I made the most of the hotel’s complimentary breakfast, three bowls of cereal. After checking out, I sat in the parking lot trying unsuccessfully to pump up my tyres and in the process busted the valve on the front one. I thought it would be a good opportunity to change the front tyre but after skinning my knuckles and bleeding all over myself I regretted it. I’m not normally the superstitious type but it left me with ill feelings about crossing into Mexico today.

So last night I got to thinking about the second option more. It’s about sixteen hundred kilometres and should take over two weeks. I couldn’t find the Cuban Airlines office on my tourist map of Mexico City, so… it is decided.

I got up early and caught the Metro to Coyoacan, the oldest part of Mexico D.F. and the location of a number of free museos. I came across a large nursery where the city grows all its trees. It was popular with joggers, it was easy to see why; it offered some respite from the noise, pollution and hustle and bustle.

As I headed to the Museo Frida Kahlo an old guy sweeping his front pavement called out to greet me, so I stopped to talk to him, or rather just to spend a few minutes misunderstanding each other in a fun sort of way. The joys of international sign language. Before I knew it, he had crossed the road to his car and wanted to take me to the all of the museums. First he drove to Frida’s and pointed it out to me, then around the block to the Leon Trotsky museum. Before leaving me he invited me, or according to my translation, back to his place. I recognised the words beer and pot smoking in his Spanish somewhere. Though he may have meant that smoking pot had give him a greater understanding of Trotsky’s work.

Frida’s house was lovely. Her studio overlooked an amazing courtyard which featured half a pyramid with a bunch of cats lazing about on it. She was lucky enough, according to the Chinese saying, to be born and to die in the same house.

I stopped for a coffee in an old train carriage on a street with cobbled stones. The lady running the cafe, looked like the older version of a girlfriend I had once, she was gloriously beautiful, had an amazingly sweet smile and her belly button was showing. A friend had given me a Spanish pocket book as a Christmas gift and I thumbed through it. I wanted to say to her ”Tienes un cuerpo precioso” and “Eres muy guapa” and even “Quiero hacerte el amor” but instead I just sat shyly behind my cafe con leche e con azucar and got the occasional reciprocated eye contact from her. I felt like a happy kid.

I headed back homewards to the Zocalo, a large paved plaza next to the Cathedral. At the centre of the Zocalo is a huge Mexican flag. A single kick-arse flag like that sure beats the hell out of all the tiny, cheap, made-in-China flags and bumper stickers that you see in the States. I waited to get a photo of it, but I think gale force winds would be needed to completely unfurl it.

It’s Wednesday and all the most beautiful women seem to be out walking with their mothers tonight.