Day 0: Portland para México, Distrito Federal

October 12th, Day of Departure (following a full moon), I left a sleep-deprived and smiling Hans at the security gate and trundled off with a butterfly in my stomach, who gathered a flurry of raucous companions as I approached my destination. I arrived wondering if the customs officer would mistake my fear for some illegal secret, but she waved me on in a second and I was swept off in the surging waterways of D.F. airport...communicating via broken Spanglish and sign language, pausing to sacrifice my treasures of salami and fresh bok choi to the travel gods (in the form of a stout-nosed security beagle), passing roaring blurs of taxi venders and reuniting families...then spat out on the curb.

Allelujah, shit shit shit! I'm really here.

The first moments in a new place: salty! Senses augmented by the unfamiliar. (Snowflakes in Frankfurt/the blue and white of street workers' uniforms/a cafe in Madrid/Amalia and cappuccinos, a widow open to the street/Maui, Berlin, the precise and sturdy islands of British Columbia, sharp from the sea.) And here! It was thunderstorming when I got here! This I devoured like a mineral I hadn't known I was missing. And then, as usual, my fear drained like sand, and my taxi arrived.

~

My driver is splendid. The streets are an absurdity of incoherent motion. The little shops pressing against us are bright and peeling like Christmas wrapping paper. Taco stands are awake and disregarding traffic. I am flooded with glee. The buildings of the historic center push back against the roar, expanding grand and imperturbable as bone, the color of blackened ivory, lined with gold lights.

We arrive; my granderfatherly driver tells me, "Joo be careful only at night," and I check into the hostel in Spanish!, relish my shower, unpack in the room that is mine mine mine, rain and rain and rain on the roof telling me there is some lightening but I have everything I need.