coldhearted scientist وداد

Technically a tourist, I should be making pilgrimages to monuments I have never seen, like the Basilica of Guadalupe, or that I have not seen in decades, like Teotihuacan. What I really do is read books and newspapers in bad light while scribbling furiously. I do understand why some of my American friends would consider my activities neither interesting nor refreshing, but I am fascinated.

I scan film, theatre and concert listings with an eagle eye, calculating whether I am willing to displace myself via bus and metro to these events. I take sometimes less than comfortable walks for purpose of familiarizing myself with routes and directions. I dare myself to sit in inviting cafés and bars that I initially assume are not open to women who come in alone and cover a table with books and papers.

Over tomorrow and the next day I will find a jeweler to fix jewelry and clocks (countries with mining are good for this). There are two exhibits I want to visit, that I failed to enter last week due to the power failure and the unrest. I want to go to the Library of Congress and see whether it would be possible and advantageous for me to become a reader there.

Today, however, I visited a flea market I really recommend. It exceeds expectations, as it is endless and has everything you might need, from furniture to Donna Karan suits to Oaxaca chocolate. I ate pork tacos with mysterious leaves in them, but the food stands were so varied that one of them was a sushi bar — this in a non-upscale market. I bought an avocado and some coconut oil soap, but I could have bought much more; everything was exceedingly interesting, useful, and beautiful.

This flea market is on the borderline between two traditional neighborhoods, Doctores and Roma, where J. E. Pacheco’s excellent novella Las batallas en el desierto is set, so that a visit to it allows you to visit them.

Axé.