I think of Mexico: intoxicatingly present, pervasive, intrusive; tangible and real. In the Land of the Feathered Serpent the blood has scarce dried on the altars and the Conquistadores only just left, and Juarez is in the hills and Zapata is coming, but now is extravagant fiesta with bright colors and wonderful food and cold beer with lime and salt and happy, tinny music.
And those long, cool afternoons in the library at the Grafica with its tall shelves packed with books about art and archæology and such like wonders as I do not find in el Norte.
A sweet, simple life. I felt as if I wanted for nothing and there were treasures strewn everywhere.