Man, it's been hot.
Mexico City feels like the inside of a rice cooker, a thick hot. Late last week reports surfaced of temperatures reaching up to 50 degrees Celsius in some metro stations (Hidalgo, specifically, with its many heat-producing fast food establishments).
That's 122 degrees Fahrenheit. I find it hard to believe myself.
The heat blurs lines and flattens perception. You can almost reach out and grab thick handfuls of automobile exhaust and noise pollution. Body odors are more concentrated and pungent. One ice cube provides a precious minute of cooling pleasure. Alcohol and nicotine taste like candy.
And then on Sunday, the afternoon church bells in Centro mark their notes. A mean wind bore down the concrete. Thunder rolled.
And the rains started.