Crayton’s company put us up in Polanco, which just happens to be the Beverly Hills of Mexico City. It’s leafy and green and full of cafes and shops and men walking around in suits. (Or at least, they were this morning.)
Our new apartment — where we’ll be staying for the next month or so, while our stuff travels down to Mexico — is in a mango-colored building on Eugenio Sue, a pretty street right off Presidente Masaryk. Masaryk is one of Polanco’s main drags and home to of a lot of the city’s high-end shops. Last night while walking to dinner, we passed Diesel, Ecko, a place with evening gowns in the window.
Our place is a studio, so it’s small. Interestingly, the TV is suspended near the ceiling in the bedroom. (Maybe that’s a Mexican thing?) I spent part of yesterday watching a novela on TV about two teenage girls who didn’t take their virginity seriously enough. Of course, right before doing something they’d regret, they told their mothers, and everyone cried, and the girls were sweet and young again.
My next step is to find a place. (But not in Polanco, because it’s way out of our price range.) I’m going to start in earnest on Monday. On the agenda today: Find a supermarket and maybe stop at a yoga studio. I brought a DVD from the States, but there’s not enough space to do it at home. If I spread my arms I hit the dining table and the couch at the same time.