In the Mexican mountains of the Sierra Norte, a perfect combination of latitude and longitude conspired to create my ultimate dream of butterflies and birds and wildflowers hidden among sunny pine forests 3,000 meters above the sea. Above the clouds, past mountain streams and secret meadows, the valley light was so clear.
I spent my days pretending to be a Victorian botanist, sketching the flowers around me.
Life was so quiet. Well, it would have been quiet if it weren´t for the village donkeys honking like doors hanging off rusty hinges.
Anyway, the alpine dream is now over – this morning I took a chain of buses from the mountains to the capital, past snowcapped volcanoes and dusty canyons, cactus forests and parched yellow grassland that waved under a sickly light pale as a convalescent´s smile.
So now I write to you from the great ricocheting bowl of pollution that is Mexico City. Its sinewy streets are tangled in grime as the sky turns to night; a night that will hold no stars, just skyscrapers and crippled street lights nodding above the grunting motorbikes and taxis and police cars. Sometimes I feel like a turtle, drawn towards the bright lights of the city even though my whole being says I was born to follow the tidal pull of the moon, the stars and the sea.
Still, the city is alive and perfect. This evening, I met some music video producers from LA, and I get to “help” them produce a video for a Mexican band… and by help I mean I eat tacos and carry guitar cases.
But still, that’s the beauty of travel. When you’re free to suggestions and ideas, a lot can happen in 24 hours.