Walking

Good for the mind, bad for the feet. Ouch, man.

On the past twenty-four hours.

My own bed. Baking soda sprinkled all over my pillow, like a garnish or an offering. Chocolate y atole in a styrofoam cup for breakfast. Six pesos, plus one in the hat for the granny-style service. The metro, a dream of faces and skin and hair grease, and easy, too. Gold and silver buyers on every corner. Brilliant.

At the Argentine-run Irish pub they´d just cashed the Guinness when we arrived, so Sol would have to do, and with the blare of the band (serving up American rock songs) talking was out of the question, so drink we did. And when we tired of the shouting and realized that everyone around us was drifting into a late-night make out session, pretty Mexican girls with slick ponytails and tight jeans just melting into the arms of their respective boyfriends, we headed home.

But in Condesa it´s hard to walk anywhere without being drawn into this lit-up walkway or that, and the rest of the night was spent curled up on gushy sofas in a jazz lounge. A wild, hours-long conversation ensued when we met a group of boys who´d just taken their beat up little rainbow painted veggie oil two-door sedan from Vancouver to Mexico City, kayaks strapped on top, all to raise awareness for the protection of rivers in North America. Interesting bunch. In the end they asked me to sign the hood of their car with a sharpie, and I wrote, "Vegetarians do it better - Good luck - D.F. 2007".

Exhausted today, to say the least, but managed to walk to Bosque Chapultepec, where a walk through the gardens nearly made me forget my pollution-induced sore throat. The Contemporary art museum is more quiet than most, empty save for the half asleep guards, and when I turned a corner and found myself face to face with Diego Rivera´s portrait of Frida, sitting with clasped hands and a classic, gentle Frida stare, I´d not only forgotten my hangover, but remembered, vividly, why I came here.

Platanitos, salsa verde, caged yellow birds, another twenty minutes of trudging through the city and hiding behind shrubs or bursts of tropical flower to scan my map. Falling off curbs, sidewalks so uneven you might as well scrape your own knees before you leave the house.

And finally, naptime, dreams, awaken to the sound of futbol on TV.

Nurse blisters. Repeat.