February 14, 2025

Valentine’s Day in the Dominican Republic! The paragon of romantic locale – although my day will be somewhat more prosaic, at least from a traveler’s perspective.

Today’s goal is to do a deeper exploration of the Ciudad Colonial, beginning on the western extremity, at the Parque de la Independencia. The park is a stately affair with quiet shaded pockets flanking the broader space, centering on a broad concourse lined with busts of presumably important figures in Dominican history erected on identical tall podiums. Aside from the military parade, there is little to hold the visitor captive here, although the landscaped gardens surrounding the monument are private, well-maintained, and peaceful, certainly of undisputable value in this overly busy city.

Calle Conde extends from this park to Calle las Damas, the most historic street in the city – and the country. Despite the venerable name, Conde evokes an entirely different sensibility, tourism at its cheapest and gaudiest, the street lined with vendors flogging tacky souvenirs, trenchantly ugly paintings and other dross, fast food outlets, small numbers of tourists meandering along the street, locals perched along the sides of the street, leering at the passers by, and probably looking for an opportunity of a not particular salubrious sort. Despite traversing some of the most historic parts of the city, the street hardly has any sense of character, either.

Further toward the main square, buildings and public spaces rich in character reveal themselves in small alleys, the heritage adobe structures covered in delicate wrought iron grills and flanked by bougainvillea-draped colonial-era villas with colonnaded balconies, heavy stone balustrades, wooden shuttered French doors, and so on. I can only imagine the expense of some of the choice boutique hotels, although I see little in the line of tourists here; straggling locals, but very few foreigners (who would presumably frequent these places).

A small, authentic terraced square next to the waterfront road provides a meeting point for older men, boys playing rudimentary baseball, stately hardwoods, a mobile bookshop of all things, small fountains, neatly-tended bushes, and across the street, the dramatic Monument to Friar Antonio of Montesino, the stylized bust of the man surging forward erected high on a tall podium. Immediately to the east, the ramparts of the Fuerte de San Jose rise, offering views of the small skate park below and adjacent tenement-style housing.

According to the map, I need only walk north toward Parque Colón and the cathedral. The cobblestone alley is lined with quaint shops and eateries, some of the buildings run down, many impeccably restored, the sidewalk comfortably separated from the narrow road by means of cement balls, although where I walk is largely dictated by the position from which I can best frame those ideal shots. Tall, grilled windows are positioned at regular intervals on the heavy stone walls of the historic Spanish colonial houses, the painted window and door frames creating a picturesque contrast with the whitewashed walls and the shower of ubiquitous mauve bougainvillea. Few people are visible on the streets, and few of the shops are open, I suspect due to the lack of visitors; the area presumably caters to western tourists, who come here largely on day trips from resorts or on cruise ships.

The Casa de Teatro provides a showcase for the country’s carnival traditions, the space decorated with thematic artwork, garish masks and full-body costumes used to celebrate its revelries. Ironically, even though I am traveling in the Dominican Republic in carnival season, I will conveniently manage to miss every opportunity to see street processions, largely because of no one, be it tourist agencies, civic authorities or Airbnb hosts – will have provided information as to what is being shown when and where.

Given that the Dominican Republic is the epicentre of Latin party culture, it is hard to believe that I simply don’t hear that much music anywhere. Perhaps you have to go into the working class neighborhoods?

The old city’s ambience is enhanced by a variety of small parks that compliment the Parque Colón, in particular, the Parque Billini, a mere block away, with its requisite statue abreast a tall podium, an elegant cafe offering a cross-section of dishes appealing to Dominicans and foreign tourists with tables set out on the square. Green plots anchor showy hardwoods surrounded by benches, the ensemble an example of old world civility that turns out to have an exceedingly limited presence elsewhere in the country. Santo Domingo was for centuries all that mattered in the country, now marred by the spread of utterly characterless resorts blighting the coastal areas of the island nation.

An army brass orchestra of sorts is seated underneath the canopy of one of the majestic trees on the Parque Colón, keeping the attention of visitors of varying provenances, although here it is probably wise to not lose too much of the sense of your surroundings, given some of the individuals that seem lurk on the square. A few local couples dance, swaying hypnotically to the New Orleans-style big band sound, a far cry from the merengue, salsa, and rap that defines the soundtrack of the Dominican peoples.

Milling around the main square has its merits, and its appeal also begs exploring more of the side streets as the afternoon wanes, although I wonder to what extent these immaculately restored colonial environs are secure for visitors as nightfall sets in. It does seem that the atmosphere of the narrow streets is relatively benign even towards nightfall, if somewhat lacklustre in feeling, the constant impression one of abandonment by the general population, given the general lack of people or retail establishments of any sort.

An exception would be the Kahkow Experience, singular in its pull of local and foreign visitors, what with the charming ambience and the sublime quality of the cocoa drinks and truffle chocolates they serve. Moving further along the Calle las Damas in a blissful state, the somewhat inexplicable children’s trampoline museum, the exclusive Nicolás de Ovando hotel, and toward the north end of the street, the Museo de las Casas Reales housed in a stern period palace.

I descend to the inexplicable sprawl of the Plaza de España o de la Hispanidad, at the far end of which the restaurants line the Calle de Atarazana, their employees preparing candlelit tables for the lucky guests destined to take in probably the most romantic dining experience in historic Santo Domingo. Well into dinnertime, however, there seem to be few guests, and the views from the terrace are nothing more than a chasm of darkness, and a short block further to the north, the tenor of the historic district changes abruptly for the worse.