I live on a noisy, teeming street. Next door is Texas Fast Food, which is not fast at all. Instead, they feature chimichurri steaks (Argentina) and beef strips with a cheese fondue (Switzerland?) for dipping . Next to that is the barber shop where the fellas hang out on the stoop (actually plastic chairs on a tiled driveway) which converts to a bbq and cervezas patio at night. If you continue another couple of metres you have two mechanics facing each other across the narrow, single lane street. One is for motorcycles and the other is for cars. Each shop takes up less space than the family homes on either side — and this is only a few steps to the left from my front door. To the right, I am only a few steps from Calle 70; the beating-heart boulevard of this edge of town. On this corner there are no less than five restaurant bars serving up delightfully loud, syncopated, brass and accordion sounds all night long. And by all night, I mean until 4am, all week, Monday through Sunday.
Everyday is a funday in my street.
There are three temporary stages/platforms on the cross street. Breakdancers, salsa dancers, rappers and small bands rotate all weekend long from morning til night, while street vendors hawk bunuelos, perritos, arepas, empanadas, fresh juices, fresh fruits, dubious meat products, and all manner of household item you didn’t realise you needed.
Then there’s my 20 minute walk to school every morning. On the footpaths so narrow it is often easier to walk in the street, I pass the same man and two ladies dressed in their Sunday finest — straw hat and tie for him, all clutching their bibles and wishing me an effusive “Buenos Dias” as I stand aside to let them pass en route to what must be a morning mass nearby. There are two panaderias (bakeries) which fan-force sweet, doughy deliciousness out onto the footpath derailing me more than once on my journey to school.
And la vieja 10 minutes into my walk who waters her sidewalk garden everyday, by hand, with a plastic milk container that has little holes poked into the bottom to create a rain shower effect on the plants.
And the blind man 15 minutes in, who approaches tapping and scraping the pavement with his cane along the quietest and most deserted section of my journey.
I wonder if he knows me by now. Still, I utter a soft “buenas” each day, and he slightly nods, doesn’t slow down or stop; just slightly nods and keeps going.
