Cold Light, Warm People

It is, genuinely, the thing that annoys me most about this country. Because everything else is pretty solid. The drivers are patient. The countryside is absurdly beautiful. The coffee lives up to the hype. The people are warm. But I have to complain about something, so today: the light bulbs.

These are not just bright lights. These are the LED equivalent of fluorescent — the DMV, the hospital waiting room, the PCL library at 3am. That specific shade of blue-white that signals something unpleasant is about to happen to you. Except here, it’s just… dinner. Or a plaza. Or your hostel bathroom at 3am when you get up to pee.

Speaking of plazas. Before Instagram, before WhatsApp, the plaza served as the social network. Your Nani went there to learn stories of other aunties’ kids and hear about the latest in local politics. People showed up to plazas to see and be seen for centuries. The OG feed, the OG algo, the OG timeline.

And someone looked at Jericó’s plaza — one of the loveliest I’ve seen, draped in bougainvillea, ringed by tile-roofed buildings, anchored by a cathedral that has watched over the town for over a century — and chose parking garage lighting.

I stood there tonight under lights so cold I half-expected a doctor to walk in. Couples still whispered romantically to each other. Children still chased each other around the fountain. Abuelas still held court on the benches. All of them bathed in the blue-white glow of a cell phone screen turned up to maximum brightness.

I miss incandescent bulbs. Warm light is firelight. It’s what humans evolved under. It’s why everyone wants to take pictures at golden hour. It says relax, the predators have gone to sleep. Cool white light says your number is 47 and we are currently serving number 12.