Medellin, the city famed as much for its beautiful citizens as the cocaine czar that brought the city onto the world’s stage. Friends gather roadside in front of a bodega, chatting as they lean against their motorcycles in the waning dusk hours. A stray dog rummages through the jungle lot next door, white against the lush green foliage that is almost deliberately left untouched in every other lot of the city, as if the planners came to some truce with mother nature and divided the land up to keep an unspoken peace.
The metropolis is embraced on either side by striking emerald mountains, one of which is climbed at a glacial pace by ever-higher and more compact brick-colored slums, obviously not a part of the aforementioned truce. The bulk of these neighborhoods were considered friends of Pablo’s only two decades before and still show reverence in areas through countless murals. The man may be gone, but his legacy lingers over this hidden gem.
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