My neighborhood is definitely on the brink of something. Walking home tonight, the grocery store was full of tall foreigners and girls in orange leggings. The unannounced opening at the new Museum of the Object of the Object brought a crowd of young men wearing denim shirts and middle-aged socialites with heavy glasses and pomaded hair, while outside the scent of marijuana smoke wafted picaresquely in the air a block away. And around the corner from my apartment, the only man in Mexico City I have ever seen wearing booty shorts in a non-professional capacity was out in his most sparkly gold pair.
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