When I was young I hated my name, I was ashamed to have an unusual name, I got over that complex long ago, thanks to the overflowing imagination of the parents of that elongated generation Y. But my name comes from a yearning. My parents were married on September 7, the day of Saint Regina, and spent their honeymoon in a hotel that was also called Regina. As a girl, when I stood at the corner of Industria and San José, and my parents showed me the hotel of their beginnings, I found it as ugly as my name; already it was very deteriorated, it had been converted to dwellings in the area below the Capitolio, which had declined. The Campoamor theater, on that same corner but on the sidewalk in front, so beautiful, was also singing its swan song.
A few years ago in a documentary about the housing situation, I took a new look at the Regina. In spite of its miraculous equilibrium, it was packed with inhabitants defying the danger of collapse because they had no other alternative. The Campoamor also appeared in the documentary, now without a roof, home to rats, doves, and a martial arts teacher.
This photo of the Hotel Regina is from March 29. I was unable to photograph the Campoamor, for that you need authorization. As you can see, the corpse of this building is only awaiting its burial.
Translated by: ricote