Night Before New Year's Eve

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The street was so narrow it could only fit one car at a time, on each side were adobe houses squished together, distinguishable only by their color. From the tops of the houses, a zigzagging string crossed the street, back and forth, endlessly. From it dangled strips of multi-colored Mylar that glittered for blocks on into the night, as far as the eye could see. Without daylight, the orange streetlights nonetheless dazzled their dancing reflectors, gusts of wind accentuating their sparkling brilliance of silver, deep burgundy and outer space blue.

I didn’t dare take out my camera lest I get caught up in a South American escapade through the sordid slums of cement, chased by a rogue band of knife brandishing youth moving to the pulse of Reggaetón. That's a stereotype. In fact the scene did seem pretty mellow. A house door was left open revealing an intimately lit room plastered with iconic, peeling images of Catholic saints. Two young girls sat on a curb, their bare legs descending out into the street and they talked to a middle aged woman in a blue floral dress who sat on a chair, facing them. Further up on a corner were 16 teenagers, boys and girls hanging out, drinking. Reggaeton sprinkling out from somewhere. I decided not to reveal the camera.

I came back to see what it looked like in the daylight, and when I would feel safer, as well.

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