Monday, June 11, 2007
Sunday (el domingo) in San Miguel
People always ask us what a "typical day" is like down here. Well, I don't really know how to answer that, but I'll tell you: yesterday was a quintessential San Miguel day.
We were awakened somewhere between three and four a.m. with what sounded like an artillery barrage. Seems as though this past weekend was a festival weekend honoring some saint or another. This particular saint must be a patron saint of our colonia (neighborhood) as the fireworks -- and subsequent parties -- were frighteningly, distressingly close. When at dawn we finally gave up trying to sleep, we got up, cleaned up and headed downtown.
On the way, we dodged fifty or sixty exhausted Spandex-clad mountain bikers just finishing some kind of early morning ride. They were high fiving, guzzling water and dodging the old ladies selling balloons and pull toys.
We hung out for a while in the jardin (town square) chatting with friends and enjoying my all-time favorite kind of street music -- a five-piece Peruvian group playing all manner of hand-made wooden flutes and the world's smallest guitar. I desperately wanted to add to my collection of Peruvian street artist CDs, but Karen threatened me with death. I settled for tossing some pesos into their collection hat. We then mosied over to a small, locally-owned restaurant and enjoyed a leisurely 2-hour breakfast, people and pet watching.
Afterward, with black clouds looming on the horizon, we scurried home to take in our drying laundry. On the way we were waylaid by a festival parade. First came a troupe of folks (kids and adults) in buckskins and painted faces, dancing and rhythmically clashing their machetes to the beat of several very enthusiastic drummers. They were followed by a large group in random costumes -- ranging from black capes and ghoul masks to oversized clown heads and giant rabbits. Don't ask. Next came -- are you ready for this? -- a guy dressed as Jesus toting an oversized, green-foil-covered cross, flanked by two hefty, lance-toting guys dressed as Roman Centurians, and followed by a real live priest. And to cap it off, surrounded by a slew of folks who live in our neighborhood, came a brass band that was playing what I could only describe as Dixieland jazz. Oh yeah, interspersed among them all were rowdy young guys shooting off bottle rockets just, I guess, for the hell of it.
Once we got our dry towels safely stowed, we headed back downtown to a local sports bar to watch Mexico & Honduras compete in the Gold Cup soccer tournament (played, ironically, in the U.S.). After several tequilas and cervezas, we were comfortably back in our soccer parent mode, jumping up and screaming and booing the refs. As we trudged back up the hill after Mexico's unexpected loss, the weather seemed to mirror our mood, and moments after arriving home the temperature dropped, the skies opened up and our newly planted garden began to sing, "Hallelujah!!"
We then shifted into rainy-day-Sunday mode: Karen tuned into a mindless action thriller on one of the movie channels -- (Passenger 57, avoid it at all costs) -- and I cooked us a nice grilled arrechera (skirt steak) with mushroom cream sauce and rice.
Sated and happy, we finally headed upstairs hand-in-hand to enjoy the cool, clear, star-filled sky... at the exact moment our devout, pyromaniacal neighbors unleashed another, hour-long salvo of airborn explosives and cranked up a nearby jukebox, playing -- of all things -- classic 1950's Elvis. Work or school on Monday? Getouttahere. Not on my saint's day. Not in San Miguel.
Whatever. We were soon sound asleep, dreaming foxhole dreams of Emiliana Zapata and Ann-Margaret.
We were awakened somewhere between three and four a.m. with what sounded like an artillery barrage. Seems as though this past weekend was a festival weekend honoring some saint or another. This particular saint must be a patron saint of our colonia (neighborhood) as the fireworks -- and subsequent parties -- were frighteningly, distressingly close. When at dawn we finally gave up trying to sleep, we got up, cleaned up and headed downtown.
On the way, we dodged fifty or sixty exhausted Spandex-clad mountain bikers just finishing some kind of early morning ride. They were high fiving, guzzling water and dodging the old ladies selling balloons and pull toys.
We hung out for a while in the jardin (town square) chatting with friends and enjoying my all-time favorite kind of street music -- a five-piece Peruvian group playing all manner of hand-made wooden flutes and the world's smallest guitar. I desperately wanted to add to my collection of Peruvian street artist CDs, but Karen threatened me with death. I settled for tossing some pesos into their collection hat. We then mosied over to a small, locally-owned restaurant and enjoyed a leisurely 2-hour breakfast, people and pet watching.
Afterward, with black clouds looming on the horizon, we scurried home to take in our drying laundry. On the way we were waylaid by a festival parade. First came a troupe of folks (kids and adults) in buckskins and painted faces, dancing and rhythmically clashing their machetes to the beat of several very enthusiastic drummers. They were followed by a large group in random costumes -- ranging from black capes and ghoul masks to oversized clown heads and giant rabbits. Don't ask. Next came -- are you ready for this? -- a guy dressed as Jesus toting an oversized, green-foil-covered cross, flanked by two hefty, lance-toting guys dressed as Roman Centurians, and followed by a real live priest. And to cap it off, surrounded by a slew of folks who live in our neighborhood, came a brass band that was playing what I could only describe as Dixieland jazz. Oh yeah, interspersed among them all were rowdy young guys shooting off bottle rockets just, I guess, for the hell of it.
Once we got our dry towels safely stowed, we headed back downtown to a local sports bar to watch Mexico & Honduras compete in the Gold Cup soccer tournament (played, ironically, in the U.S.). After several tequilas and cervezas, we were comfortably back in our soccer parent mode, jumping up and screaming and booing the refs. As we trudged back up the hill after Mexico's unexpected loss, the weather seemed to mirror our mood, and moments after arriving home the temperature dropped, the skies opened up and our newly planted garden began to sing, "Hallelujah!!"
We then shifted into rainy-day-Sunday mode: Karen tuned into a mindless action thriller on one of the movie channels -- (Passenger 57, avoid it at all costs) -- and I cooked us a nice grilled arrechera (skirt steak) with mushroom cream sauce and rice.
Sated and happy, we finally headed upstairs hand-in-hand to enjoy the cool, clear, star-filled sky... at the exact moment our devout, pyromaniacal neighbors unleashed another, hour-long salvo of airborn explosives and cranked up a nearby jukebox, playing -- of all things -- classic 1950's Elvis. Work or school on Monday? Getouttahere. Not on my saint's day. Not in San Miguel.
Whatever. We were soon sound asleep, dreaming foxhole dreams of Emiliana Zapata and Ann-Margaret.
# posted by goots @ 9:51 AM 
