Navidad que vuelve

There are a million reasons I can think of for hating Christmas: the killing, selling and tossing of beautiful, fragrant trees; buying presents with money you probably don't have; writing Christmas cards with no inspiration; withstanding grown ass people wearing santa hats; being reprimanded for not closing your eyes during grace at dinner.

I am pretty sure if I try and look closely into this Christmas tradition, I could find a dozen more reasons to justify its unnatural, fabricated nature. Nonetheless, at my 27 years, Christmas is one of the few events that still beautifully renews the love I feel for my family, and somewhat reminds me of forgotten little things I used to love about living in Dominican Republic. Although I am fully conscious of its religious origins and its consumerist societal byproducts, La Navidad takes me back to a childhood place in la isla where, unaware of family conflicts and related neuroses, being around my family was a pleasure in its purest stage; enjoying the smell of puerco asado and stealing a cuerito or two before it was served at dinner, shaking my gifts under the christmas tree to get a clue of what they were, listening to Navidad que vuelve over Ponche Crema de Oro, getting a handful of bucapiés from my brothers and smashing them against the sidewalks in my neighborhood....putting a cohete in a Coca Cola bottle and watching it blow up in the sky in a million different colors.

Now, as I share homemade ponche with my family in New York, as I sing Alegre vengo de la montaña feeling the cold air seep through the windows, as my son aks: mamá llegó santa? and wakes up in a joyful jump to open his presents, as I eat Dominican food leftovers with the girls, smiling and our eyes still stained with last night's makeup, I realize how benevolent Christmas is, and wish that maybe, If I close my eyes for a second, I could still see the color of the cohetes from la isla blowing up incessantly in the New York sky.

How Does it Feel?

How does it feel to unexpectedly discover New York City?

How does it feel to never have lived until this point?

How does it feel to sit in Washington Square Park for the first time and consider it the most magical place you have ever visited?

How does it feel to lend your guitar to a perfect stranger and listen to Mr. Tambourine man for the first time, at the age of twenty one?

How does it feel to discover music so poetic that makes your lived experiences seem shallow?

How does it feel to deeply relate to the powerful human cry in a raspy voice, a harmonica and the simple strums of an acoustic guitar?

How does it feel when music explains to you just how beautiful life's absurdity is?

How does it feel to let the music fill you with depth, to let it heal your many broken hearts, to let it exacerbate your moments of excesses?

How does it feel to have this intensity become irreplaceable?

How does it feel to mature alongside a late discovery of his quirky folk music, of his protest songs, of his blues, of his gospel, of his unwelcome electric sound?

How does it feel to hear the soundtrack of your growth sung close to your ear?

Bob Dylan concert at Terminal 5, New York City. November, 2010.
Pictures by Erika

In the midst of junk, the finding of community

I have reconciled with the fact that love and support in my life doesn't come from the expected places. Growing up I wanted to have a loving home so badly that it made me pretend I was happy with the one I had; as a teenager and young adult I wanted to love and be loved by a man so desperately that I idealized some desirable traits in men as panacea for my early shortcomings; after becoming a single mother, I've had to step out of what I had envisioned for myself and embrace that which I had around me. The kindness of the people I have met in Astoria has been really instrumental in that process.

Two or three times a week after I get out of work, Amaru and I walk down the subway stairs and go visit Hope at the thrift shop on 30th Avenue, located right below the psychic reading place and in front of the Trade Fair supermarket. Our initial visits were due mainly to my perusing of old vinyl records in the store, which were tucked below the rack of old, mom jeans. Each time I visited the store I found a good book to buy, a charming used toy for Amaru, a pretty hat with knitted flowers in it, for which I had to dig in piles of junk crowding every space in the store. As I kept visiting, I started to discover the most valuable thing the store had to offer.

Hope, the thrift shop keeper, behind a deceiving harsh look on her face, has one of the warmest, insightful personalities I have seen in my time in Astoria. Inside the store, two chairs are located in front of the counter, which are often occupied by locals who come in to peruse and talk to Hope. When you go visit her, in a thick greek accent Hope asks: jau aryou ma frend?... she asks if you are tired and if you had a good day. The minute I sit in the chair in front of the counter, Hope asks me to look after the store for a minute, and moments after walks back in with two coffees, light and sweet, just how I like them. As I drink coffee with her, Amaru storms off to play with Leandro, another kid that often visits the store with his mom. No matter how much I tell Hope not to spend money and go out of her way for us, she insists on buying pizza for Amaru and Leandro when we visit, because as she explains they are "her bambinos".

