I was hunched over a bowl of ajiaco, savoring the mix of corn, chicken, and potatoes that tasted like it was made by a local grandma. The restaurant was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place—with lightbulbs suspended by exposed wire from a low wooden ceiling and walls adorned with faded soccer posters. I was the lone diner at a rickety table when a voice piped up from the next spot over.

"Are you by yourself?" a girl asked.

"Yeah," I replied, looking up from my soup. "First time in Bogota."

She exchanged a quick glance with the guy next to her—a silent conversation only couples can have. "Join us," he said with a grin.

All of a sudden, I was seated with Sara and Nicolas, both college students navigating the maze of lectures and life in a city that seemed to mirror their own restless energy. We talked about everything from street art tucked away in alleys you'd only find by getting lost, to the unspoken rules of crossing Bogota's chaotic streets without meeting an untimely end.

When I admitted I didn't know how to salsa dance, Sara nearly dropped her fork. "That's unacceptable," she declared. "It's practically a crime here."

Nicolas grinned. "We can't let you leave Colombia without at least trying."Before I knew it, we were crammed into a bus that felt like it was held together by duct tape and good intentions, barreling into parts of the city that tourists' maps forgot. The bus was alive—a vendor hopped on at one stop, selling candies and singing a jingle that got stuck in your head immediately. At another, a man played the accordion, filling the cramped space with melodies that made even the most stoic passengers tap their feet.

We disembarked in a neighborhood that made me concerned I was about to get my organs harvested. The bar's entrance was unmarked, save for the thump of bass that seeped through the walls. Inside, it was a different world—a kaleidoscope of lights, sounds, and people who were all in on the same wonderful conspiracy.

Unlike the age-stratified bars in the States, this place was a melting pot. Teenagers showed off moves they'd probably cringe at in a decade, while gray haired couples who'd clearly been dancing together for years moved in a harmony that made the whole thing look effortless. Even a few folks who could've been my grandparents were tearing up the floor, putting my two left feet to shame.

Nicolas handed me a glass of chicha, a fermented corn drink that tasted like someone spiked apple cider with a hint of kerosene. "It'll loosen you up," he laughed.

Spoiler alert: it didn't. But as the night wore on, I found myself less concerned about stepping on toes and more immersed in the collective energy that seemed to lift everyone a few inches off the ground.

A few days later, not wanting the adventure to end, I sought out a traditional Colombian game I'd heard Sara mention—tejo. Imagine cornhole, but swap the beanbags for metal pucks and add gunpowder to the target for good measure. It's the only sport I've encountered where explosions are a sign you're doing it right.

The tejo hall was a dimly lit warehouse that smelled of smoke, clay, and anticipation. Next to us, a biker gang occupied a lane, their leather jackets adorned with patches that told stories I could only guess at. One of them caught sight of our amateur attempts and let out a hearty laugh.

"Not like that, amigo," he called over. "You're more likely to hit your friends than the target."

He sauntered over and demonstrated the proper technique—a fluid motion that sent the tejo sailing into the clay pit, triggering a satisfying bang as it connected with the gunpowder packet. "It's all in the wrist," he said, as if revealing a guarded secret.

What followed was one of the most surreal yet authentic interactions I'd ever had. This guy, who looked like a Mad Max extra, spent the next hour giving us the lay of the land. Between throws, he shared his favorite spots for empanadas that didn't skimp on the filling and black coffee (tinto) strong enough to keep us awake all night. It struck me how natural the conversation felt, how easy it was to kick back, joke around, and talk trash with a guy who’s life couldn’t be more foreign.

The greater city of Bogota was as vibrant as its people—a sensory overload in the best way. Street stalls overflowed with intricate pottery from Raquira, each piece a riot of colors and patterns. I couldn't resist and bought a bowl that I had no practical way to transport, but I couldn’t leave it behind.

In a dilapidated office building you'd walk past without a second glance, I climbed seven flights of stairs—no elevator, of course—to find a leather workshop. The craftsman showed me bags that he created by hand, each stitch deliberate and imperfect, each piece of leather chosen for its character. I left with a forest green leather backpack that smelled like earth and looked like it belonged to Indiana Jones.

On the sidewalks, artisans bent over spools of wire, their fingers coaxing out miniature bicycles out of steel and copper. "Takes a whole day to make just one," one of them told me.

At the farmer’s market next to Bogota’s Supreme Court—once the site of a 1985 siege by M-19 rebels funded by Pablo Escobar—I sat eating yet another a bowl of ajiaco. The city’s past, marked by violence and upheaval, was tangible. Bogota has seen everything from drug wars to political corruption, leaving bullet holes that still marked the nearby walls. And surrounded by it all, the people of Bogota dance.