My Run-In with Benjamin Bratt
Years ago, Mike and I found ourselves in Cartagena, Colombia, thanks to our dear friend Aníbal. We first met him as a Spanish instructor, but over time, our lessons turned into long conversations, which turned into shared meals, which turned into full-blown family-style friendship. We attended each other’s milestone events—his granddaughter’s christening, my grad school graduation—and even traveled together. So when Aníbal finally got his green card and took a trip back home, he invited us along for a two-week adventure.
We stayed in Bogotá with his family, sleeping under the same roof where he and his wife had raised their children, now home to his eldest daughter and her growing family. Aníbal took it upon himself to introduce us to Colombia in the most immersive way possible. We explored the country through the works of artists like Botero, listened to the strums of live guitar at a family dinner, and marveled at an obscene amount of ancient gold.
But this story isn’t about Bogotá, Botero, or gold. It’s about something much shinier.
Cartagena: The Jewel of the Caribbean (and a Celebrity or Two)
Cartagena was the last stop of our trip, and the moment we arrived, it was easy to see why this historic city is a UNESCO World Heritage site. It’s a postcard come to life: candy-colored colonial buildings lean into each other like old friends, cobblestone streets wind through bustling plazas, and the entire city is wrapped in the arms of a massive stone fortress, a relic of the 1500s. But don’t let the history fool you—Cartagena pulses with modern energy.
Movers and shakers know it, too. During our visit, we met then-President Álvaro Uribe Vélez and learned that Hollywood director Mike Newell was in town filming Love in the Time of Cholera, the film adaptation of Gabriel García Márquez’s classic novel. The cast included Javier Bardem, John Leguizamo, and Benjamin Bratt. Our celebrity radar went on high alert.
We didn’t have to wait long. One morning, while lounging at our hotel, we spotted John Leguizamo deep in conversation on the patio. I tried to play it cool, which, in my case, meant staring for an inappropriate amount of time. But little did I know, an even closer brush with fame was coming.
Notice the security guard in the background. He might have been there for the hotel, but I think he was actually there for Mr. Leguizamo.
The Heat, The Hunger, and The Humiliation
Cartagena is a Caribbean port city, which means it is hot. Not “Oh, let me grab my sunhat” hot. More like “I am melting into the pavement and will soon become one with the earth” hot.
I do not do well in this kind of heat.
By midday, my transformation was complete: from carefree traveler to overheated swamp creature. My cute outfit? A patchwork of sweat stains. My hair? A damp smear of frizz. My energy? Gone. But our itinerary was relentless, and by the time we finished a walking tour, I was ready to fling myself into the hotel pool, fully clothed.
No such luck.
Instead, we had dinner reservations at a lovely restaurant. The kind with dim lighting, elegant décor, and patrons who did not look like they had just been dragged through a tropical rainforest. We didn’t even have time to change. As we stepped inside, I prayed the low lighting would hide my disheveled state. At least I had food to look forward to.
And oh, how food heals the soul. Within minutes of devouring our first course, I forgot how much I wanted to evaporate. By dessert, I was human again. We lingered, savoring every last crumb, but eventually, exhaustion won. It was time to go.
The Collision
We paid the bill and wove our way through the crowded restaurant toward the exit. Just as I reached the doorway, I had a fleeting panic—Did I forget my purse? I turned to look back at our table, only to remember that, no, I did not forget my purse. It was a crossbody. It had been strapped to me the whole time.
Feeling slightly ridiculous, I swung back around—
And ran face-first into Benjamin Bratt’s bare chest.
Yes, bare.
Apparently, Cartagena’s heat had the same effect on Mr. Bratt because he had unbuttoned his shirt down to what can only be described as a scandalous degree. Standing at 6’2”, he towered over my 5’1” frame, which meant my entire line of sight was filled with his tanned, glistening, movie-star torso.
At first, I didn’t register who I had collided with. It was just… a chest. A very nice chest. Then, in slow motion, my eyes traveled upward—over the gold chains, over the ridiculously symmetrical face—and landed on the realization that I had just body-checked Benjamin Bratt.
I recoiled, muttering apologies while internally screaming. Why hadn’t we gone back to the hotel to freshen up?! Did I stink?! Was it too late to disappear into the floor?!
Meanwhile, Mr. Bratt, to his credit, barely reacted. He was polite, unfazed—perhaps even amused?—before slipping past us to join his equally stunning entourage. I, on the other hand, was shook.
The Perks of Being a Nobody
I’ll never know what Benjamin Bratt thought of me that night if he even noticed me beyond the brief, clammy impact. But I know this: the moment is forever seared into my memory.
And honestly? It’s a relief to be a nobody. No paparazzi caught my sweaty, unglamorous brush with fame. No tabloids wrote, Deranged Tourist Attacks Hollywood Actor with Face. It was just one of those absurd, unexpected moments that life gifts you.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it every time I see him on screen.
