After getting the obligatory duty-free Hendricks for ourselves and a brick of chocolate as a thank you for the concierge of our Mexico City hotel, and a few bebidas libre on Delta flight 602 from Atlanta, Debra Mattice, Cynthia and I bumped through clouds and crosswinds onto the Olmec/Toltec/Mixtec/Zapotec tarmac and walked a fair distance to the immigration line. Longest immigration line I had ever been part of. It snaked through endless cordons filled with teenage Mormon missionaries on a six-week stint and was punctuated by people with imminent connections pleading with clots of resigned tourists to duck under the cordons to get their passports stamped. Everyone obliged.

Customs is a breeze and we find a taxi kiosk that sells us a ticket to get us a car, driver and one-hour ride through unbelievable traffic — one driver told us much later that there are seven million cars in the city — through walled highways with incandescent and brilliant green and red and yellow and ochre graffiti — to finally arrive in barrio Cuauhtemoc at Hotel Casa Gonzales. It’s a rabbit-warren of rooms in different buildings of white stucco with mediterranean blue trim on the doors and windows, multiple courtyards with fountains and orange trees, and lovely.

We park our bags and pretty pronto walk a few blocks to the giant hotels and malls on Passeo de la Reforma to get SIM cards for our phones and mucho dinero with poco transaction fees for our stay. We did not realize it at the time but the getting of the SIM cards was a fore-taste of typical Mexico City process: We had to talk to one person at the front desk of the store, who directed us to a counter with another person who spoke no English and found our attempts at Spanish … aahhhhh … puzzling at best … were rescued by a third person, filled out several forms, and were sent to yet another counter to pay and then pointed back to the original counter to display our receipts and actually get the SIMS.

We are in Mexico so we have dinner inside the mall at an Italian restaurant.