The blue of this place is, without doubt, the original blue. The primordial blue, the blue goo that always was and ever shall be. This blue emits a soft, sensual sigh and raises an eyebrow (an illicit blue of back alley transactions and lifted skirts.) This is the blue that takes your blues away. This is not, as they say, your mama’s blue. The walls of Frida Kahlo’s home are painted an effervescent, rich shade of sapphire that exists nowhere else on Earth. I know this not from extensive research of house painting trends, but because my heart tells me so. Even in her own neighborhood of Coyoacán, now a bustling borough in Mexico City, folks attempted to copy her hue. Strolling through the streets became a grown-up version of “I Spy.” Anything attempting that vivid
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