Although I have known Hope for a short amount of time, visiting her feels like going to your grandmas house, whose old wisdom can intuitively guess what you need at that moment to unwind and replenish. Her store feels so safe, full of caring and hidden treasures. As I ride the subway with Amaru into Astoria, I long for visiting Hope because the minute I enter her store my tense shoulders drop, and my soul feels cared for, at rest.

The other day, as Hope went out to Seven Eleven to get the pizza, a lady who was trying on a burgundy coat came up to me and asked me: "Excuse me, do you work here?" when I said no, she seemed puzzled, since I was sitting down and looking after the store; so she asked me again: "so...are you family with the owner?" to which I replied: "well... sort of".

The Homeless Alternative

It is impossible to overlook homeless people in New York City today. I have always been aware of their omnipresence in the city, I know the corners where they can be found, where some of them like to nap, and at what times of day they are most active. Sometimes I feel sorry for them and give them money, other times I stare, and sometimes I just flat out ignore them.

But recently, the visibility of the homeless in the city has sprouted outside their usual confines; they have rooted their lives around the quotidian dynamics of the city. Now, when I sit in the train platform most of the time I see a homeless person either to my right or left, I see them napping in the sidewalk during my morning walk to work, and know for sure I will have a midnight encounter with them if I take the subway home past midnight. I have noticed their presence grows large when I am not wrapped up in the city's motions, when I am not rushing to get somewhere; they become more visible when I am still, usually waiting for something or someone.

About a month ago, I had to get up really early for work, and while waiting at the corner of 34th street right in from of Macy's, the brisk morning breeze dragged a vinegary stench right to my face from the floor where a squatting homeless woman was peeing. A few days after that, while sipping coffee and waiting to connect to the R train, I look to my right and at the end of the platform there is man cleaning himself after going right there in the platform. When our eyes met, he looked distraught and embarrassed. I looked away, not knowing how to handle the situation.

These encounters I have been having with the homeless feel like a very close look at all that is wrong with this life; the disenfranchisement of certain groups, the economic contrasts, the burden of modern life in people's psyches, and most of all, the indifference of the privileged. For a very long time I have seen how people ignore the homeless(including myself) because of how they contrast the idyllic New York City people like to see: vibrant, rich, full of culture, but with no reminders of how exclusive this place can be, please.

It doesn't feel right or even feasible to ignore homeless people in the city anymore; yet we are encouraged not to help them out, not to give them any change, and to ignore them just in case they are crazy. I wonder then, what do we do with these very real encounters with homeless people? How can we digest their very apparent and real struggle? How can we help them out?... What is the homeless alternative?

15 Pequeñas Razones para Amar a Puerto Rico

1. Los adoquines azules en las calles del Viejo San Juan
2. Oir el tambor y ver el piqueteo de faldas de la Bomba
3. Los árboles llorones en la Universidad de Puerto Rico
4. Las alcapurrias, piononos y bacalaitos del Kiosko El Boricua en Piñones
5. Oir música de La Lupe y Hector Lavoe en la bellonera de El Refugio
6. El Chichaíto con Medalla
7. El graffiti en la Calle Ponce de León
8. El quesito con café con leche por la mañana
9. Los Jueves de Rio Piedras
10. La Chiwinha
11. Escuchar los "Este" entre palabras
12. Lo lindo que les queda el "Ave Mariiiiia" a los boricuas
13. El canto del coqui por la noche
14. Los gatos que pululan de cada esquina
15. Cómo se vive la música en el Café Toñita de la placita de Santurce

+ 1: Ver cuan bellamente se están contrarrestando las cosas lamentables.

Fotos tomadas en el Viejo San Juan, Rio Piedras y Santurce

Recordar es Vivir

I have very few memories of my dad. Although I was five when he passed away, I have no recollections of my time with him, of what he was like, not even of how he looked physically. They say children block out things that they can't cope with.

