Movement

Thousands of planes trace the flight paths of Mexico City's airspace every day, silhouettes slipping between the buildings and billboards. From a distance, their passing is a reminder of the inevitability of movement, and the need to explore. This week I have left Mexico City for Queretaro, trading familiar archival routines for new intellectual pursuits.

The solitude of traveling alone, of wandering without a map and without a purpose, is both frustrating and thrilling. To fumble through dark and winding streets in a city you do not know in search of a taqueria unmarked in a guidebook--this is perhaps the essence of living abroad. And to find, at last, the signless door of the place, to savor something authentic, to feel the exhilaration of an unsharable experience--this is perhaps the essence of life.