Little Mexico

We live in a neighborhood where about 50% of the residents speak Spanish. There are frequent, loud parties on summer evenings. Cars drive down our road blaring songs laden with chirping accordion and a heavy bass.

I love it. Except for maybe the accordion. I'd be lying if I told you I was entirely fond of Mexican music. But I do enjoy the different flavor it gives to what would otherwise be a very homogenous neighborhood.

I love Latin American people. I love their hospitality. I love their devotion to their families. I love their easy-going nature. And, boy, can they throw a party!

A few months ago, we went to our neighbor's birthday party. Our plates were LOADED with pork and beans that had been cooked outside, over open flame, in a pot large enough to fit a small child. There were two huge pinatas, lots of laughter and Iris dunked her face in the cake after we sang to her. It was a fun time, even though I could only speak with half the family there.

Truly, I love our Mexican neighbors.

The ice cream truck, however, visits our neighborhood a great deal because of the cultural tendency of most Latin American countries to buy their ice cream from traveling salespeople. This is not my favorite thing. That is putting it mildly. I have had my most violent thoughts over the last couple years as the ice cream man (who really is a nice enough guy) drives past our house. More on this later. Watch for it.

Well, it turns out that ice cream is not the only thing that Mexicans buy or sell from cars.

Today, JDub was working in the garage with the door open. A car pulled up in front of our driveway and a man beckoned from the passenger window.

"Hey," he said, waving JDub over.

JDub walked to the curb.

"Hey," the man said again, in heavily accented English, "j'you want some tamales?"

I'm telling you. It's a whole different world here.