Un dia tipico

On a typical weekday, I get up about 6:15, finish my tarea (homework), get dressed and go downstairs for a desayuno of toast, coffee and fruit. A little before 8, I go out the front door, through the patio and out the gate, pulling it hard so it locks. If it's chilly, I cross to the sunny side of the street to walk less than a block to the bus stop, passing the textile factory, which has been clickety-clacking since 6 a.m., and the scrapyard, which usually is enclosed, but this morning is open because a loaded truck is arriving. Just as I reach the corner, the 44 bus arrives and is stopped for the light. I hop aboard, pay my 5 pesos and sit in the only available seat, beside a rather hefty man who moves over just a tad.

A block up from the bus stop, there's a food "truck" (actually, a mini-truck body on a 3-wheeled motorcycle chassis), selling donas (doughnuts) to the government workers heading for a nearby oficina. Nearby, a woman is selling what looks like postres (desserts) in clear plastic cups. I don't know whether the trabajadores (workers) will eat them for desayuno or save them for almuerzo about 2:30 p.m.

There seems to be no such thing as zoning here. Many merchants and food vendors live over their shops, in second- and third-story additions that sometimes look a bit precarious despite being built of concrete, brick and/or stone. Attractive buildings with prosperous businesses share a wall with derilect places that haven't seen paint since 2000 or so.

But if you want to be in business,  you don't really need a building. You can string a tarp across a sidewalk every evening and dish up your specialty -- cemitas, mermelas, tacos, etc. Or you can get a 3-wheeled tricycle with a box between the two front wheels and pedal around the city, selling anything from food to toys to craft items the tourists (there aren't many here) like. Or you can put your lawn mower on the back of your bike and pedal off to mow the grass hidden behind someone's high patio wall. No bike? No problem. Vendors galore make do with their feet and a bag or basket or box of their wares.

The bus jolts down the streets, stopping every block or so, changing lanes unpredictably, lurching through the dogleg turn and crawling through the jammed-up cars, buses and taxis dropping kids off at a large (and probably expensive) private school. We pass the Russian bakery, cross Avenida San Francisco (a broad, smoothish modern street) and rumble two more blocks. "Esquina, por favor," I tell the chofer, and get off at  11 Oriente y Calle 2 Sur. From the corner it's a half-block walk to the school, where I press the doorbell and am admitted.

(More later -- time for class.).