I'm writing to you from a small bar in Oaxaca, Mexico. Or a memory of it, to be precise. One of my favorite articles in The New York Times was a story called Window Watchers. It describes how, in a big city, your neighbors are dear to you, even if you wouldn't even know their names. Sitting in that bar, sipping mezcal in soft afternoon light, I realized that even walls can momentarily feel like humankind.
