I've been feeling nostalgic about my old neighborhood. Washington Heights is primarily a Dominican enclave at the northern tip of Manhattan, and while I often complained about my tiny, roach-infested studio with its single brick-wall-facing window, the "wanted for knifing" posters that appeared in my building compliments of the strip club across the street, and the lack of amenities catering to me (i.e. coffee house with wifi, veggie restaurants, music and art-events nightly), I loved the vitality of the streets. In the summer especially, the neighborhood was ripe with the overflow of cramped emotions and cramped apartments. People, even very tiny, sleepy people, were out at all hours--playing ball or riding Big Wheels, gathering on stoops tomunch chicken and plantains and drink (soda? beer?) from wrinkled paper bags, jostling around the fridges at all-night bodegas, throwing cookouts and birthday parties, flirting and fighting and always, always blasting latin music. So a year after the fact, here's my homage to Washington Heights.