The lethargy and life of the city

I practically crawl the last few steps.

I'm only on the second floor. Every time I get to the top of the stairs I have to collapse on my hostel bunk to recover.

I feel like fat people look.

I would be worried but whatever is looming over my lungs - altitude, pollution or remains of swine disease - is thankfully not of my own doing.

Everyone here moves slowly. It is the only way. This suits me well. The general lethargy detracts attention from the fact that I have no idea what to do with myself.

I am excited. Don't get me wrong. Admittedly most of my anticipation is about the food. Of course it is. Even when there is as much to get me going as there is in Mexico I will still always focus on the food.

But I know very little about Mexico, so the food is really the only thing I have to go on. Perhaps some adjustment is needed.

Here are the things I think of when I think about this country:

Dust.
Sirens.
Spanish.
Turquoise beaches. Jungles. The precarious ecological state of amphibians.
Cacti. Moustaches.
Aztec and Maya.
Cheese. Chilli. Chocolate.
Tequila.

The generic nature of my list makes me squirm a little.

A number of people have expressed surprise at my lack of knowledge. I'm used to this.

Deep down I know this is what I thrive on. Not knowing what will happen tomorrow. I may be drifting but this is the stuff of dreams.

A few cups of coffee and the odd traveller's tale and I'll be bouncing.

The city is not as bright as I thought it would be. Or as busy. This may well be a reflection of my own mental processes. But the Mexico City painted to me in shades of thievery and kidnap by dozens of concerned advice-givers seems confined to dark corners, swept aside by well-meaning Mexicans and the enticing smells of their weird food.

I'm very relaxed.

I have absolutely no direction and only a small amount of enthusiasm. But I'm fine with that. It will come. I'm in a bubble. With free breakfast, dinner, internet and hot showers, I have no real reason to leave this hostel.

My attention creeps vaguely towards the map. I become momentarily taken with ideas of a hop to the beach. I crave bland beauty and a hammock. It is with no small amount of surprise that I find out a centimetre on my map is a fifteen hour coach journey away.

The snail's head of my intrigue retreats slimily back into its shell, leaving only wet feelers, slowly waving.

I may throw a dice.