Hipster Heaven

On an afternoon stroll in La Condesa...

Life has improved drastically in the last week. I have gone back to my tried and true tactic of living beyond my means and have relocated to a Bed and Breakfast in a part of town called La Condesa. La Condesa is considered the hipster-bohemian capital of Mexico City. I figure that if I belong anywhere, it's certainly with the hipsters, right?? La Condesa is a magical place filled with dogs, bistros, parks, and Argentine men. Life is good.

In fact, now that the streets are lined with leafy trees and balloon vendors instead of graffiti-ed buildings and pee-stained kiosks, I have been able to take up running once again. However, due to the altitude, (some 7, 200 feet) this hasn't been as enjoyable, or as easy, as I had hoped. The whole neighborhood seems quite concerned. One nice, elderly man stopped me at a red light and gently asked if that contraption strapped to my arm was a heart moniter. I'm pretty sure he knew it was an iPod and that he was really just politely trying to make my physical limitations as clear to me as they were to him and everyone else. I wouldn't be surprised if they have a petition going to stop the white girl from weezing by every morning and ruining an otherwise delightful day. And if it weren't for all the corn tortillas and beans, I would probably oblige.

My new home, The Red Tree House, is equally fantastic. Rated as one of the top Bed and Breakfasts in the country, I'm continuously amazed that my shower shoes are no longer needed and that I have a dresser to put my clothes in. I also love the fact that I don't cringe every time I get under the covers and am continuously (and pleasantly) surprised every time I come home to find a neatly made bed and restocked towels. It's pure bliss.

The other guests are also highly entertaining, especially the eccentric therapist from Oregan who has a propensity for Mezcal (Tequila's evil cousin) and has travelled to Mexico for two weeks of dental work. Why anyone would come to Mexico for a root canal completely perplexes me. And then there's the overly exuberant technology professor from Chicago who I now owe a bottle of whiskey to because I was on the losing end of a bet made in yet another fit of smack talk. I should probably consult the Mezcal-guzzling therapist about this problem. Her questionable judgement could make things interesting.

All in all, the place is perfect except for the young Concierge who gets a little too excited when I come down in my running shorts and who definitely violated the rules (both mine and the hotel's)when he knocked on my door and asked me to dinner. Personal space, my friend.