detail of a perfect day

I know that I generally use this space to tell of great travels and other heroic endeavors, otherwise, to complain about the injustice of the world, but today, just today, it occurred to me that I rarely reflect on the perfection of a well-executed day.

So, my solo trip to Acapulco was pleasant, and I took care of evening out my deepening tan. And while I woke this morning, like yesterday, to be reminded that I have my bi-yearly standard sinus infection, paid with interest, it was an almost flawless day.

I decided that, of course, as I was heading back to Danielle's house, just up Juventino Rosas, off of Insurgentes. The interview had gone well, with Margo, and though, like everyone else she said, "oh, no, don't take a taxi from the street." I marched the 6 wet blocks up Tres Cruces to Miguel Angel, avoiding the larger puddles, and hailed an old green vocho with a friendly driver. Buenas noches, güerita... he smiled. I smiled back, told him where to take me, and chatted. He used to work from 6 in the morning until 10 at night. It destroyed his marriage. But, he says hopefully, people tell me I'm young. He runs his hand through his hair shoots a look back at me, relatively... he continues, 42 isn't too old to star over, is it? Pues, no... I reply gently.

The perfection began much earlier. Yesterday I desperately wanted to go to the movies, but I was too sick to get myself out of my pijamas or do anything more than make a nice sopa de fideos... that is, until 6 when I went to see Sara and Danielle to go hear Myriam Moscona do a poetry reading at La Casa del Poeta, in La Roma, a quaint little venue just past Orizaba on Alvaro Obregón, that used to be the dwelling of Ramón López Velarde, hence, the name. She read with Sergio Mondragón. It was good to see her again, she is always so much fun. But I digress. I had gone looking for the Cineteca's cartelera, and saw that there was a double feature that I wanted to see, starting at 11 am, since it was on again today, my one plan was to wake up early, finish my proposal narrative and head to the cine to see The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948 - John Huston) in which Humphrey Bogart plays Fred C. Dobbes, the man driven mad by gold lust, which turned to gold dust, and Bring Me the Head of Alfredo García (1974 - Sam Peckinpah) a seventies shoot-em-up set in the heart of Mexico, replete with fly-covered sack of a severed head. It really was a blast, and I'll admit, late at night, with nothing but myself and a television set to amuse myself over the weekend, after swimming circles around myself in the private pool, I watched the tail end of the 3rd? Mariachi film, and it was really and truly the same gringo imaginary of Mexico... nothing, it seems, has changed in the last 30 years, save for the technology to simulate bodies being riddled with bullets. I was surprised and amused about the formidable homo-social thrust of these films, all men trying to penetrate eachother with bigger and better guns, and stabbing objects. Gives one pause, to say the least.

Now granted, I had no time to eat, but the taxi I grabbed in the morning got me there with fifteen minutes to spare, even after we took a wrong turn and wended our way through Xoco to end up at the front entrance (Eje 1) Cuauhtémoc, instead of the back. I had a hot chocolate and some water, and besides an intermission trip to the restroom, I was in movie trance straight from 11-3:15, at which point, as programmed, I called Claudia. She wasn't there, so I walked across the bridge, and then crossed Churubusco, continued on Centenario to Viena where I showed up at her office. She was waiting for my call. It was perfect, and though her telephone didn't pick up my calls, she knew I'd make it. And I did. We had a late lunch in the center of Coyoacán, talked for hours over caldo tlalpeño and pollo relleno de plátano en mole negro, and then coffee, and though it stormed outside, we were safe and warm in bright lights. And thank goodness because I lost my umbrella, having left it in the car of the woman who gave me a ride home from the Condesa the other day after Rosa Nissán's taller de autobiografía.

I walked the few blocks up and arrived at my interviewee's house at exactly 7 pm. Punctuality always pleases me, and this time was no exception. So all of these pleasantly perfect executions of exactly what I wanted from my day played out, and I was pondering my contentedness, when Danielle's friends came for us, and we picked up her fiancé, and headed to the Condesa-Hipódromo for an Argentine meal. The place we had planned on was closed, and so I suggested we head to Michoacán and Parral, to La Garufa, where when we were seated, I found none other than my beloved Joel, and Marimé, finishing up their meal. They had just been talking about me, and Claudia and I had just been talking about them, and it was the most perfect ending to my most perfect day, because Joel was only in the city for a little over 12 hours, and after joining our group for another hour, headed to take his bus back to Morelia.

I know this seems like a laundry list of what I did today, and in fact, holds no interest for anyone, perhaps, but me. Nonetheless, the unique experience of feeling totally sated, happy, and content is so foreign to me that it is noteworthy, if only for my own personal annals.