When you arrive at Mexico City’s airport, you join one of two lines, to present your passport. One line is for certain nationalities — including Mexican and U.S. The second is for “El Resto del Mundo,” “The Rest of the World.” That would make a good title, wouldn’t it? Of a book, a poem, or a song. I think of the familiar phrase “the West and the rest.”

• The Mexico City airport is named after Benito Juárez, the 19th-century leader. And you know who was named after Juárez, right? Correct: Mussolini.

• I make a beeline for La Condesa, that enchanting neighborhood. Yes, Mexico City is full of problems, like most cities, and most places. But Condesa? Redolent of the sweetness of life. If this is romanticization — well, experience this ’hood for yourself.

• The street food of Mexico City is exceptional, I think — exceptionally good, though you can encounter bad food, of course. Either way, it’s relatively cheap . . .

• Convenience stores are everywhere — 7-Elevens, Circle K’s. But also a Mexican chain: Oxxo. Reminds me of hugs and kisses.

• At 7-Eleven, they sell a sandwich called “Sándwich Básico.” Basic, it is. I appreciate truth in advertising.

• Just because a neighborhood is poor, doesn’t mean it’s dangerous — though, of course, it may well be. What signs do you look for? A friend of mine here lists a few. One of them is: people walking dogs. If you’re in a neighborhood where people walk dogs, it’s probably okay.

If you see a good number of abandoned cars? Best to skedaddle.

• Here is an old question, and a tricky one — a sensitive one: When does a woman stop being addressed as “Mademoiselle” and become “Madame”? When do you stop saying “Signorina” and say “Signora”? Finally, when does “Señorita” become “Señora”? We are in dangerous territory.

My observations are not scientific, but I will relate them anyway: In France, a woman becomes “Madame” when she stops looking girlish and is, say, in her mid-twenties. In Italy, same. Here in Mexico City, it seems to me that women remain “Señorita” longer.

Don’t know. (A frickin’ minefield.) (By the way, these designations — “Madame,” “Signora,” “Señora” — do not relate to marriage.)

• More on the linguistic front: In France, you have “Bonjour,” “Bonsoir,” and, finally, “Bonne nuit.” In Italy, “Buongiorno,” “Buona sera,” and “Buona notte.” In Spanish-speaking countries, you got “Good morning,” “Buenos días.” And — something exceptional — “Good afternoon,” “Buenas tardes.” But, guess what? No “Good evening.” No equivalent of “Bonsoir” or “Buona sera.” You go straight to “Good night”: “Buenas noches.”

Once more, tricky, to a degree.

• Street names in Mexico City are interesting (as everywhere, I guess). Quite a few are named after cities in other countries: Londres (London), Liverpool, Havre (meaning Le Havre), Hamburgo, Budapest, Varsovia (Warsaw) . . .

One major street is Amsterdam Avenue, same as in New York.

• There is also a Henry Ford Avenue! And, speaking of Detroit:

(Yes, the pizza chain was founded in the Detroit area, in 1959.)

• Through a street name, I make the acquaintance of General Benjamín Hill, a commander in the Mexican Revolution.

• I also make the acquaintance of La Salle University. And forgive me for thinking of the All in the Family theme song: “Gee, our old LaSalle ran great.” (That was a car.) (Not made by Ford — rather, by GM.)

• One more street, please: I like the name “Diagonal Patriotismo,” or, “Patriotism Diagonal.”

• You can walk for a long, long time in this city without seeing a trash can — without being able to throw something away. Frustrating. I’m surprised there’s not more litter. I am tempted to litter my own bad self.

• Here in Mexico City, I have the same cranky complaint I do back home in New York: damn electric bikes. (But the riders of those bikes seem less rude, and less alarming, here than at home.)

• Behold Cuitláhuac, an emperor from Aztec days:

• And you know Simón Bolívar:

• Question: If you omit the “d,” do you avoid a lawsuit?

• In this city, I see a lot — a lot — of Bulls jerseys, with the number 23. (Michael Jordan has not played for the Bulls since 1998.) Interesting.

• A place of sacred importance to a great many: the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe:

• Next to the basilica, a very large statue of John Paul II:

• A view from up high, above the basilica:

• You know the expression “let sleeping dogs lie”? I see quite a few sleeping dogs here in Mexico City. Strays. “Independents”? It occurs to me: I never see a dog without an owner where I live. Ever.

• On a trip outside the city, I talk at length with an Uber driver. He says he can now talk to people from all over the world — thanks to his phone’s translation. It is practically a miracle, this development.

• We drive past favelas, slums, on hills. He speaks of their dangerousness with a shudder. A palpable shudder. I wonder: How many young people, and other people, escape those favelas? A fair number, I hope.

