A perfect picture

The first time I looked out the window of plane at Central America, I saw what I expected to see. Lines of white, tropical beaches, the expanse of never ending sea, happy tourists at huge resorts, adventure deals and billboards offering life-lasting memories at reasonable prices. As I sipped non-alcoholic Piña Coladas by a glittering poolside, I was quite happy. I didn't see that the perfect picture before me was just that: A picture. I was happy.

The next time I crossed the borders, it was in a rusted, worn-down white van. As the scenery changed from presented picture to the true one, I was shocked. I asked aloud how people could live like this. I was not refering to the run-down shacks, the stray dogs, houses made of cardboard, sheet metal, scrap, all somehow smaller than my bedroom at home. As I watched my facade crumble before my eyes, I was asking how I could have lived so happily oblivious to life behind the perfect mirror I had thought I had seen through before.