On May 1, I will be back in my home in the Colorado Rockies. Desculpeme (excuse me) while I say goodbye to the street where I live.
Calle Martires de Cananea is a busy street that defines my neighborhood from adjacent colonias. The homes here are row houses, four units to a set. Each home is painted a bright color - yellow, orange, blue, purple, green. Some are two stories, like mine, others are one level. Each set of homes is separated by an andador (walkway). Most of the almost 2,000 homes open onto an andador and don't have vehicular access to a street, but they are only a block away from a street.
The buses that run back and forth under my bedroom window are my alarm clock. I wake up betweeen 6:03 and 6:15 a.m. when they begin their daily roar, which ends shortly after 9 p.m. The noise and fumes are the price I pay for the convenience of stepping outside my door and catching a bus, within minutes, to anywhere in the city, for two pesos.
This street is my theater, my television, my gateway to Mexican life. Depending on the time of day, it serves as a hardware store, a bakery, a clothing shop. As I write this, a young man is pedaling by on a three-wheel bicycle equipped with a rear cart loaded with five-gallon jugs of purified water. He parks his vehicle under my window as he heads down Andador 6, yelling "la agua" every few seconds. A few minutes ago, a truck, equipped with a loudspreaker, told me in blaring notes that his naranjas (oranges) are the best to be found anywhere. For about 10 pesos, the naranja man filled up my bag with a couple dozen juicy oranges.
Last night, the tamale lady saw me writing at my computer and stopped under my window. Wearing a flowered cotton dress and crisp checkered apron, she made a special plea to me. She knows that sometimes I buy tamales from her. "No gracias, no hoy, mas tarde," I yell back. My relationship with her started months ago when I invited some gringo friends to my house. One of them bought
