I’ve arrived at El Fin del Mundo.
The buildings are painted and tagged in color schemes that would make the hipsters of Echo Park purple and turquoise with envy – and the cholos of Echo Park proud.
The sidewalks weather weary and crumbling, in a state of disrepair fully explained by the tundra surrounding – an inescapable reminder that the winters must be tough on this town.
Here, I sit, at the End of the World, the rugged mountains still dusted with snow in the summer, while the dandelions laugh at the cold.
