'Let's go see the lights', my dad would Lsay as soon as December arrived, and he would take us out for a drive around Medellin in his red Renault 9. It was a special night: the 1990s were starting, we lived in the world's most violent city and we hardly ever went out after sunset because of the war between drug traffickers and the state. But at the end of the year, the collective mood changed for a few weeks when the city lit up millions of Christmas lights in public spaces. The city seemed in a state of truce, and dark and dangerous places impossible to visit were transformed into a spontaneous carnival. During our nightly excursions, my dad would drive as slowly as he could, and we would poke our heads out to see the luminous arches over the streets or the metallic paper figures that were sometimes as tall as three-storey houses. All around us were seas of people from every neighbourhood, folk music played on street corners, and the December gales wafted in the smell of sweet popcorn and roast beef, candy floss and frying butter. The bustle and the colours were cathartic. On nights like these, Medellin was not scary.
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