A Fat Purple Fig

‘La Condesa?’ Javi says, ‘You are staying in a hipster area!’ We figured. La Condesa, or ‘The Countess’ is thick with trees and cafes. The surrounding former-racetrack, Amsterdam Avenue, accommodates a daily procession of dog walkers and joggers, ambling down the leafy centre walkway that is reserved for their use.

Our days begin with breakfast at The Red Tree House. Our elegant bed-and-breakfast has styled itself as a meeting place for well-to-do travellers, giving them the opportunity to share tales of far-flung travels over breakfast and drinks. Kitty and I are outsiders, selecting perimeter tables late in the sessions, then zipping back to the refuge of our room. The breakfasts are cold by the time we emerge, but they sure are nice.

We walk a circuit of the track, remembering to hug the right-hand side and enjoying the strains of Spanish conversation that ebb and flow around us. ‘It’s so pretty!‘ Kitty enthuses. It sure is. There is so much colour, and I find myself wondering why we have so little at home. Perhaps I shall wear more in the future…or perhaps not. We see a flower seller lining up plants on the bonnet of a car, and a paint-dripped artwork-cum-chair. The trees brush up against one another, creating a cool, leafy haven.

After Lucha Libre, we arrive home to evening drinks in full swing. ‘Malbec? Or Sauvignon Blanc? Herman asks. We take a savvy b and find an observers’ table in the courtyard. ‘We’re not quirky enough to stay here,’ Kitty whispers, listening to the jovial conversation at the tall, shared table inside. ‘We’re not rich enough,‘ I whisper back. I take two photos that I love: of a self-conscious Kitty, her long fingers elegant around the wine glass, and the reflection of Frida’s painting in an outdoor pane. I step in dog shit on the way back to our room, and have to clean my boot at the outside sink. Thanks, Romeo…good job, buddy.

The art throughout The Red Tree House is sublime. My favourite is that of a man’s moustachioed face, snapped immediately upon arrival. He is haphazard in yellows and browns, and his eyes follow me every time I walk through the foyer. A statue of an Aztec-print xoloitzcuintle peers towards the ceiling in the front room, with an ode to Frida, the tendrilled vines of her heart snaking out towards the frame. At breakfast, I sneak a picture of the corner of a colourful Brian Eno, not wanting to appear gauche, and I long for time to gaze at the huge painting by Carlito Dalceggio by the staircase, seeing something different in it every time I pass. I’m so self-conscious here. It might be the deference.

We take it easy on Michelin-Star day, not wanting to tire or spoil our appetites. We have a long-booked (pre-paid) dinner at Quintonil, the two-starred ‘gastronomic project’, headed by Alejandra Flores and Jorge Vallejo, recently awarded seventh in The World’s 50 Best Restaurants. I have splashed out on the ‘Kitchen Counter’ experience, and am looking forward to the Entomophagy festival, in particular – their celebration of insects.

At midday, I don’t feel great, waves of pain sweeping intermittently across my stomach. I would rather stick pins under my nails, but decide to go for a run around Amsterdam, hoping it will push health to the forefront of my being, and give me a much-needed endorphin boost. I forget my AirPods, and instead have to suffer the sound of my laboured breathing. Cars stop and wave me considerately across the roads, spoiling the enjoyment of a momentary break in right-of-way. Sometimes, I’m not sure why I don’t just give myself a break.

I collapse in a heap upon returning, and spend the afternoon in bed, alongside Kitty in hers. At 7pm, I call it, and will my clammy frame out to drinks, to ask Herman if any of the other guests would like our booking. There is another host on duty, who looks at me blankly and says, ‘You are welcome to go in and ask them?‘ I’m coated in a cold layer of sweat, and am dangerously close to tears, so, no…I won’t be doing that.

Javi wants to go, but his work booking may run late, and he cannot drum up a companion. I can’t face calling to cancel, and instead watch our booking time arrive, then pass on by, observed by these disdainful women from the wall opposite my bed.

Kitty and I spend over 40 hours in bed, watching re-runs of The Office, giggling and whimpering, in the grip of Montezuma’s revenge. We keep the curtains closed and turn the housekeeper away, transforming the room into a darkened womb, still-aired and timeless. Kitty orders late lemonade and Yakult from UberEats, and sneaks out to retrieve it. The enormous bottle makes us laugh. I order we-need-sustenance chicken pho, and am cared-for when I trudge out to meet the rider. ‘Go! We will bring it to your room,‘ our host exclaims. It is mortifying. I make a feeble attempt to make the room look bright, and sense (imaginary?) disapproval upon selecting the eat-in-our-room option. We miss our cooking date with Lety, in Santo Domingo.

Pre-dawn on departure day, frail but flight-ready, we check out with a caretaker whose only English is ‘taxi?‘ and await our driver. Before we leave, I take shadowy photos of the chandelier and artworks in the foyer.

At last.