While growing up I developed an image of him that was shaped by what others told me...that he was a good dad, he was funny, he loved children, that he waited for his little girl to arrive and three boys later he was ecstatic in the waiting room when I was born. They also told me that when I was a baby he used to take me for a walk everyday and nap with me after lunch. I have tried very hard to look within and remember that brief and wonderful time with my dad. People tell me I am so much like him, and I wish I could remember, but I can't.

As I navigate these feelings and vanishing memories, I am disheartened by the fact that I might never be able to remember him. Yet, somewhere in there, meshed with my buried memories, I do remember something; I recollect the sweet, subtle feeling of being loved. In my heart, this love feels like comfort, like an undying point of reference that grounds me when I feel lost and far from my roots, it makes me feel accepted for all that I am, its a sense of protection that has sheltered me long after my dad went away.

There are no guarantees in life; no guarantee that those you love will stay alive, that circumstances won't deprive you of your heart's desires, that memories won't vanish to dust. I know there are no guarantees awaiting me and that I may not remember much, but luckily, I will always vividly remember, feeling loved by my father, Rafael.

Algerian Haikus

orange dunes
nostalgic eyes
I hear the gumbri, I feel alive

Pictures by Amine Koudier

Baptizing Amaru

Since Amaru was born I have been asked the same question repeatedly by some friends and family members: When are you going to baptize him? I find this to be a perfectly acceptable question given my Dominican background and its religious undertones. I also thought that my straightforward "no" answer would suffice and help their question to recede. However, as Amaru approaches the age of three, their worries about Amaru's spiritual's well being have also grown, alongside him. They explain to me the importance of children growing up fearful of God; the absolute necessity of baptizing them so they can be awash of any malignant spiritual force trying to corrode them and derail them from the good path in life. It has also been emphasized to me that children who are not blessed by the touch of this holy water will develop a taste for sin and delinquency. I countered back by explaining that I was baptized, did my first communion, and also did my confirmation, and I can attest that was no free ticket away from painful experiences and the availability of harmful choices around me. I quickly realized that even my most brilliant argumentation against baptism would not remove the preoccupation from their minds.

I am not concerned about my son's spiritual wellbeing because I tell him I love him everyday, several times a day and before he closes his eyes to go to sleep; I can also attest that this process is replicated by many wonderful people in his life who love him and who have made him able to express that love right back. I am not worried about him being seduced by the devil, lucifer or any other malignant spirit, because I try to show him everyday that the only devil we should fear is being mean and cruel to others; I don't think I am starving him of any important premise of spiritual life by not baptizing him, because I am trying to provide him with the pivotal notion of humanity: to love and to stay connected with those around him.

He is a happy little boy who is being given a lot more than some water over his head. I don't believe some droplets of water over anyone's head will rid them from experiencing pain, making the wrong choices and discovering just how hard life can be. Even if I had the choice of salvaging Amaru from experiencing these things, I wouldn't do it. I don't want him to grow up fearing life and what it will bring, I want him to embrace it. I feel the best gift I can give him is the notion that people are and will be the most valuable asset in his life, and that the love he cultivates in the relationships along his life is what will pull him out of the inevitable pain of life. This is how I am baptizing him. So far, so good.

The Dark Places in the Heart

Once there was a girl who dreamed she befriended a beautiful man. In her dream, you could not see his face, or any well defined physical attributes; he showed himself in her dream halfway between the shadows and the golden light of sunset. He was tall and soft spoken.

In the dream, she heard excerpts from the long conversations they held; she talked to him about her fears and failed attempts at different things, detouring to the dark places in her heart from time to time. He listened attentively and didn't freak out. He didn't grab her or kiss her in her mouth to make her feel better, but he gave her sincere hugs and told her stories about the dark places in his heart. She remembers a slight tinge of purple in her lips from the wine they shared and the giggles from the buzz it gave them.

The dream portrayed them spending time together, discovering great music together, singing songs in Spanish and Arabic, sharing each other's company and nourishing the starved, dark places in their hearts. the most vivid image in her dream is an image of herself smiling wholeheartedly at sunset, while drifting between dark and lit spots in the landscape...for the first time she seemed happy to be drifting in and out of the dark places in her heart, accompanied by a beautiful man who was able to go there with her. As they talked, the sun hid behind the water and the night came, just as dark as those places in her heart, and just as beautiful. The last fragment of the dream was blurry and fading, but she recalls saying to this beautiful man: Thank you Amine.

