There’s nothing like the peace and quiet of a typical Mexican village.
Movies and travel brochures show us living a life of serenity with lots of time to relax, sip mai tais or margaritas and doze under the big tree, dreaming of romance in silent solitude. NOT.
Through the years (30 of them) of residing in Mexican neighborhoods, I’ve grown accustomed to the crowing of roosters at all hours of the day and night, 20 kids using my car as a goal post for soccer, the clacking of weavers’ looms on rooftops and the sound of horse’s hooves on cobblestone streets.
The song of church bells, the city band practicing (playing the same three songs repeatedly and out of key) and the excited screeching of little kids in the nursery school next door have actually become part of my white noise.
No one needs alarm clocks because the garbage trucks make the rounds just after dawn (how can plastic garbage cans actually make clanking sounds against the metal sides of the truck?) and the gas men begin their recorded nasal call right behind the garbage trucks.
A million birds begin their concert early.
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