I remember those fall afternoons in Virginia, when the setting sun and floating flowers from trees were enough to make you warm inside. The rays off the water and the emotional charge in the air: I remember it was enough to draw people out to parks and plazas and cafes, to do nothing but sit and enjoy the light. I remember that feeling so clearly, because it’s like that here all the time.

My Casco days are structured around 6:30 in the evening: a time in Casco Viejo when everything seems to come alive.

In the day, streets are packed with tourists and government offices brimming with chatty people in suits. The mornings start off alive with old men selling empanadas and eggs from their pushcarts, honking old blow horns and calling out the flavor of the day. Into the afternoon, kids run throughout the narrow alleyways followed closely by neighborhood dogs. The Casco’s residents yelling from one street corner to the next.

But charming days in Casco all lead up to that magical hour of six. An hour which sees damning traffic jams and frustrated commuters downtown, is simply enchanting in Casco, where the only bother you’ll experience is the gust of a subtle breeze.

Take a day and experience it for yourself. Buy a soda or small pastry from a local café and wander over to one of the renowned plazas like Catedral or Bolivar. Take a seat on a bench and watch as the square becomes alive at six. The setting sun casts a diagonal glow over the plaza, birds chirp in the trees, church bells ring in the distance as if to signify the end of a wonderful day.

In Casco, six tends to launch the night into action: with restaurants and jazz rooms and bars soon thereafter filling up with locals and tourists alike. But it’s that special hour of six, that quiet before the storm, that I love so much, and that which reminds me so nostalgically of those afternoons in Virginia, which I greedily wanted to bottle and save up for just another day.

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Filed under: Culture on March 6th, 2008