I'm Turning a Poor Mexican Neighborhood Into Online Content. Does It Matter That I Feel Guilty About It?

And does it make a difference than I'm not identifying the place?

Guanajuato, Mexico, spread out before me, a mosaic of colors shining in the cool morning air.

It was last spring, and I’d gotten up before sunrise to wander about taking photos while Brent slept in.

I’d already taken hundreds of pictures of Mexico’s “most colorful city,” but this morning I headed for a neighborhood I’d seen mentioned online. It was working-class, said to be “off the beaten track” and less visited by tourists like me.

Guanajuato is located in a valley, and I walked along the upper edge. Buildings climbed the valley’s sides like bougainvillea up a trellis. The colors were stunning: rust-red, mustard yellow, ochre, and every possible pastel.

I reached the top of the neighborhood I wanted to explore. Narrow concrete lanes and steep staircases snaked downward between the densely packed buildings.

This early in the day, everything was quiet except for the occasional bark of a dog. Even better, it was golden hour, perfect for photography.

What neighborhood was I exploring?

Actually, I’m not going to say. As a travel writer and photographer, I often worry about the impact I have when documenting various places.

I don’t have delusions of grandeur. I know my impact is minimal — that I’m not personally sending waves of tourists anywhere.

But my influence also isn’t zero.

Or is my not identifying this place just an empty gesture on my part — a way to reassure myself that I’m a “thoughtful” traveler? God knows, Brent and I still get criticized for contributing to overtourism.

This early, I’m the only one moving about the narrow alleys. I can take my pictures without making anyone feel awkward — or feeling awkward myself.

I wander around, delighted by the pastel colors, even the cracked and peeling paint that I see as “character.”

But do the people in this neighborhood find character in its peeling paint?