every afternoon at two o'clock a man cycles down our street with lime sorbet, yelling "nieeeeeeeve!" in the most mournful voice possible. and i take my six pesos and buy a cup-full, straw and all, and stare at the two mangy dogs who live in the doorway opposite.
the clickaclickclackaclick of the tortilla machine in the ubiquitous tienditas (little shops) in San Andreas, churning out warm tortillas. and i ask the man for half a kilo and watch as they're weighed on the old machine and carefully wrapped in brown paper, curled neatly at the edges. and by the time i cycle home the freshness has made a damp imprint on the paper.
"nopaaaales por cin-co pe-soooos" the cactus-leaf lady wails, cycling somewhere in our vicinity as her voice floats through cholula streets.
fireworks, gunshots and general mayhem, courtesy of the church behind my room, where something is always being celebrated. there are a lot of saints in this country. one particularly memorable/surreal night there were fireworks every hour on the hour; i kept waking up to see blurred colours at the window, then bewilder-dly passing out again to be woken 59 minutes later.
the creaks of an old unkept house struggling to continue existing. the doors heavy and swinging in the wind, the dog attempting to sneak in but foolishly stepping on the third floorboard - and don't step too heavily on my balcony, your perspective may changes slightly and suddenly.
the tingling of bells around ankles. dan (flatmate) and i both have one, courtesy of my india stop-over, and consequently we are easy to track down.
peacocks meowing drunkenly and startlingly on the university grounds. puffed, elevated and brilliantly dressed, they are hilariously similar to the student demographic. there's one in particular who lurks above the bookstore, screaming randomly at passersby.
cat empire in the morning, guitar voices on the roof at midnight, and reggae at all other times. delicious, delicious music and wonderfully excessive numbers of musos (last weekend a 10-piece band camped out in our two-room apartment. free tickets, anyone?)
arghh! at ridiculous times of the night, an atole (corn) stand sets up shop and begins to blare insanely irritating and repetitive music and slogans until they sod off. if i ever hear anyone buying any i feel like an irish union worker on strike watching traitors, i mean fellow workers, heading into the factory. when mum and dad were staying the corn man helpfully arrived just when we all started vomiting (thankyou montezuma, I hope your revenge was sweet). worst. soundtrack. ever.