Photos of Erika taken by Amine; photos of Amine taken by Erika.

Between a Man and its City, the Stillness of Statues.

A couple of months ago while walking to the subway in the Flatiron District, tired from work and my bones still rancid from the arduous winter, I paused in the sidewalk and leaned my head back to receive the golden May sunlight. As I began to resume my walk, I am stopped cold by the sight of a man about to jump from the tip of the Flatiron Building. I let out a muffled scream, my eyes oversized, a hand covering my mouth in awe. I looked around me and see I am the only one alarmed...Have they not realized this man is about to jump? Should I call someone? Worst of all, Do they know and not care?

This was the first reaction that Gormley's Event Horizon exhibit provoked in me. After I walked the same path on various days and saw the same man, about to jump, (no one alarmed again) I started to notice a multiplicity of people pointing their fingers to the sky, and in directions other than the jumping man. I followed a finger and there was a man on top of the clock building across Madison Square Park; I followed another finger and there was another man on top of the red brick building on Fifth Avenue and 23rd Street, right next to the cross; as my eyes wandered the skies of the neighborhood I see they are everywhere!...man shaped, bronze colored statues, standing still against the rapidly moving city.

Every day after that, I discovered new statues in the Flatiron sidewalks and skies; I roamed the blocks around the park to see how many more I could find; I realized depending on the angle you stand on, you can see ones but not others; each time I discovered a new one, I felt compelled to call my friends to let them know there were at least a dozen statues; when I saw people discovering them for the first time, I (uncalled for) rushed to them to pinpoint where they could find more; when I saw a new one early in the morning, an enormous grin lingered in my face at least until mid morning. The feelings the statues were evoking, reminded me of my first days in the city, when I unraveled the city's little gifts with eyes anew and an open heart. Since I moved to New York City, a great amount of the happiness I experience comes from the unexpected events that I come across in the streets: the sidewalks sprinkled with musicians; the vastness of skin colors, hair textures and accents around me; the street food and its unidentifiable yet delicious meats.

But most of us who have lived here a while, unconsciously or willingly quit the high of being amazed. Its hard to see the city's beauty underneath people's rudeness and hurry; it is tough to genuinely smile in the morning, when its freezing cold, the wind slashing your lips, and you still have to walk some blocks to get to work; it is almost impossible to be in love with the city in a sustainable way.

Everything moves so rapidly here that I am rushed through my day along with the masses, a million stimuli bombarding my senses from every direction...and inside of me, a deep longing to be still, to savor the city, to reconcile with this place. I ask myself this question every day: Do I really want to live here? Why do I love and hate this place all at the same time? I am not sure if New Yorkers ever get the answer for these questions, but I am completely sure that the city will uninterruptedly amaze them and allow pockets of stillness, sometimes in the shape of statues.

Papi

No soy perfecta. Definitivamente no soy la imagen de la fortaleza hecha mujer, ni un pilar de voluntad que logra abstenerse de hombres que no valen la pena. No soy perfecta. Está claro que malgasto mi tiempo, que demasiadas veces por semana me sumerjo en el sillón amarillo de la sala de mi casa en estado de inercia total, y que me gusta leer los chismes irrelevantes de la vida de los famosos. No soy perfecta.

Podría cocinar más en casa, comer más orgánico, leer el New York Times todos los días en vez de dejar apilar las bolsitas azules en que viene en la entrada de mi casa; podría limpiar más a menudo, pintarme las uñas y usar pulseras. También, me haría bien no desesperarme cuando Amaru actúa de acuerdo a la activa y demandante naturaleza de un niño de dos años; podría ser más fuerte a la hora de prohibirle que duerma conmigo en mi cama.

Sin embargo, mi vida va tomando un ritmo que me gusta; no hago todo lo que puedo, pero hago mucho, y lo que hago lo disfruto, lo saboreo y lo añoro cuando todavía no llega. Siento que he comenzado lentamente a construir la vida que quiero para mi y para Amaru, y estoy dándome cuenta de que sí es posible...eso que dicen de la flor de Loto que nace del fango. Los que conocen mi corazón saben a lo que me refiero.

