I’ve been living in Colombia for a while now, and I can tell you this with full confidence:

Just when you think you’ve seen it all…
Colombia hits you with something else.

Like the day I pulled up to a red light and, in the span of 60 seconds, was offered:

…while a guy juggled machetes in front of my car.

Nobody around me thought this was strange.
They were just… deciding if they needed a flag or not.

That’s Colombia: things that seem absolutely wild to outsiders and completely normal to everyone who grew up here.

So in this edition of The Passport, we’re doing another round of:

I’m not judging.
I live here. I pay taxes here. I am fully invested.

I’m just noticing.

One of the first things you’ll notice in Colombia—especially among women—is how they walk together.

Not side by side.
Not six feet apart with phones out.

No.

They walk arm in arm. Sometimes hand in hand. Like they’re in a black-and-white musical on their way to a soda fountain.

And it’s not a special occasion.
It’s not a date.
It’s Tuesday. At 3 p.m. On the sidewalk. In jeans.

No one stares. No one whispers. No one assumes anything.

It’s just friendship, in full physical form.

In the U.S., if two adults walked arm-in-arm like that, someone would immediately assume:

If two guys did it, somebody would definitely say, “Bro, you good?” and slowly increase the personal space bubble.

In Colombia, it’s just normal affection. No drama attached.

After a while, it stops looking unusual and starts looking… honestly really sweet. They’re not rushing. They’re not half-present, half-on-their-phone. They’re literally using each other for:

It’s a tiny cultural detail that says a lot: people here aren’t afraid of closeness—physically or emotionally.

In Colombia, every neighborhood has a tienda de barrio.
Actually, every block has one. Sometimes two.

They’re usually the size of a broom closet, run by someone’s abuela who knows:

And here’s the magic part:

You don’t have to buy in bulk.
You don’t even have to buy a “pack.”

You buy exactly one of whatever you need:

You’re not buying “groceries.” You’re buying moments.

Got friends coming over? Buy 5 beers.
Making breakfast for one? Buy 2 eggs and a tiny pack of butter.
Forgot toilet paper? Don’t worry, they’ve seen worse.

Sometimes someone orders a glass bottle of Coca-Cola, and the shop owner will pour it into a plastic bag, tie the top, stick a straw in it, and hand it to them. Why?

So they don’t have to pay the bottle deposit.

It’s recycling, accounting, and street practicality in one move.

If Amazon were Colombian, it would:

In the U.S., coffee is an event.

You go to Starbucks, where:

You walk out with a bucket of coffee requiring two hands, a lid, a sleeve, and possibly a small emotional support animal.

In Colombia, you order tinto (black coffee) and they give you… coffee.

Even a “large” here is often smaller than a U.S. “small.”

You drink it.
You feel human.
You move on.

You’re not caffeinating for three time zones—you’re just sharing ten minutes of your day.

In the U.S., coffee is a personality trait.
In Colombia, coffee is: Sit down. Breathe. Tell me how you are.

In Colombia, a red light is not “waiting time.”
It’s commerce time.

You pull up to a red light and—before you can check your phone—someone is at your window with:

I’ve been offered:

No website. No funnel. No brand strategy.

Just eye contact and hustle.

In the U.S., someone approaches your car at a light and your instinct is to:

In Colombia, you roll down the window and say:

…while internally debating if the parrot is house-trained.

If products aren’t enough, some intersections upgrade to full performance mode.

You’re sitting there, minding your business, and suddenly:

Once, I watched a guy do rope acrobatics off a tree by the intersection. Another time there was a man pretending to be a traffic cop—with a puppet.

They’ve got it down to a science:

All in the time it takes the light to go from red to green.

And honestly? The show is better than anything on most cruise ships.

In the U.S., red light entertainment is:

In Colombia, it’s Broadway with empanadas.

In the U.S., a message looks like this:

Direct. Efficient. Emotionless.
Like a robot scheduling a dentist appointment.

In Colombia, everything happens on WhatsApp, and a “simple text” looks more like:

Then they get to the point:

It’s not small talk to them—it’s respect. You don’t just parachute into someone’s day with a demand. You warm up the conversation, like stretching before a workout.

If you respond the American way—

They will absolutely say:

Now you’re over-correcting:

…just to ask what time lunch is.

It’s different. It’s slower. But it’s also a reminder: people are not logistics—they’re people.

You’ll hear this phrase everywhere:

You say thank you:

And instead of “no problem” or “you’re welcome,” you get:

Not just from waiters and cashiers. From everyone.

It’s like the country has installed a politeness reflex.

In English, “no worries” and “no problem” often sound… passive-aggressive. Like you were a problem, but they’ve decided to tolerate it.

“Con gusto” sounds like:

Even when the smile is hanging on by a thread, the phrase still lands softly. And most of the time?

They actually mean it.

In the U.S., we have drive-through banks.
You stay in your car, deposit a check, maybe get a lollipop, and never make eye contact with a human.

In Colombia, you walk into a bank branch and time stops existing.

Here’s the system:

People aren’t just there for one thing. They’re:

At some branches, when the line gets too long, they lock the front door from the inside so no one else can enter.

Which also means:
You can’t leave.

So now you’re inside a locked bank holding a tiny ticket that says B327, watching the screen slowly tick up like a sad game show.

Everyone else? Totally chill.

Meanwhile I’m in the corner thinking: Did I just accidentally get detained?

If you’re new here, a car alarm going off will make you look around.

If you’re Colombian, you don’t even flinch.

Car alarms here go off:

And nobody cares.

You could be standing next to the car with a crowbar doing performance art and people would still think:

In the U.S., if an alarm goes off for 5 seconds:

In Colombia, a car alarm is just another sound. Like cicadas, but angrier.

The owner never comes out. Not once. You stand there listening to the car scream for help like a toddler in a parking lot and the entire neighborhood remains emotionally unaffected.

If you want to know whether there’s a real emergency in Colombia, look for something unusual:

This one still gets me.

In Colombia, the moment the temperature dips below 75°F (24°C)… it’s wardrobe change time.

I have seen:

For 70–72 degrees.

Meanwhile, I’m in shorts and a t-shirt trying not to look like a confused Canadian on vacation.

The sun’s out.
The birds are singing.
The breeze is mild.

And the person next to me on the bus is dressed like they’re preparing to summit Everest.

At first, I thought it was a fashion thing. Then I thought, okay, maybe people just run cold.

Now my theory is:
They just enjoy the drama of “cold weather.”

In North America, we earn our winter clothes. We wait for the heating bill to triple and the snow to aggressively introduce itself.

In Colombia, you get a slightly cool breeze and everyone’s like:

And you know what? They look great.
I’m sweating. But they look fantastic.

Here’s the funny part.

At first, all of this hits you as “different.”
Then “weird.”

And then one day:

…and you realize:

Colombia is not perfect. No country is.

But when:

You start to realize:
This place is special.

It’s chaotic, kind, theatrical, and deeply human—all at the same time.