Paisas know that views of the city aren’t complete without chorizo and chocolate.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I would find at the Mirador de Las Palmas #2. Ali had seen TikToks about Medellín’s many miradores (lookouts), some of them advertising rooftop bars, photo spots and even bungee jumping. She hadn’t been to this particular one yet, but a friend had recommended it to her. Besides, who was I to doubt the self-proclaimed paisa who had been to Medellín over 7 times now.

The drive up Avenida Las Palmas was calm and peaceful, a pleasant breeze streaming in through the open windows. The car sped along the open road, which I recognized as the way to the airport, and I tried to remember if we had passed any lookouts the day we landed. Nothing on the road indicated that we were approaching a viewpoint. Dense trees on either side blurred into a continuous dark curtain. If I blinked I would have missed it. The foliage suddenly gave way to a… tailgate party?

Our Uber driver dropped us off in the parking lot, which was really an enlarged, paved shoulder. Ali guided me through at least 2 rows of parked cars—how the heck were they going to get out later?—before we reached the interlocked stone of the observation deck. It was clear that Colombians had a different idea of what a lookout was.

In Canada, a lookout is usually where you stop for pictures along the road. If the spot is popular enough, you might get the luxury of a small parking lot, a sign bearing the lookout’s name, and maybe a pair of those coin-operated binoculars that you would obligatorily climb onto and spin around a few times as a kid. You’d never actually look through them though because they were “a waste of money” and “the view was better with your own eyes”.

Now, back to the Colombian lookout. This wasn’t the promised rooftop bar or high-flying adrenaline sport destination, it was a stone terrace with two bronze statues and a ledge where everyone was sitting, looking down at the sparkling lights below. The citygazers were served by no less than 3 barbecue stands, one food truck and a michelada man. As soon as we stepped onto the terrace, a server came to regurgitate the menu: chorizo, chuzo, chocolate con queso y milo caliente.

Ali and I looked at each other. “Where’s the rooftop bar?”, I asked. It seems she may have mixed up her miradores. As we stood there deciding whether to stay or go, the tantalizing aroma of grilled meats washed over us, and the sudden urge to eat a sausage was hard to deny. “Well, you wanted to finally try chocolate con queso anyway, right?”.

We ordered the hot chocolate and rushed over to one of the last spots available on the ledge. Ali hops over with conviction, her legs plunging into the darkness on the other side of the knee-high wall. Unfortunately, her confidence results in the entire toe box of her white sneaker being covered in mud. We took turns sipping from the styrofoam cup and fishing bites of stringy cheese out with the plastic fork provided. The drink wasn’t as offensive to the palate as we had expected, but it wasn’t particularly amazing either. It simply gave us something to do as we stared at Medellín from above. As we drank, a man walked back and forth advertising his Happy Brownies. Servers zipped around with trays of meat and cups of hot chocolate, offering stall-to-ledge service without brandishing a tip option in front of your face.

We finished our drink and decided to prolong the party with a chorizo from the stand at the south side because they looked slightly bigger than the others. The server there also seemed the most outgoing. As my sausage was grilling, he asked me where I was from and then where I was really from. “It’s because of your features, especially your eyes. I mean, they look good…”, he adds in case I was offended. To tease him, the woman working with him interjects: “y tú con los rasgos venezolanos“. Man, the Venezuelans are really catching strays everywhere in this country. She then turns to me and asks if I’m single. “Maybe”, I shrug, and they both burst out laughing.

Before leaving, Ali catches a glimpse of a michelada de gulúpa. A michelada is already tempting enough, but with passionfruit? How could she resist? In true Ali fashion, she pays with a large handful of coins, some of which are covered in melted chewing gum (long story). The precarious stack balances temporarily in the poor server’s hand before tumbling to the ground. “Ay las chichas made you nervous”, quips the southside sausage stand’s server.

A pellet of dry ice is the finishing touch to Ali’s now smoking drink. As our Uber pulls up, a man who could only be the lookout’s valet parking attendant screams: “¿Quién es el dueño del Mazda rojo con placa XXX? ¡Lo estrallaron!“. I knew double parking next to a highway was an accident waiting to happen.