CITY LIFE

I am sitting in the kitchen of my Mexico City residence listening to classic violin. It is 9:30 in the evening. Adela is cooking spaghetti. The high for tomorrow is 75; the low is 56.

Earlier in the day we went to the Museum of Modern Art and admired the works of Rivera, Orozco, Siqueiros, Kahlo, Tamayo and other lesser known but outstanding painters. The museum is located in Chapultepec Park. It is a green city although concrete reigns and traffic is heavy and dangerous. Pedestrians are without rights.

In Colonia Jardin Balbuena, I have become a familiar figure at many restaurants since I generally eat out all three meals. I attend a four-story gym and I'm recognized as one of the regulars.

I spend much of my free time in my bedroom, which has a large window that I can open to relish the breezes. I'm reading a collection of Herman Hesse short stories. He was my favorite author during my university days. He writes about despair, but he uses his depression to pen the most eloquent sentences and thoughts.

He lived a long life, but his latter years were spent in seclusion. He did not want to see anyone as he expresses so clearly in his prose, but there was always a woman or a stunning view that brought him back to the surface and freed him briefly from the dark depths of his mind.

I am living in virtual seclusion with Adela in parenthesis. My mind plays with me. When it begins mocking me, I pop a Xanax. I'm not going to deal with the pain. If I have to increase my doses, I will. I spend much time ruminating about the past. I am astounded by the passage of time that will soon consume me. I can visualize that often stated Buddhist scene of standing in the shallows of a river and the water running past. Nothing stays the same for even a second.

My most constant companion is Adela, but I call her comadre. I told my comadre that on the border comadre is a synonym for a woman's period. She had never heard the expression used in that manner before I told her. She bleeds for me.

"Stop!" she says. "Leave it all behind you."

"But I can't," I say. "I've tried for years without success, but I can't."

After our visit to the museum, we ate at an expensive Spanish restaurant in the historic district. It was a stone building with wooden floors. We ordered a plateful of cold meats and then followed the hors d-oeuvres with a variety of cooked meats. I hadn't eaten this much since I feasted on barbecue when I was last in Austin. The beer was deliciously cold.

You forget the joys of a big-city newspaper. Besides Excelsior, there are a variety of dailies and sports journals. One day there is an article about Octavio Paz. The next there is a feature on Pablo Neruda. Columnists appear on every other page and they challenge my vocabulary. I can say without conceit that my Spanish, which was decent by gringo and border standards, has improved dramatically.

I sought refuge in Mexico City to rest both mentally and physically. I have achieved a small success in that endeavor. Walking throughout Colonia Jardin Balbuena has satisfied my curiosity. There were plans to go to Puebla and Taxco and San Cristobal de las Casas, but exploring the streets of Colonia Jardin Balbuena has given me the micro rather than the macro insight into Mexico City.

I am totally at home in this huge, magnificent place.