I am writing from the centuries-old Mexico City. I forget that it is still March. The word from New York is that it is snowing and this news seems surreal, for it is what I know as summer here - seventy five degrees and the occasional thundershower.
What has struck me most about this city is the abundance of street life - plants, vendors and pedestrians flow in endless rivers. The neighborhood I am staying in, Condesa, is full of narrow streets canopied with thick green trees. (Words are coming slowly to me as I have been thinking almost entirely in spanish while I am here - as I write 'narrow streets' my mind thinks 'calle estrecho.´)
In a city that is new to us, we are children, young children, with hungry minds. The streets, the design of buildings, the social behaviors on buses and subways, the unfamiliar or less familiar words, all feed the mind with endless fresh experience. Sleep is filled with dramatic and colorful and strange dreams. Old characters and settings are drudged up. One feels as if one is being reborn.