07-03-2014, 10:02 AM
Continued from Ciudad
To the locals, crisp morning air greeted Dane when he stepped out of the taxicab. Having come from Moscow by way of London, the air was stifling, and a heavy sun was clouded by smog despite the hour.
He'd made arrangements for living conditions prior to the decision to stay in Mexico City. As such, last minute accomodations were organized on the ride from the airport. He paid little attention to the surroundings as they went, caring more about the the destination than the journey.
What remained was the destintion he'd arranged on such short notice. The area of the city was known as Lomas de Chapultepec. Lomas meant hills apparently, and compared to Moscow, Dane found the description apt. There were several areas known as the Lomas, but this one, Chapultepec was the original upon which all the others were duplicated. It was the oldest and most affluent residential area of Mexico City. Despite the age it was also very well organized. The streets were laid along formations of the hills to preserve the natural beauty. Trees were planted appropriately or otherwise undisturbed.
From the sidewalk, Dane peered up the height of a six-story building wedged between two others. Glass balconies were built off the front. The architecture was modern and sleek. Although the curb in front was stained with black and decorated by a pathetic garden, the interior lobby of the long-term suites was acceptable.
The location of the building, Las Suites, would also suffice. He was on the border of the Lomas area, adjacent to the affluent colonia of Polanco, which was otherwise home to government, business, and the rich entertainment district of the city.
The driver traded Dane's luggage off with the valet after barking shared communication in Spanish. Not understanding, Dane frowned and vowed to download a translation application to his Wallet as soon as possible.
He tipped both men with CCD dollars which was as good as gold here. Besides, Dane has little interest in bothering with conversions to pesos.
The place he would be renting for now was only vacated yesterday and had yet to be cleaned. Dane refused to so much as tour it until it was adequately cleansed of its former inhabitant. A virtual tour sufficed for now. It was an oversized loft-style studio. Upon entering the front door, a high ceiling stretched a level overhead, amplifying the appearance of space. Beneath a cable-suspended staircase to the bed overhead was nestled a kitchen outfitted with surprising amount of current technology for the present Mexico City. The furnishings were likewise stylish and modern. They felt hollow to Dane, who grew up surrounded by antiques in the french boarding school and the heavy, solid finery of his family's English-country estate.
His luggage was deposited upstairs and the rent paid for several weeks, Dane aimed to seek breakfast and shopping. He was told about the Avenida Presidente Masaryk, a thoroughfare through the nearby affluent Polanco neighborhood. Masaryk as it was commonly called was also one of the most expensive shopping districts in the world: or else it used to be.
Dane held high hopes for the avenue, but upon closer inspection found it to be a joke. London, Paris, Milan, and gods imagined, Moscow were shining beacons of fashion and prestige while Mexico City's equivalent wallowed in squalor. There was perhaps three blocks of acceptable designers, but the shops were worn down, in need of paint, and overseen by guards at the front doors. The experience was hardly welcoming. Of those three blocks only one was worth his time.
Following a strange breakfast of cuisine inspired by local flavors, Dane was forced into the shops for attire befitting the heat of the days. An array of cool, crisp button down shirts were the first to be purchased that he would wear with the sleeves rolled and the top-most buttons undone. As were a pair of round, designer sunglasses. Neutral colored chinos in white, navy and khaki were purchased as well in varying lengths: long, cuffed and to the knee. His fine leather belts were sufficient to transfer to the Mexican arena, therefore he spent time accessorizing his outfits with beautifully printed pocket squares and airy scarves. Some basic tees and polos were necessary, as were suede slip-on loafers and leather sandals.
Finally and perhaps most important was the selection of black driving gloves. He purchased many pairs, far too many for someone who did not intend to drive himself through the tangled jungles that constituted Mexican roads. They were snug and fit his slender hands well.
A goodly amount of money was loosened that day. Enough that his family's bankers called to confirm the purchases were legitimate. On the way out, however, he added a strangely inexpensive rounded straw fedora with a lovely silk band tied around it. He smiled when he put it on and saw himself in the mirror. He was an altogether new man in Mexico City. Having traded the heavy wool of Moscow for the floating classic lines of Mexico, he was finally at ease. After slipping the sunglasses on his face, he was fully satisfied with himself not even minding the thin scruffiness darkening a jawline in need of a shave. He left the shop in decision to walk the streets of Polanco to see what adoration he could glean from those he passed.
