A Typical Day in the Neighborhood
It's hot, that ninety degree with one hundred percent humidity kind of heat. Under these conditions, a thin white cotton shirt adheres to skin. It takes a full minute of shimmy and shedding to peel off without ripping the stitching around the armpits.
Outside a street vendor drives by in a weathered stickshift that's been on the road longer than I've been alive. In the ancient bed of that truck are an assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. There's a bullhorn attached to the roof with wires running down to the tape deck. The horn barks the same obnoxious advertisement on repeat: "Platano, platano, platano, cinco pesos". This is his fifth pass through the neighborhood today, and it won't be his last. Another vendor turns onto the same street in his navy blue clunker selling used sheets of roofing tin.
A motoconcho missing a muffler rumbles by a parked car and triggers the alarm. This happens several times a day, everyday, along with the occasional high pitched scream of a very tempermental toddler who lives across the street. But despite the cacophony, the quiet man with glasses and graying hair keeps reading, never lifting his head from the page of his book.
Stray dogs lie in the shade of parked vehicles, panting in the heat. Spotted pigeons, about forty of them, wait on the powerlines. They know it is feeding time. A man and his daughter come out from their flat with a blue and white striped bag of seed. They stand in the shade and toss it. The birds swarm atop one other, pecking at the free meal. Another little girl of about the same age walks by warily eyeing the birds, keeping a safe distance. She flees around a corner and into an alleyway.
The kids practicing baseball in the narrow street move aside as a car approaches, then coalesce to resume their game. One boy of about twelve, wearing a gray t-shirt and red shorts, has amazing hand eye coordination, consistently hitting a plastic Fanta bottle thrown his way with a broomstick handle. He holds his major league pose after each homerun.
From the early afternoon until about an hour after dark, the distant thump of reggaeton, bachata, and merengue never ceases. For some reason, it only seems to rain at night. And in the morning the roosters crow from one corner to the next, signaling the end of our confinement. The people of the neighborhood trickle out to welcome the sun with a brisk walk on the malecon, some water for their plants, or a seat in front of the calmado.
Outside a street vendor drives by in a weathered stickshift that's been on the road longer than I've been alive. In the ancient bed of that truck are an assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. There's a bullhorn attached to the roof with wires running down to the tape deck. The horn barks the same obnoxious advertisement on repeat: "Platano, platano, platano, cinco pesos". This is his fifth pass through the neighborhood today, and it won't be his last. Another vendor turns onto the same street in his navy blue clunker selling used sheets of roofing tin.
A motoconcho missing a muffler rumbles by a parked car and triggers the alarm. This happens several times a day, everyday, along with the occasional high pitched scream of a very tempermental toddler who lives across the street. But despite the cacophony, the quiet man with glasses and graying hair keeps reading, never lifting his head from the page of his book.
Stray dogs lie in the shade of parked vehicles, panting in the heat. Spotted pigeons, about forty of them, wait on the powerlines. They know it is feeding time. A man and his daughter come out from their flat with a blue and white striped bag of seed. They stand in the shade and toss it. The birds swarm atop one other, pecking at the free meal. Another little girl of about the same age walks by warily eyeing the birds, keeping a safe distance. She flees around a corner and into an alleyway.
The kids practicing baseball in the narrow street move aside as a car approaches, then coalesce to resume their game. One boy of about twelve, wearing a gray t-shirt and red shorts, has amazing hand eye coordination, consistently hitting a plastic Fanta bottle thrown his way with a broomstick handle. He holds his major league pose after each homerun.
From the early afternoon until about an hour after dark, the distant thump of reggaeton, bachata, and merengue never ceases. For some reason, it only seems to rain at night. And in the morning the roosters crow from one corner to the next, signaling the end of our confinement. The people of the neighborhood trickle out to welcome the sun with a brisk walk on the malecon, some water for their plants, or a seat in front of the calmado.
Comments
Post a Comment