When he was young, my Colombian friend Hermes went on a fishing trip with his father to a secret lake in the jungle, or at least that’s how he describes it. They were experiencing no luck when, from out of nowhere, a jaguar dove out of the brush, into the water, and surfaced with some sort of reptile in its jaws. “It was a tiny tiny crocodile,” Hermes said. “Was the smallest crocodile I ever seen.”

“Am I missing something?” I asked, “A jaguar appeared beside you and you were amazed by the size of the crocodile in his jaws?”

Hermes defended his experience saying, “well, was nice for me to see. A baby crocodile.”

One of Hermes’s father’s friends was kidnapped by FARC rebels and held in the mountains for five months straight. He took a class field trip to see the dungeons and gold vaults of the Spanish colonials. And one of their favorite pastimes as a family was to take their boat out to the islands and eat raw fish. There were the more traditional childhood experiences, to the Sierra Nevada mountain range and to a village of Carapana Indians, but my favorite story is always the jaguar.

Upon emerging from the lake, the jaguar ignored Hermes and his father completely, walking up onto the bank and back into the jungle as if passing homeless people on the subway. There was no anxiety

When told this story, I’m always overwhelmed with envy. My childhood in Princeton, New Jersey consisted of barbeques in the backyard and trips to Westminster Music College. Sure, we did have unbearably hot summer soccer tournaments but even then, there was always a team of mothers in sundresses waiting with cold Gatorade and oranges at halftime. Even at our most popular town fair Communiversity, the lobsters were killed humanely before dumped into boiling water.

There were certainly parallels such as birthday parties and New Years, but when it comes to adventure and exploit, Hermes’ childhood certainly takes the cake and due to this upbringing, Hermes tends to look at things in Colombia differently than I do.

“Oh my god, did you see that? A man just took a shit in the middle of the street.”

“Yes,” Hermes will respond without even looking. “Maybe he have nowhere else to go.”

We were in Cartagena’s picturesque Plaza Bolivar when an impromptu opera performance stopped every single passerby: a woman with such a brilliant voice echoing off the walls and the trees into this natural auditorium of sound. I stood in awe while Hermes cursed his Blackberry for not loading fast enough.

Maybe its beginner’s charm. That honeymoon-like period when you first encounter something new. Or maybe its my childhood: void of the FARC and the dungeons and the jaguars. But little things in Colombia seem original and fascinating: whether it’s a man moving his bowels in public, or a free opera performance (which I’d otherwise despise) on the way home at night.