So the other night at $0.50 per minute, B was apologizing to me for not working on the house while I was in Mexico. And as he apologized, I was swinging in a hammock in my enormously-spa-like bathroom on the 11th floor of the ultra-chill W Hotel, overlooking a perfectly hazy Mexico City sunset and all of the twinkling lights that were just beginning to illuminate upon the mountains.

I couldn't really accept his apology.

Mexico City-- the small amount of it that I actually got to see when I wasn't tucked away in my client's glamorous penthouse offices with the high-gloss, clickity-clack hardwood floors and flawless bilingual meeting dialogue-- reminded me of other cosmopolitan European cities, like Madrid. The city was teeming with art and suits and smoke. The color red was everywhere, the days and the lunches were unusually long, and the sangrita knocked my socks off.

I debated about sticking to my original itinerary even though we wrapped a day early in order to spend this morning at the museum that I've been told is mysterious and awe-inspiring. But instead I decided to rush back home to the arms of the one who must return with me very, very soon-- so that we can explore, and swing, together.