It’s true that I am not home yet, but this trip will be over soon. I’ll sleep under my own sheets come Thursday. It’s my last day in Mexico City. I have spent it in a resto-cafe-bookstore, reading Japanese fiction (Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata) in English and drinking iced teas of yerba bueno. Tonight I’ll go out for a grand dinner with my brother to celebrate life. It’ll won’t cost us $50, for wine and great Argentinian steaks. At this moment, I feel so intensely satisfied with my lot. I am not yearning for home, nor do I long to stay. I am simply ready to move.

My friend’s apartment is on Hamburgo Street – Hamburg – and all of its intersections are with other great European cities: Praga, Varsovia, Londres. I’ll be in one of those come September, or maybe I’ll pass them each day walking these streets. Mexico City is life, the same as Paris and New York and Tokyo. It is of these places that I dream, of these great works of concrete and steel and hope and sadness and everything else that their cores are made of. And I will find myself in their very center, one day not long from now. I know I will. Once I get there, I’ll hold a spot for you at my cafe table.