2-2 Berlin--Home Sweet Home in Mexico City

The first time I went to Coyoacan, an old colonial part of Mexico City south of the historic center, where I've lived for the past four winters, was on a late mid-November afternoon. Leaves were at full peak color—brown only—and the sun was low on the horizon behind me. As I walked down Berlin, the whole street shimmered in burnished gold. Sun rays slanted through the trees and tinged the front of old colonial houses.

I loved the first impression I had of the street, and over the years it has played itself out over and over again—always early in the morning and again in the late afternoon. I always felt I was living in a country village instead of a colonia in the middle of one of the world's largest cities in the world.

That was four years ago. Then, I moved in for three weeks. It was only seven months after the death of my mother and I was still mourning the loss. It had been a beyond-stressful period—both physically and emotionally. I was in Mexico City at the end of a two week cruise form Boston to Cozumel and a week on the beach in Playa del Carmen. I'd come to Mexico City to begin working at the Casa, and to celebrate Thanksgiving with them. I just didn't want to be home.

By the time I moved into the apartment I was beginning to feel normal, and I have clear memory of a conversation with someone that this was the first time in many months that I was beginning to relax and feel my old normal self.

That was November 2010! I left in early December but not before asking the owner of the house if the apartment was available the following winter. It was, and I returned two and a half months later.

I loved my life there—so simple and free of the complexities of Plattsburgh. That winter, a friend came down. The first thing she commented on was the meager amount of clothes hanging on my clothes rack.

“Is that all you have?” she asked.

“It is,” I told her, “and it's all I need.”

I was spending my days working in the Quaker library, reading up on Quakerism, attending “meeting.” I was learning to live with less, and liking it more and more.

The apartment itself wasn't much more than a square concrete cube, painted white with tiled floors and windows on three sides. It was flooded with light—sunlight during the day and moonlight at night. Outside were two patios—one private where I had a small table and two chairs. A spiral staircase, entwined with white Christmas lights, ascended to a rooftop winter garden—an azotea in Mexican Spanish. It equaled the size of the apartment and over time I'd been allowed to change and introduce new plants to the collection. I had two cactus, a hibiscus, an azalea bush, three geraniums, a large pot of lavender and two large pots of herbs—cilantro, chives, oregano and basil. There was always enough to share and plenty for the Saturday morning vegetable stew that I'd make to last me for several days.

The apartment was in a phenomenal neighborhood.  The backyard of the apartment butt up against La Casa Azul--the childhood home of Fridha Khalo.  I often marveled how the universe conspired to give this space, so close the home of Fridha and her husband, Diego Rivera--the two most important artists of the 20th Century.

Winter 2011 ended, but I'd made arrangements to be in Mexico city the following November and I got to live there during the first Sunday of Advent. People were buying trees in shorts, Christmas in a warmer climate. I loved it!

From then on I'd book the apartment a year in advance. I was happy there—a happiness that came from engaging work at the Casa, a new body of friends, and the weather—almost always perfect. Winter days were in the low 70's, full of sun with very low humidity; nights dropped into the 40's that required warm blankets. I rarely had arthritis in my neck—a problem that had plagued me for too long, nor did I ever have a problem sleeping in that space.

Living there, I´d established a comfortable routine.  I´d wake around 7:00 a.m. spend the morning reading the local hometown newspaper, check emails and possibly prep the dinner I would eat much later.

By 10:00 I´d leave and take the 20 minute bus ride to the Etiopia metro stop where I´d often stop at my favorite bakery, El Globo, for a pastry and Coke. 

The metro ride was a time of quiet amidst an often crowded train.  I would read two or three Psalms, center myself spiritually, then pray for a whole list of people.  Then find my way to the Casa or, later, to CAFEMIN. 

At least once a week I would take the day off and spend it at a museum, or in Chapultepec Park or at Oaxtepec, one of the many resorts 4,000 feet below Mexico City in the warmer state of Morelos.

But it was ¨work¨ that centered my time in Mexico´s capital.  Without the two refugee centers, I´d really have had nothing to do.  I´d long ago given up being in tourist in DF.  It was home, just as much as Plattsburgh was home.

By 7:30p.m. I was usually back in the apartment.  Evenings I´d listen to jazz, gather up my laundry, Skype with home, read, watch a film and then settle into bed by 11:00.

Weekend mornings were the times I'd stay in until noon. I had a pleasant routine: I'd wash the floor of the azotea, water the plants, head to the mercado nearby to buy fresh vegetables and a large bouquet of unopened lilies. (By Wednesdays the buds would open and the apartment would be full of the heady aroma of exotic Asian lilies.) I'd come home, make up a pot of vegetable soup, arrange the flowers, then leave for some Saturday afternoon outing.

Life was comfortable and that comfort added to my happiness.

I was almost always alone in the apartment, but I was never lonely. It was impossible to have more than one person for dinner, and the times I did I'd prepare a simple meal and we'd eat it at the table on the roof.

It was from the roof—the azotea—that I stayed connected to nature. I could see volcanoes to the south and stars by night. I was surrounded by trees—poinsettias when I'd arrive in January and jacaranda when I left in May. Palm trees and huge live oaks dotted people's back yards. It almost felt as if I lived in a village, in the country.

By day I'd listed to “The Point”--my favorite radio station out of Vermont. No matter the month, it was almost always sunny and mild in DF.  During the winter it was fun to listen to ski reports, school closings and weather alerts from a place I'd gladly left behind.

As the years flowed on, I came to realize that 212 Berlin represented more—much more.

I'd built a new life for myself in Mexico City—a life free from Plattsburgh. Here, I wasn't an ex-teacher from NCCS. No one knew who my parents were.

“Oh, you're Howard's son,” In Mexico City I was free of that. I was Dan, or Daniel, and the friends I'd made accepted me for who I was now, not who I was yesterday.

This realization came over many months—years actually. While I was still my essential self, I now existed separate from who I'd been or what I'd been expected to be in Plattsburgh.

I came to see why people move away and start a new life. It would have been extremely easy to do that.

But things change, and time doesn't stand still. As winter 2014 turned to spring, I felt more and more that it was time to do something different.

And so I looked for another apartment, found it for the following year, and moved out of the place I'd lived in for four winters, four springs, and two autumns. Over that time I'd lived there for more than twelve months, more than a year.

When I did leave, at the end of April 2014, I was overwhelmed with sadness. The place was so full of memories, as all personal living spaces tend to be.

When everything was out of the apartment, with luggage waiting below, I followed a ritual I'd done for more than forty years. Years ago I'd read a passage in the novel A Separate Peace that has stayed with me throughout the years.

“From my locker I collected my sneakers...and gym pants then turned away,

leaving the door ajar for the first time, forlornly open and abandoned,

the locker unlocked. This was more final than the moment when the

Headmaster handed me my diploma. Schooling was over now.”

Just before leaving for the last time I opened the door to the back patio, opened the front door and left. Since reading that passage years ago, I've done the same thing in each place I've lived.

Over the years, I'd also added my own twist to this ending. Each time I left a place I'd lived in happily, I'd trace all the walls with my hand. I think it was a form of leaving behind a spiritual essence of myself. “I lived here and it's part of me.” Marking these walls was a way of maintaining my presence in the place.

For me, these acts were more final than the taxi ride that would take me away from this place I'd called home for four years.

My time in the apartment was over. From that moment on 212 Berlin would be a memory.