4.3/5
iQOO🐮Standing on the cobblestones of Plaza Bolivar, the cathedral's bronze dome captivated my eyes. The afternoon sun stained the colonial facades a honey-hued hue. The aroma of scorched corn tortilla carts wafted from the air. Suddenly, a pigeon fluttered and landed on the shoulder of Simon Bolivar's statue—the liberator, sword raised, gazing upon the hustle and bustle of modern streets. I sat on a bench, nibbling on a fresh mango dipped in chili sauce. Elders in traditional ponchos fed sparrows in the shade, while children in school uniforms chased balloons. The snap of boot heels clacking at the changing of the guard at the presidential palace startled a flock of pigeons. In that moment, centuries of history seemed frozen in the square's wind.
