Standing among the colonial buildings of the Plaza de Armas, dyed honey by the setting sun, I vaguely heard the echoes of history. The chiming of the church's bronze bells startled a flock of pigeons as I stroked the polished stone carvings framing the central fountain—said to have been a resting place for countless travelers over three centuries. An elderly Indian in a striped poncho sat on a bench weaving colorful ropes. At his feet, a small mound of colored salt formed in an aluminum box, while a young man wearing headphones skated by him. The changing of the guards at the presidential palace, their heels tapping out a rhythmic beat, couldn't drown out the melody of "The Dove" played by an accordionist in the corner. I pulled a coin with Bolivar's face from my pocket and suddenly felt that this square resembled it: engraved with the solemnity of the colonial era on one side, and the heat of everyday life on the other.