• He deposits me at Teotihuacán, the ancient Mesoamerican city — complete with pyramids. Years ago, Bret Stephens told me, in no uncertain terms, “Go to Petra [in Jordan], if ever you are within shouting distance of it. Even if you are not.” I did. He was right. And he has said the same to me about Teotihuacán.

Have a pyramid:

I marvel at the smartphone, with its translation services, etc. Were our forebears any less creative, any less smart? Of course not. I marvel at them, too.

• On this afternoon, there is a quiet spirituality at Teotihuacán. One could commune. At the same time, one is aware of the horror — particularly of the horror of human sacrifice.

• I have been scribbling these journals from places foreign and domestic for, like, 25 years now. Regular readers know that I frequently remark, “Where’s OSHA?!” That’s when I’m abroad. At home, I gripe about a “nanny state” and a “bubble-wrapped society.” Oh, geez, you can’t go down that byway, you may slip and fall! Abroad, I often think, “They let you do this? Why? Where are the handrails, for heaven’s sake?”

• In Teotihuacán, there are many vendors, hawkers, trying to get you to buy things. This is occasionally annoying (or more than occasionally). I have to stop myself and think: “They’re just trying to make a living. And, as a rule, they have so little.”

• Everywhere in Mexico City, there are peddlers: of food, of trinkets, of what have you. Outside dental offices, workers, in white coats, try to drum up business.

A hustling society, it seems to me. (I don’t say this critically, at all.)

• Where I live, haircuts are very, very expensive (even for those with little hair to cut). What would I give for outdoor barbers — no overhead! — as here!

• As in other cities, the lap of luxury is the Four Seasons (where I have a drink and a snack with a friend). Within the hotel, there is practically a park:

Have another shot:

• The oldest park in Mexico City, from what I understand, is Alameda Central. Did I say “Mexico City”? Hell, the oldest park in the whole of the Americas, established in 1592 (a hundred years after you-know-who). The jacaranda are nice:

• Mexico City’s concert hall, they call a palace — and I don’t blame them. The Palace of Fine Arts:

• In 1921, the German colony of Mexico City gave a monument — a monument to Beethoven:

• Outside the National Museum of Art, King Charles IV of Spain (1748–1819) rides:

• Itzcoatl, too, was a king, in the 1400s. He founded the Aztec Empire.

• Itzcoatl’s contemporary, Nezahualcoyotl, was a lot of things: scholar, warrior, architect, ruler . . .

• I think of a story told by Bill Buckley. I can hear his voice:

“I knew a grand, aristocratic lady in Mexico City. She went on about the glories of pre-Columbian days. ‘Oh, the marvelous indigenous cultures, destroyed by the colonizing Spaniards. Unfortunately, I am 100 percent Spanish.’”

Bill would say, with a grin, “Let’s get that one right.”

• The cathedral, smack in the middle of town:

• This is one of the largest flags I have ever seen. My lil’ phone can’t capture — can’t give a sense of — its largeness:

• A view of the historic center:

• I never tire of the Bosque de Chapultepec — Chapultepec Forest — known as the “lungs” of the city. In Mexico City journals past, I have included various pictures of the Bosque. This time, maybe I could post just a sign, which I find kind of touching:

In other words (English ones),

Thank you for your visit.

Come back soon, and remember that the Bosque is yours, so respect and preserve it.

“The Bosque is yours.” Nice.

• Damn globalization! (Blessed “globalization.”)

• A dose of philosophy:

• If you can believe it, I’ve had the best chocolate cake of my life here in Mexico City. Also, a heavenly slice of maple loaf. Where am I, Vermont?

• A funky hotel, opposite the Parque México, in La Condesa. In fact, it is the Hotel Parque México:

• The park is known for its “dog culture.” Here is a glimpse, midday. (N.B. These dogs are not stray, but owned and attended to, lovingly.)

• Bougainvillea — for which I have been a sucker from way back:

• The Parque México hosts, and boasts, Einstein, in a bust. The bust comes with a quote from him: “If you want to live a happy life, tie it to a goal, not to persons or things.”

• Morning, noon, and night, the park breathes peace, and vibrancy. Peace and vibrancy at the same time? Yes. A peaceful vibrancy, or a vibrant peacefulness. “Peaceful” does not mean “sleepy,” I would hope.

On this particular night, a guitarist plays an arrangement of the Gymnopédie No. 1 (Satie). Not far away, three boys dance in front of a phone placed on the ground, and angled up. They are doing a slickly choreographed routine, probably destined for Instagram.

As in parks everywhere, lovers stroll and smooch. Families stroll and chat.

Have a little more dancing:

Three previous times, I have left Mexico City with the hope of returning. I leave for the fourth time with that same hope. Thank you for joining me, my friends, and see you soon.

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