And We're Out

Tomorrow at this time I will be in an airport, leaving Mexico.  Tomorrow at this time I will have been in the country 87 days, two days shy of three months.

It's been an interesting experience to say the least.  The last few days have only added to that.  I left Puebla on a Saturday after some of the most exercise-filled days of my trip.  Two spinning classes, one full-day climbing outing, and plenty of dog- (and people-) walks.  I was even in Puebla for Cinco de Mayo, which I found out that day is really only celebrated in Puebla; nowhere else in Mexico really gives a shit (the battle had to do with defending Puebla; Mexico's days of independence are actually September 15th and 16th).

On Saturday I got in to Mexico City and found that my hosts had left for a party.  They'd told me they'd be in from 4-6 pm but with traffic and a bus delay I didn't make it in time, so I spent the night in a large, lonely hostel.  At least I had the room to myself, I guess.  The next day I went climbing.  Well, I went *with* people who went climbing.  After climbing five times in less than a month -- all this after 8 months without doing it once -- the tendons in my fingers were hurting and so I thought it prudent to avoid further damage.  I belayed and watched people going up and, occasionally and unexpectedly, very rapidly back down. 

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I've been staying at a yoga commune since Monday, spending my last four days there.  It's without a doubt one of the most interesting places I've stayed in Mexico.  The place belonged to my host's grandparents and it's adorned with all the pomp and opulence of a rich, late nineteenth century mansion: large, impressive chandeliers; wooden flourishments decorating walls and doorways; stained glass and old, dusty furniture.  The place looks like it fell out of time, like it's been lost or drifting since a hundred years ago and maybe still is. 





It feels like it's right out of Great Expectations.  The furniture is sparse, dust-covered and unkempt.  The

bronze is worn and rusted, the paint peeling and some glass panels broken.  Lights are notably absent, or perhaps I should say that darkness is conspicuously present.  At night, shadows dominate the place as the one working light on the chandelier is swallowed in the large, open space.  It feels a little bit magical.

And then there's the fact that the doors are always closed, locked.  All these grand spaces and yet you're kind of shut into a tight corridor

with a metal railing overlooking the shadow-lined corridor below.  At uneven intervals doors will open or shut and out will come someone you've never seen; I have no idea how many people live in the house.  At least 8.

The whole place is some odd mystery and yet it's all just sitting there in the middle of Mexico City, hidden behind an old, iron gate and a white façade.  So unexpected.

Anyway, that's about all to report.  Tomorrow I leave (theoretically) for LA for a six day stint in the US.  Wish me flight luck!