Desde lejos, siento como la efímera presencia de papi en mi vida me inspira y me motiva a ser una mejor mujer, inteligente como él, divertida como él, sensible como él. Hace poco también descubrí que le gustaba la fotografía; revisité todas las fotos de mi infancia y conocí su sensibilidad y el buen ojo que tenía.

El otro día mientras esperaba el tren, vi a una niña pequeña con los brazos colgados del cuello de su papá, sentada en sus piernas. Todo el cuadro gritaba amor y protección, e inevitablemente me dieron ganas de llorar. A veces me pregunto si me escuchas papi, si me quieres, si has llegado a conocerme desde tu nube remota. No sé si algún día tendré esa certeza, pero siento que mi capacidad de hacer lo mucho que hago habiendo tenido tan poco, proviene de un lugar remoto, ajeno a mí, de tu corazón y tus bellas manos, las cuales acompasadamente me llevan por la vida. Espero que estés orgulloso de mi, de lo lindo que es tu nieto Amaru, y de lo que he logrado hacer, por lo mucho que tu corta vida y eterna presencia me han regalado.

Erikita (como te gustaba llamarme)


Fotos tomadas por Papi

Letter for Tim

My dear Tim,

I am writing you your very first letter since your departure; thought I’d check on you to see if you like the new place. Is there a big monkey in the sky or however you used to call God? I tell you Tim, New York City can be so stressful that I envy the sense of relief you must be feeling. You left before I could say goodbye…that’s how we roll Timmy boy?...and I have not forgotten you promised to take my portrait!, but I guess you now have abundant beautiful subjects at the new place.

I am writing this letter while sitting on the Queens-bound N train; it reminds me of our rides on the L train heading to your apartment on Dekalb Avenue, and of how I stayed the night at your place after our third date, talk about a woman who cannot hold her horses! But I was too pulled in by our long conversations; you told me about having hippie parents, moving around a lot as a kid, and harboring the idea of moving to a cabin in the woods someday; you also talked about how good your mom’s apple pie was, the kind she baked at home in Alaska. I, kept talking with a thick Dominican accent about my blossoming love for the city and its eccentricities, and how Long Island was a soul-numbing place to be, to which you concurred by telling stories of living in a basement in Huntington, under the stairs, like Harry Potter…you said.

My hands are greasy and they are staining the ivory pages of my tiny notebook; I ate fritters just before taking the subway, and the aroma of fried oil reminded me of our second date, where you took me several places (New York City was the charming device you knew best), starting at the Angelika Theater to eating fried empanadas in Nolita. I am not surprised at how the smell of oil, such a small detail, lingers in my mind and reminds me of you…everything reminds me of you these days as I am reliving our memories while I walk the streets of the city.

This place is as busy as it has always been, but there is a palpable emptiness here, as if I could sense that one wonderful soul has left, and that there is one person less to appreciate the city’s beauty, its nitty-gritty ness, its often cold hearted nature. I have a profound love for this city, and I don’t know if I ever told you that you were one of the first people to instill that in me. Through your eyes I learned how to appreciate its many gifts; you took me to those hole in the wall restaurants in Soho and stinky bars on the Lower East Side, showed me the city like a local and talked to me about the beauty in the city’s dirt, and in the industrialness of neighborhoods like Brooklyn. I also love how you took notice of things that were seemingly unimportant and gave them some sort of relevance through careful recreation and creativity.

I particularly remember your sensitivity in how you complimented me simply but beautifully. I miss that. I miss how you would hold me close to you and tell me that I smell “pretty”, or the first time you told me you were falling in love with me because you couldn’t stop smelling my perfume on the t-shirt I wore the night before at your place. I, was equally allured by that unintelligible smell of yours, a smell of nothing but the sheer ruggedness of an effortlessly attractive man. Oh… and I could stare into those green eyes forever.

But, what I liked the most was that lovely fragility about you, how deeply you felt everything around you, and the lasting impact things had on you. It was this same fragility that made you pull away from things too intense, and often times turned life’s possibilities into perceived threats. This was the only reason why our relationship didn't last. Still, I think you were one perceptive fellow, whose keen insight stripped life’s cotidianities from its faux charm. And yet, despite this straightforward, naïve-less nature of yours, you were still passionate about life, and dove head first into things that attracted you.