To the locals, crisp morning air greeted Dane when he stepped out of the taxicab. Having come from Moscow by way of London, the air was stifling, and a heavy sun was clouded by smog despite the hour.
He'd made arrangements for living conditions prior to the decision to stay in Mexico City. As such, last minute accomodations were organized on the ride from the airport. He paid little attention to the surroundings as they went, caring more about the the destination than the journey.
What remained was the destintion he'd arranged on such short notice. The area of the city was known as Lomas de Chapultepec. Lomas meant hills apparently, and compared to Moscow, Dane found the description apt. There were several areas known as the Lomas, but this one, Chapultepec was the original upon which all the others were duplicated. It was the oldest and most affluent residential area of Mexico City. Despite the age it was also very well organized. The streets were laid along formations of the hills to preserve the natural beauty. Trees were planted appropriately or otherwise undisturbed.
From the sidewalk, Dane peered up the height of a six-story building wedged between two others. Glass balconies were built off the front. The architecture was modern and sleek. Although the curb in front was stained with black and decorated by a pathetic garden, the interior lobby of the long-term suites was acceptable.
The location of the building, Las Suites, would also suffice. He was on the border of the Lomas area, adjacent to the affluent colonia of Polanco, which was otherwise home to government, business, and the rich entertainment district of the city.
The driver traded Dane's luggage off with the valet after barking shared communication in Spanish. Not understanding, Dane frowned and vowed to download a translation application to his Wallet as soon as possible.
He tipped both men with CCD dollars which was as good as gold here. Besides, Dane has little interest in bothering with conversions to pesos.
The place he would be renting for now was only vacated yesterday and had yet to be cleaned. Dane refused to so much as tour it until it was adequately cleansed of its former inhabitant. A virtual tour sufficed for now. It was an oversized loft-style studio. Upon entering the front door, a high ceiling stretched a level overhead, amplifying the appearance of space. Beneath a cable-suspended staircase to the bed overhead was nestled a kitchen outfitted with surprising amount of current technology for the present Mexico City. The furnishings were likewise stylish and modern. They felt hollow to Dane, who grew up surrounded by antiques in the french boarding school and the heavy, solid finery of his family's English-country estate.
His luggage was deposited upstairs and the rent paid for several weeks, Dane aimed to seek breakfast and shopping. He was told about the Avenida Presidente Masaryk, a thoroughfare through the nearby affluent Polanco neighborhood. Masaryk as it was commonly called was also one of the most expensive shopping districts in the world: or else it used to be.
Dane held high hopes for the avenue, but upon closer inspection found it to be a joke. London, Paris, Milan, and gods imagined, Moscow were shining beacons of fashion and prestige while Mexico City's equivalent wallowed in squalor. There was perhaps three blocks of acceptable designers, but the shops were worn down, in need of paint, and overseen by guards at the front doors. The experience was hardly welcoming. Of those three blocks only one was worth his time.
Following a strange breakfast of cuisine inspired by local flavors, Dane was forced into the shops for attire befitting the heat of the days. An array of cool, crisp button down shirts were the first to be purchased that he would wear with the sleeves rolled and the top-most buttons undone. As were a pair of round, designer sunglasses. Neutral colored chinos in white, navy and khaki were purchased as well in varying lengths: long, cuffed and to the knee. His fine leather belts were sufficient to transfer to the Mexican arena, therefore he spent time accessorizing his outfits with beautifully printed pocket squares and airy scarves. Some basic tees and polos were necessary, as were suede slip-on loafers and leather sandals.
Finally and perhaps most important was the selection of black driving gloves. He purchased many pairs, far too many for someone who did not intend to drive himself through the tangled jungles that constituted Mexican roads. They were snug and fit his slender hands well.
A goodly amount of money was loosened that day. Enough that his family's bankers called to confirm the purchases were legitimate. On the way out, however, he added a strangely inexpensive rounded straw fedora with a lovely silk band tied around it. He smiled when he put it on and saw himself in the mirror. He was an altogether new man in Mexico City. Having traded the heavy wool of Moscow for the floating classic lines of Mexico, he was finally at ease. After slipping the sunglasses on his face, he was fully satisfied with himself not even minding the thin scruffiness darkening a jawline in need of a shave. He left the shop in decision to walk the streets of Polanco to see what adoration he could glean from those he passed.