Carlos Méndez

I've been a certified accountant for almost twenty years. I work at a small firm in the Americana neighborhood, where I close books, argue with the tax authority and drink too much vending-machine coffee. I like my job more than people expect when I tell them what I do.

Three years ago I got divorced. It was one of those separations with no villain, which is worse in some ways and better in others. I share custody of my daughters, Renata, 16, and Ximena, 13: one week they're with me, one week with their mom. That back-and-forth has set the rhythm of my life more than any tax calendar ever did.

During the first week without them, to keep from losing my mind, I tried making bread. It came out a rock. The second attempt came out a smaller rock. Now I have a sourdough starter named Doña Chayo, I bake bolillos (Mexican crusty rolls) almost every Saturday, and I've learned that patience is an ingredient, not a virtue.

On Sundays I ride my bike on the vía recreactiva, when the city closes its big avenues to cars. I used to be one of the guys honking at the cyclists; I've told that story here. I have a sister, Lupe, who knows me better than anyone and won't let me forget it, and a mother who still asks if I'm eating properly.

This blog has no theme. It's more of a notebook: what I saw, what I thought, where I got it wrong. If something here helps you or makes you smile, the numbers add up.