It’s true what they say… that we can never escape who we are; your delicate nature and the complexities of this world were two elements seemingly unable to coexist. I think your heart was too sensitive for this often cruel city, and your passions and love kept being met by undeserving people. Beauty can be so deceiving.

I have to tell you that I am partly enraged, saddened and lost by your departure; this glimpse of you was not enough. I don’t know how to cope with this Tim. I don’t want my letters to be a burden on you or to stop you from enjoying your newfound peace, but I need some reassurance that you are ok. I know Tim lives; that soul was too beautiful to vanish, but I want to understand how things are for you now. I wont ask the whys because it will drive me nuts and I need the little faith that I have left; regardless, I keep looking for answers as to where your soul is and how I can keep it close to me. If you could find a way of providing me with these answers I would be the happiest woman in the world.

I am aware that I sound crazy by requesting the impossible, but I have always been a big believer in your creativity. I will keep my eyes open for your messages in the new wonderful things I will discover in New York City; I will leave my heart wide open to feel the humanity of those whom I photograph (I know how much you loved photographing people), and I also promise to stay very awake in my dreams, just in case you want to whisper something in my ear. I know I will see you again someday, but for now I have to keep on living this journey. I’ll make sure to enjoy my time here as much as possible, and I will tell you all about it someday. Meanwhile, enjoy yourself, float freely, and make sure to check up on me every once in a while…pretty please.


Love,


Erika


PS: this is the only picture I have of us

Dear Cuba: ¿Dónde pongo lo hallado?

Dear Cuba:

I am writing you to fill you in with how things are going now that I'm back in New York City. I haven't been able to concentrate at work for these past two days. New York was able to exhaust me before arriving at my desk at 9 am this morning; my coffee is too watery, and your haunting memories are lingering fresh in my head. I'm miserable.

I always fantasized about getting to know you and feeling how you inspired much of Silvio Rodriguez's songs, of asking you how it felt to be showered by Fidel's fervent speeches, and how you managed to procreate such fascinating, smart and lively people. But I never expected your grip to be so powerful.I miss you.

As I took the subway this morning, my body was leaning on the wagon's wall, hands grabbing the metallic pole, but my mind was miles away across the Caribbean Sea, deep in the heart of Central Havana. I close my eyes and I am playing a Son Guajiro in Cayo Hueso, with that charming old man I met...remember? I am tasting the warm guava pies, the sweet pineapples taken from your soil, and the cold bucaneros we shared every day. As the subway enters the tunnel and rapidly rocks my body back and forth, I am dancing Rumba en el Callejón de Hamel, to the vibrating hot sounds of the Batá, sweat dripping down my forehead, surrounded by Yemayá(with her lovely blue dress) and Changó with his axe.

It's finally summer in New York City, and the newfound sweltering heat outside contrasts the coldness of my subway car. As the chilly, fake breeze travels down my arms, my eyes still closed, I am sitting in El Malecón, my hair blown back by the misty, salty breeze of the ocean. I hear the splatter of kids jumping from the rocks and hitting the water, I hear their laughs, their Piropos and "el cantaito" of their Cuban accent. They are all so present in their moment, enjoying the water, talking to each other, eyeing the pretty ladies that walk by. I open my eyes, looking to find some of that warmth around me, and everyone in the subway is lifeless, with their pretty clothes and their eyes fixed on their smartphones. You can't talk to New Yorkers when you please, especially before their coffee in the morning. I miss you.

Something magic and indescribable happened to me when I met you. I experienced your joy and your struggle, I had intense conversations with your people and felt both their tiredness and their passion for the socialist ideal; stripped of material commodities, I sensed something primal in your people, an authentic, intoxicating love of life that inspired me and made me walk light as a feather. What is it about you Cuba? Words fail me, I can't describe it...but I feel you and I get you.

