reading fantastic journal and seeing wax commando statues of el che made me homesick (again). café la habana, c. 2001. alone under the half space-age, half tropicomodernista ceiling. the whole place rumbled when the big trucks drove by on bucareli. i loved bucareli before i read bolaño. i loved it because it was wide and empty and dirty and regal, unlike any other street in mexico city. i loved the ywca nearby when it was closed and its pink déco facade was all rotten. i loved how all the buildings and sidewalks where so covered in soot and muck they were soft.
i would cut class to walk around there. just walk and stare at everything. i don't do that anymore.