After a week in Mexico City, I am finally on my way to Barcelona.
By the time some of you read this, I will be either switching air planes in Paris or checking into my hotel room in Catalonia. Either way, I will be off to the next leg of this journey.
Several times this trip, I have mentioned that I could imagine living in Mexico City. On Sunday afternoon, I spent several hours chatting with Cristina Potters and Judy at their apartment -- having one of those conversations at the corner of urban and urbane.
On my walk through the Contesa neighborhood, I noticed how much the tree-lined streets reminded me of residential neighborhoods in 1960s Manhattan. Or Athens. Or Paris. Or London.
Big cities have a certain vibrancy about them. It is not merely the presence of the arts, though that does matter. There is something else. Maybe it is just being around people who have places where they are headed and the hope that they can make it there. The pursuit of happiness without any guarantee that it will occur.
It certainly is not a feeling of peace at the center. More like nuclear atoms fusing and splitting. The feeling that life is happening.
And, of course, there are the oases of quiet. The pocket parks scattered around town. Depending on their location, filled with children or young couples or the stately elderly. But always birds in the trees. And songs filling space that would otherwise be preternaturally still.
Yes. I think I could spend a year here. And, if I am serious about getting my Mexican citizenship, I need to start spending more time in country. It is simply one of the requirements.
But, for now, I will enjoy my escape to Europe. There are tales to tell -- and I am in a mood to tell them.
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