Colombia is so different to what I know, and every aspect of the

Host: The evening sky above Bogotá was a canvas of violet and amber, its fading light draped across the Andes like a silk scarf slowly falling. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, diesel, and the faint sweetness of street-side arepas. Music pulsed from nearby bars — cumbia, reggaeton, the heartbeat of a country that danced even through its history of scars.

Down a narrow cobblestone street, two figures sat outside a small café. Jack, in his habitual dark jacket, leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes following the locals as they laughed and shouted in a language he didn’t quite understand. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair glinting in the orange glow of a streetlamp, her hands cradling a cup of steaming tinto.

The city moved around them like a living poem — chaotic, colorful, deeply human.

Jeeny: “Tom Holland once said, ‘Colombia is so different to what I know, and every aspect of the country is different to England, and I loved it. I loved the culture and the food, and the coffee was amazing. The place that we were was stunning, and it really was quite an amazing experience to film out there.’”
She smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the shimmer of passing headlights. “He sounds… transformed. Like he didn’t just visit, he surrendered to the place.”

Jack: (grinning) “Surrendered? He was on a film set, Jeeny. I doubt he had time to ‘surrender’ — probably more like dodging humidity, bad Wi-Fi, and mosquitoes.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “You really don’t believe in the magic of travel, do you?”

Jack: “I believe in observation. You go somewhere new, your senses wake up — different food, language, chaos. You mistake that stimulation for spiritual awakening.”

Host: A motorcycle roared past, scattering the scent of rain and exhaust into the night. Somewhere nearby, a street performer played a mournful accordion, his melody weaving through the clatter of dishes and conversation.

Jeeny: “That’s not stimulation, Jack. That’s connection. When Holland said he loved Colombia, I think he meant it changed how he saw. It’s not about escape — it’s about rediscovery.”

Jack: “Rediscovery through coffee and beaches?”
He smirked, swirling his drink. “Sounds more like a tourism slogan than an epiphany.”

Jeeny: “You’re missing it again.”
Her voice softened but held an edge. “When you’re surrounded by something completely different, it humbles you. It’s like looking into a mirror that shows you who you aren’t — and suddenly you begin to see who you are.”

Jack: “Or you project your fantasies onto a foreign place and call it enlightenment. People go abroad, fall in love with color, food, music — then come home and forget it all once the plane lands.”

Jeeny: “Not always. Some people take pieces of it with them — the rhythm, the openness, the gratitude. You don’t have to live somewhere to let it live in you.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying laughter from a nearby plaza — children chasing glowing balloons, lovers leaning into the night. The smell of roasted corn drifted past, and for a fleeting moment, Jack’s expression softened.

Jack: “When I was in Mumbai,” he said, almost to himself, “the chaos felt alive. But when I got back to London, the silence was heavier. Maybe you’re right — maybe some places haunt you in good ways.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. Colombia, India, anywhere — they remind us that beauty isn’t one language. It’s the way the world keeps singing even when we stop listening.”

Jack: “You make it sound like geography is therapy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”
She looked out at the mountains, their jagged silhouettes glowing under faint moonlight. “When you see how big the world is, your pain starts to feel smaller. And when you see how joy survives everywhere — in music, in markets, in children playing soccer barefoot — you start believing that humanity’s bigger than its suffering.”

Host: The café owner, an old man with sun-wrinkled hands, passed by and poured more coffee into their cups. The steam rose between them like incense.

Jack: “You know, the thing I can’t deny is how present people are here. In London, everyone’s half somewhere else — scrolling, thinking ahead, worrying about what’s next. Here, it’s like time moves differently.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly, her voice carrying a kind of awe. “That’s what Holland must have felt. In England, everything’s restrained. Here, emotion breathes. People feel out loud.”

Jack: “Maybe too loud sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Better that than silence.”

Host: The night deepened. A stray dog curled beside their table, sighing in its sleep. The air grew cooler, sweeter. Somewhere above, church bells rang — slow, resonant, timeless.

Jack: “You know what I think? Every place has its rhythm, and maybe the real challenge isn’t to love somewhere new, but to stop expecting it to sound like home.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, Jack.”
She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “And maybe that’s what love itself is — learning to listen to something you don’t yet understand.”

Host: A passing taxi bathed them in brief light — then darkness again, deeper and calmer. Jeeny looked out toward the street corner where two young men were playing guitar, their voices rising into the night air.

Jeeny: “Colombia taught him that beauty isn’t polish — it’s rawness. The way people dance, cook, speak — it’s not perfect, but it’s alive. That’s what amazes me.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Maybe I envy that. We’ve built a world so careful it’s forgotten how to breathe.”

Jeeny: “Then breathe now, Jack. Listen.”

Host: He did. The music, the laughter, the heartbeat of Bogotá — it all swelled and wove together, imperfect yet complete. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. For the first time in a long while, he looked — really looked — at the world around him.

Jack: “You’re right. It’s not just noise.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s life, Jack. And it’s amazing.”

Host: The café lights flickered as a soft rain began to fall — not enough to drive people inside, just enough to make the stones glisten. Jack reached for his coffee, still warm, still fragrant. He smiled — a small, unguarded smile — and Jeeny returned it, her eyes mirroring the same quiet wonder.

And in that moment, as rain met rhythm, and two hearts learned to listen to the foreign music of a place that asked for nothing but presence, the world — vast, strange, and beautifully imperfect — felt astonishingly small.

Host: “Sometimes,” the narrator whispered, “it’s not the place that changes you — it’s the way it teaches you to see.”