I once stayed at a house in Mexico where it was impossible to tell what was inside, and what was out. Behind a high wall, lush cloisters flowed into gracious rooms. I ate mangos every morning and it rained every afternoon. Only one other person inhabited it at the time, and so my days were spending exploring the seemingly endless labyrinth alone. I was young and romantic, and it was humid and unfamiliar—a combination that resulted in a particularly poignant sense of enchantment.
I fell in love with the house as I have with a few other places in my life. Our love affair was brief, but passionate, and those days of echoing thunder, tumbling bougainvillea, shadowy rooms and strong winds helped to shape a spirit inclined to solitude and wanderings, given to all manner of dreams.