A collection of photographs outside the studio of a portrait photographer on calle Río Lerma in Mexico City. I wanted to walk in at some point and have him make a photo of me, but the place was always closed. This photo is my souvenir.

One of the reasons I love to travel is to immerse myself in the culture of the place I'm visiting. I rent an apartment, take public transportation whenever possible, and do as the locals do. It makes for a much more enlightening and worldly experience.

The problem with that is that I end up falling in love with the places I visit. Always.

With Madrid it was love at first sight and very passionate.

Atlanta is a lover I can always turn to for a quick romp, animated conversation, and sparks of creativity.

New York City is my great love. The one I'll always remember that sets the bar for all those that come after.

Currently I'm falling in love with Mexico City. It's like that lover that you're not sure of at first, but you get to know them really quickly and find yourself wanting to be with them all the time.

I always tend to see the good in the places I fall in love with. Yeah, each place has their faults and dark corners, just like we all do. Keeping it ideal, while a bit of an illusion at times, is a great way to remember these lovers in their best moments. I'll take that parting memory every time.

Chilean Roberto Bolaño is fast becoming one of my favorite authors.

"Why?", you ask.

Perhaps it's because when I read his work it feels as if I'm moving through hundreds of years of Latin American literature.

From time to time I feel as though my books and figurines were with me still. But how could they be? Are they somehow floating around me or over my head? Have the figurines and books that I lost over the years dissolved into the air of Mexico City? Have they become part of the ash that blows through the city from north to south and from east to west? Perhaps. The dark night of the soul advances through the streets of Mexico City sweeping all before it. And now it is rare to hear singing, where once everything was a song. The dust cloud reduces everything to dust. First the poets, then love, then, when it seems to be sated and about to disperse, the cloud returns to hang high over your city or your mind, with a mysterious air that means it has no intention of moving.

I can't wait to read more of Bolaño's work.