Cherry blossoms

I passed through New York the last week in April. No matter what the weather is like -- and it changed every five minutes -- these cherry blossoms come out at that time of year. If you blink, you miss them. Their season goes by faster than the jacarandas in Mexico City. (I have blogged about the jacarandas -- on more than one occasion.)

Still, when their petals fall to the ground, they leave the same "magic carpet" effect as the jacarandas.

My friend Jessica Hagedorn has a new book out, a novel called Toxicology. For more information, click here.

Our Rodeo Drive

Some benighted tourists come to Mexico City and are overwhelmed to discover that there is a street -- Avenida Presidente Masaryk in Polanco -- where you can shop at outposts of many of the world's luxury retailers.

I am not sure what they expected from the capital of a country with one of the fifteen most active economies in the world -- guys in straw sombreros sleeping while burros drink from troughs?

At the dawn of the 21st century, multinational purveyors of sumptuous goods realized that Mexico's is one of the stablest economies in Latin America. And if it's true that half the people in Mexico City live in poverty, about ten percent of the population -- about 2 million people -- have an enticing amount of disposable income. Some of those people are obscenely wealthy.

At first the brands had an uphill struggle. Traditional Mexicans who are well-off enough to spend five thousand bucks on a Cartier watch are also in the habit of getting on a plane so they can brag to their friends that they bought it in Paris or New York. The best customers of the luxury boutiques here are the nouveau riche, politicians and drug traffickers. (The latter are a retailer's dream, as they pay in cash.)

Polanco, the neighborhood where Avenida Presidente Masaryk is located, is the most central upscale neighborhood in the city. As well as luxury stores, many of the city's best restaurants are there. Patronizing them is a delightful escape, however temporary, from some of the city's harsher realities.

Still, once you're out on the street, it won't be long until you're sent a four-alarm reality check. At a nearby traffic intersection, you're bound to see a five-year-old child selling Chiclets to drivers stalled at red lights.

Advertising

These ads on the metro caught my eye. The one on the left promises that if you study at the Aspic Gastronomic Institute, you can become a chef in twelve months, a pastry chef and chocolatier in eighteen, or either an "international" or "universal" chef in twenty-four. I'd love to know which planets the "universal" course encompasses that the "international" does not.

Meanwhile, Profem, on the right, appears to offer legal abortions. The woman on the left-hand side of the ad is hugging a pillow while contemplating the results of her pregnancy test. with an expression of extreme consternation. I could not figure out the figure on the right. At first, I thought it was the same woman, perhaps relaxing in bed after having decided to abort. She appears to have shaven her head. Is that part of the treatment? Then it occurred to me that it is probably her cad of a bald-headed boyfriend. Maybe she should keep the baby and get rid of him.

Holy Toledo

Many years ago a friend of mine stayed at this hotel, known as the Toledo, on the corner of Independencia and López in the centro histórico. The room rate was dirt cheap, but he said it was clean and cozy, and the staff treated him as if he were a long-lost member of the family. Later I found out that this is where the ficheras from nearby bars -- the Florida, the Kit Kat and the Villa Rica -- take their customers who are after more than a dance and drink.  Readers of my book First Stop in the New World may remember Paty, a fichera who has had numerous platonic adventures with the ancient Spaniard who owns the hotel.

I always liked the building because it looked like a slice of pink Wonder Bread.

Francisco fenomenal

Francisco Goldman hardly needs me to promote his book, Say Her Name, which was featured on the front page of the New York Times Book review earlier this month. But I will because he has been a dear friend for over a decade and the genesis of this book was particularly heart-wrenching. It is a novelized version of his life with chilanga Aura Estrada, to whom he was married for a couple of short years until her untimely death at the age of 30 in an accident at the beach in Oaxaca in 2007.

It is a romantic story of love and death, whose two protagonists are writers. As such it reminded me of some of Roberto Bolaño's work -- the kind of book that might inspire younger readers to want to become writers. It also reminded me of Bolaño in the sense of alchemy. When a book doesn’t work it is often easy to understand where and how the writer screwed up. But when a book works, it is a lot harder to determine the chemical compounds or list of ingredients that brought it to the finish line. In the end, there is something undefinable – something magical – about a classic.

For the record, Goldman is to blame for giving me the idea to write First Stop in the New World. For a long time, he and Aura were among the few people who even knew I was working on it, and they always made me feel like I was the only one in the world who could accomplish it. (For this and many other reasons, I dedicated it to him and to her memory.)

Say Her Name is getting great reviews all over the place. If you are in the U.S., Francisco is also probably appearing at a bookstore near you in the near future. Here is a link to his publisher's web site, where you can find his touring schedule.