The city is experiencing a minor heatwave. The sun blazes down all day every day. It changes the places. As I cycle around I feel myself not here, in Londres, but elsewhere: Medellin, Mexico City, Buenos Aires. The atmosphere changes. Life on the street seems possible. The ghosts of intense family relationships, conservative morality and the possibility of collective action are all around. The smell of hot tarmac offers the promise of an increased conviviality.
In a small town, name forgotten, in northern Bolivia, I stumble upon a street party. I am invited to join. A man offers me cocaine on the end of a key. My nationality is a matter of curiosity. There is a moment of believing oneself part of a globespanning, never-ending party. But bonds so quickly forged are equally quickly broken. The end of the party is a return to the family, away from the wider family of the street. I cannot follow indoors, unless the offer of a cousin as partner is taken up. I am just a foreigner passing through a city. Or the city passes through me.