Skinny dogs and all

There are times when ones has to feel ashamed of compatriots. Like today, when I was sitting in a bar in the old colonial centre of Santo Domingo, and an Italian blond woman stormed in. Speaking exclusively in Italian, seemingly unaware that Dominicans speak Spanish, she demanded a sandwhich for a poor skinny dog ("un cane, un povero cane!") she had spotted outside. This in a country where millions of people live below the poverty line and children die of easily preventable diseases in the slums that surround the major cities. This literally in front of an equally skinny beggar with no legs that was asking for some change in front of the bar´s entrance.

Needless to say, I buried my face in my hands, while customers around the counter discussed vehemently what "cane" might mean. When one pointed out that it meant "perro", everyone erupted in delighted laughter. The woman left in a huff.

Indeed, things seem not to have changed in the DR. The streets are still full of young dominican girls with incredibly elaborate nail polish, dodgy-looking Western male tourists looking for a cheap sexual thrill and furtive Haitian migrants selling anything from paintings to spare car parts. While I haven´t ventured outside the capital yet, and have certainly not met my old friends in Santiago, the 24 hours spent in Santo Domingo where enough to remind me why I fell in love with this country, and subsequently started loathing it. It seems to embody all that is wrong in the relationship between developed and developing world. And yet, it is absolutely enchanting.



Quite a far cry from the last few days in Vancouver and New York. While the former, with its wide waterfronts, uber-clean sidewalks and healthy-looking inhabitants forced me and my faithful travel companion Tot F to hide into local cinemas for most of the time, the latter simply blew me away. I had forgotten how absolutely huge and desperately lively it is. All night Korean restaurants serving steamy pots of noodles. Lesbian art openings where I was asked (at 8 pm!!!) to join a threesome. Weimer-inspired drag cabarets with absurdly clad men in their 30s. Giant stuffed toys in the shape of tarantulas, which could scare the hell out of an adult, let alone a child. And of course, the sight of gorgeous Oats, her eyes shining with delight every time I spoke about the Tots back at home.

Everything in New York seems made to dazzle and exceed. London - and I never thought I`d say this - appears like a sleepy village in comparison. I might have fallen in love with it. I might have to come back soon. Very soon.