Ghetto. The Ugly Face.

Add one more notch to my love-hate relationships in life. I really dislike my neighborhood. There I said it, not that it has been a secret for anybody when they naturally ask me where I live. I always spit it with poison, sarcasm, or black humor. The name can't come out of my mouth naturally. "Hatillo" I say waiting for the reaction in the other person's face. In many cases, that has been the end of the conversation.

Facts. My parents traded natural paradise in the north of the country for a sewer in the south of the capital of Costa Rica. In the search for a better life (which only meant more money, and in that we succeeded,) we arrived here ten years ago. In theory, this is the only culture shock I haven't been able to overcome. I came from living surrounded by protective, polite people to a town where you listen the unthinkable coming out of the students of elementary school and where you could be robbed or bullied anywhere. The scenery of greenery was replaced by cement, iron, and tin; the sound of the rain isolating the house from the world was totally displaced by the concert of car alarms, police sirens, street fights, and shootings after midnight; the scent of the dew in the grass totally is gone, and the stench of dog poop and uncollected trash float in the air instead. In this place, you can wake up to discover that a drug addict mounted a cardboard shelter in front of your house. In here, the kids can play in a newly made playground for a week before graffiti of dicks start appearing in the slides. The houses, more than built together, look as if they had been built by an asphyxiating artist trying to make an statement. Fart and your neighbor will know. In here, you get used to the cars passing with their stereos playing reggaetton as loud as they can. You see shirtless guys with baggy pants all the time during the day and a catwalk of hoodies at night. You take a walk and see girls wearing shorts just one centimeter longer to be classified as underwear. You see lots of make up with long earrings in moody faces. You see this boys and girls flirting and fighting openly, starting their cars, roaring their engines, and getting lost for the rest of the night. You see the fat laddies in sandals and old fashioned attires running errands during the day. You see their fat husbands drinking in front of the liquor store and making jokes to the drug addicts. You see the latter staggering, holding their pants in many cases, covered by smog, dirt, and smell of pee. This is a place nobody should live in. This is where I'm bringing the volunteer that is taking my place when I'll be in London. This is where I've lived almost 10 years now.

My friend Vlad calls it the ghetto. I stand in the bridge for peasants in the highway, look over the roofs crowded with clothing drying on cables, wires located in all directions and t.v. antennas eaten by rust and I think the name fits the neighborhood well. Had we a wall built around the town and some snow falling, I swear the image would resemble those scenes of the Warsaw Ghetto. Still, this is the place where I live. This is where I will return when the experience in London is over. This is an ugly face of life.