains, rods, or blinds. Nothing. Just naked windows, bars, full sunlight, and a view straight into your unprepared soul at 5:30 in the morning.

Which means your first week often includes some deeply unserious temporary curtain engineering. Tape. Sheets. Improvised blackout systems that collapse at 3:00 a.m. and leave you waking up at sunrise like you live on a chicken farm.

Eventually you learn that curtains here are often handled through specialized shops. Someone comes out. Measures. You choose fabric. They make them. You wait.

It’s a whole process.

The apartment gave you bars.
The rest is between you and the curtain people.

This one feels like a betrayal to foreigners.

You see the balcony and immediately imagine the lifestyle:
a small chair,
some plants,
morning coffee,
late-afternoon air,
maybe a little reflective moment as the city wakes up.

Colombia says:
No.
That is where the washing machine lives.

On the balcony.
Outside.
Just fully committed to the weather and its own destiny.

And if you’re coming from a U.S. apartment culture where the washer and dryer are either hidden in a closet, tucked in a utility room, or at least kept indoors like beloved appliances deserve, this takes a minute.

But the real adjustment is not the washing machine.

It’s the fact that there’s usually no dryer.

None.

The system is:
wash,
then hang everything on a drying rack,
then wait,
then become a meteorologist against your will.

In Bogotá especially, this becomes a whole relationship. The sky matters now. Your shirt availability is directly linked to cloud behavior. Whether you can wear something tomorrow depends entirely on whether the city gave you enough drying conditions today.

I never used to think about drying time.
Now I have opinions about humidity.

That is what Colombia did to me.

In the U.S., hot water lives in a tank.

A big white cylinder in some closet, basement, or utility corner. You don’t think about it. It just exists. Quietly storing warm water like a responsible adult.

In Colombia, that tank often does not exist at all.

Instead, you get a calentador de paso, a small on-demand water heater that heats water when you need it.

This is actually more efficient.
More elegant, really.
It just feels strange at first if your whole life trained you to expect hot water to sit somewhere in storage waiting for your shower.

So yes, the system works.
But it also means the mechanics of hot water become much more visible in your mind.

Especially if your setup involves gas from a cylinder.

Because then you are living with one extra layer of uncertainty:
Is there enough gas?

There is no comforting tank in a closet giving you emotional stability. There is just faith, plumbing, and a wall-mounted device doing its best.

And if the gas runs out mid-shower, you find out in the least philosophical way possible.

American apartments love carpet.

Or at least they used to.
And even when the carpet is ugly, tired, or that eternal shade of rental beige, Americans still treat soft flooring like a basic human right.

Colombia does not.

Colombia wants tile.
Ceramic.
Marble.
Hard surfaces.
Elegant floors that photograph well and punish bare feet at dawn.

The first morning you step onto a cold tile floor in Bogotá, your body files a complaint with every available nerve ending.

Colombians solved this problem a long time ago.

They wear chanclas or house flip-flops inside.

All the time.

And after a few days, you will too.

Not because someone lectured you.
Because the floor lectured you.

Eventually you’ll have strategic indoor footwear placement:
one pair near the bed,
one near the bathroom,
maybe another by the entry.

That’s not overkill.
That’s adaptation.

And the funny part is, once you get used to it, the American idea of carpeting an entire floor starts to feel slightly bizarre. Like we were all just living inside giant fabric socks and pretending that made sense.

This is one of the most fascinating things about Colombian housing because it reveals a whole layer of society right there on your utility bill.

Properties in Colombia are classified by estrato, usually on a scale from 1 to 6, based on the socioeconomic characteristics of the area. This affects what you pay for utilities, with higher strata subsidizing lower ones.

Now, from a policy standpoint, that’s interesting enough.

But from an American cultural standpoint, it feels almost shockingly direct.

Because in the U.S., the same information exists socially — everyone knows some neighborhoods are wealthier than others — but we usually hide the classification inside coded language, housing values, school districts, and dinner-party euphemisms.

Colombia just prints the number.

It’s right there.

And people talk about it in a way that can sound startlingly blunt to a foreigner:
“What estrato do you live in?”

To an American ear, that feels almost like being asked your income bracket before the appetizers arrive.

But after a while, you realize it’s less weird than it first sounds. It’s simply a more transparent way of attaching infrastructure cost to neighborhood characteristics.

Still, the first time you see your socioeconomic classification printed on a bill, it does feel like the government knows more about your address than you emotionally prepared for.

This is one of the great frustrations for foreigners.

Because a lot of Americans assume that if they can show strong income, offer cash, or even offer several months upfront, renting should be simple.

That is not always how Colombia works.

Here, paperwork can matter more than the emotional logic of money.

Landlords often want documentation.
Proof of income.
References.
And very often, a codeudor — essentially a co-signer who backs you with their own financial standing.

And that person also needs documentation.

So if you’re a foreigner with no Colombian ID, no local work history, no local co-signer, and no paperwork ecosystem yet, the whole process can feel bizarrely difficult even when you seem obviously capable of paying.

That’s the part Americans struggle with.

You can offer six months upfront.
You can offer more than asking.
And the answer can still be no — not because the owner dislikes the money, but because the system likes the stamp.

Colombia respects process.

Sometimes to a degree that leaves apartments empty for months rather than rented under the wrong structure.

It’s maddening.
And also oddly admirable in its commitment.

This is one of my favorite apartment features because it feels like such a small design choice and yet creates such immediate chaos.

In many Colombian apartments, the bathroom light switch is in the hallway, outside the bathroom.

Which means anyone walking past can turn off the light while you’re inside.

Not on purpose.
Not maliciously.
Just casually, accidentally, naturally.

And it will happen.

At first, you think it’s ridiculous.
Then you think it’s funny.
Then one day you’re the person walking by, your elbow hits the switch, and suddenly someone else is in the dark having the exact apartment experience you once had.

This is how you know you’ve assimilated.

The apartment did not design this as a prank.
But it absolutely left the infrastructure available.

And finally: the locks.

American apartment doors tend to be simple.
One key.
Maybe a deadbolt.
In, out, done.

Colombian apartment doors often come with layers.

Multiple deadbolts.
Multiple keys.
Sometimes three.
And not just for fun — these locks matter.

They also tend to have their own internal logic.

Top lock, one key.
Middle lock, another key.
Bottom lock, a third key.
And often the order matters because of course it does.

So now entering your home is not just an action.
It is a brief sequence.

And the moment you really meet this system is when you come home carrying groceries, one bag slipping off your arm, circulation leaving your fingers, and suddenly you are expected to conduct a three-key security ritual with precision.

That’s when you understand Colombian apartment doors.

And honestly?
Nobody is casually getting through that setup.

The apartment takes security seriously.
Even if it still leaves mosquito access as a more open philosophical question.

Colombian apartments are not weird in the sense that something is wrong.

They’re weird in the much more interesting sense:
they reveal a totally different set of everyday assumptions.

The hot water is fresh-made.
The balcony is a laundry room.
The floors are beautiful and cold.
The bars are on the windows.
The curtains are your responsibility.
The estrato is on the bill.
The bathroom switch is in the hallway.
And the front door takes commitment.

At first, all of this feels strange.

Then one day it doesn’t.

One day the bars are just the windows.
The chanclas are just what you wear inside.
The maid’s room is your office now.
The drying rack is normal.
The three keys make sense.
And you’ve already turned the bathroom light off on somebody twice.

That’s how living abroad works.

Not by changing everything dramatically.
Just by slowly teaching you that the things you thought were universal…
were often just local habits wearing confidence.