As I hear the subway conductor announce my stop approaching, I don't want to open my eyes, I don't want to take my feet off your fertile land, I don't want to get sucked in the rapidness of the city, I don't want to stop tasting the sweet buzz of your rum and sugar cane, I don't want to live my life without the magic and inspiration you provided. I open my eyes and my stop is here...how do I continue life after knowing you and savoring you? How do I conceive of myself in this place now that I have you inside of me, like a lover unwilling to go away. Cuba, ¿Dónde pongo lo hallado?

Visitors keep Homes Alive

Since I moved to New York City in 2006, more than three dozen visitors have stayed with me at home. From different cities, countries and continents...some of them are good friends, family, acquaintances... others, perfect strangers. I know the high volume of visitors has a lot to do with how desirable New York City is as a traveling destination, but there is also another interesting element about these visits. Since I moved alone, I have had bouts of company all throughout my processes.

When I had my son Amaru, in the middle of a cold December, my aunt Marianela stayed with us for a week, pampering me, doing the house chores so I could regain my energy, making Dominican food and hot beverages for me (while lecturing me about the importance of drinking fluids when breastfeeding), and indulging in the "new baby" smell of my newborn son with me. I was in good company. Then, when my relationship with Amaru's father went awry and we parted our ways, I had one friend after the other come visit me, bringing some warmth and love to a house that was reconciling with the reality of a single parent family. I was in good company.

My latest visitor was Roxy, here from Barcelona on a shopping stop before heading to Dominican Republic. During this past week she was here, when Amaru and I came home, instead of opening the door to a silent apartment Roxy was there asking us about our day, the floor spotted with shopping bags which she later emptied to show me her finds; instead of watching Curious George while I made dinner, Amaru chilled with Roxy and was enthralled she allowed him to play paintbrush on her itouch (a big no no with his other iphone-owning uncles and aunties). I felt good that Roxy was there to talk to after putting Amaru to bed, I enjoyed accompanying her to the corner early in the morning so she could grab a yellow cab to the airport, and I really enjoyed strengthening our friendship bond a bit more. I was in good company.

Visitors for me are more than a pleasant surprise, they have become a necessary and indispensable presence in my life. The part of me that believes in a higher power thinks they are godsends, strategically placed from above directly into my doorstep, as if the universe was able to perceive how often I crave good company and true intimacy. Something really beautiful and intimate emerges when you open your house to someone, you invite them into your life, into your routine, into your struggles and into your joy. I can't imagine my days without Alex (my good good friend who lives on the first floor) coming up to have breakfast or to watch the cute landlord washing his car in shorts from my window; I can't fathom my weeks without someone sleeping over in my couch and having one of my 1001 pancake recipes in the morning; I can't picture my life as a closed space with no room for those who want to come visit and share it with me.

My visitors always thank me profusely for welcoming them and for my attentiveness during their stay. Little do they know that I get so much more out of it than they do.

Photogenic is a Useless Adjective

I love photographing people who are not considered photogenic. When I meet them, they often warn me about how bad they will look in their pictures, and seem somehow ashamed of not being able to portray some set of coveted characteristics. In front of the lens, they look away, repeatedly clear their throats, they chuckle while looking down...a burst of colors going to their face.

Interested in portraying his joie de vivre and effusive personality, I asked Daniel, a friend visiting from Barcelona, if I could take his picture. He was nervous, brought two different set of glasses, and told me no one had ever taken a good picture of him. Some sushi and three Sapporos later he was ready for his shot.

In moments like this, when I see people unaware of their charm, of their uniqueness, or their ugly-sexiness, I often remember this saying I used to hear back in Dominican Republic: "Cada quien tiene lo suyo"... such accurate popular wisdom. We as human beings are not and cannot be repeated; this is not possible and quite frankly also undesirable. Maybe Daniel couldn't mirror the latest fashion ad from Diesel, but his delicate awkward pose, interwoven fingers (to hold down the nerves), the unintended sincere laugh that came out of his discomfort, and the lovely red of his hair(sprinkled with silver)are not replicable, and that alone is very special.

I stayed quiet while photographing him, sans directing of any kind(none of that "beautiful", "hold it" or "that's hot!" crap). I purposely do this every time I take someone's photograph because I don't want to scare their essence away, I don't want their spirit to go back in its shell, and I also want to send the message that what they got to offer is more than good enough, that their way is special and desirable, and that no one else is capable of replicating it.