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About San Juan

So, I’m wonderin—what’s it like for her? Is she happy? Trapped? Surprised me how chill some of em are. Talked to this one gal once—total accident, swear it—near a fire call. She’s leanin on a wall, smokin, says, “Hey, hero, need a date?” I laugh, like, nah, I’m good, lady. But she’s cool, tells me she’s been at it 10 years. TEN YEARS! Can ya believe that? “Fish are friends, not food,” I mutter—thinkin she’s dodgin sharks out here daily. She smirks, like she gets it. Weird moment, man.

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First thing, I hit Calle San Antonio. The sun’s barely peeking, and I’m dodging potholes like they’re landmines. Seriously, Ingenio’s streets are like a game of “who can break their ankle first.” I’m thinking, “Why can’t they fix these roads?” But whatever, I’m on a mission.

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