Gate 86 is the gate to sun, to cool nights and hot days.  Gate 86 is the gate to cobblestone streets and bougainvillea.  Gate 86 is the gate to wealth and poverty all wrapped up under the Mexican sky.  Certainly February is somehow less of a strain in Mexico than in the cold, grey place that my home town has become.  I am tired of tracking grit into the house.  I am tired of wiping the tiny hall where white stains of salt appear every day.  I am tired of hacking away at the ice on the steps and worrying that the mailman will fall and sue me.  I am tired of losing a glove, of sitting inside a freezing car, of the triumph a good warm coat gives me over the bitter wind that has a particular fondness for the local bus stop.  I despise the shovel that hangs outside my door.  I scorn the beautiful Christmas wreath that has somehow fused to the wall above my mailbox.

And so, I will enter gate 86 and we will see what delights await.  Hasta la vista!  Baby!