Very early every morning my husband and I are abruptly woken up to the sounds of the street. Everyone has a distinct instrument to let you know they’re near. Trash collectors have the cow bell which they relentlessly ring on ever street corner as they slowly move forward. Tamale vendors use a megaphone and an ancient recording of an old fellow screeching in an inaudible crackly spanish “Tamales, tamales, tamales oaxacaquenos, tamales canarios, tamales de mole, verde y rajaaaaaaaaasssss!!!”. Funny enough where ever in mexico we travel, we hear that same recording on every tamale vendor’s cart. There must be a street vendor shop in Mexico City where they all buy it. There are trucks selling gas to fill up your stationary tank, most honk their horns as they drive slowly up and down each block, other large trucks selling dangerous, replaceable propane filled gas tanks have a loud mouthed driver (a definite requirement) who goes up to the door of each house and screams in a HUGE other worldly voice “GAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!”. There’s the indigenous woman who comes every Wednesday and Friday to sell me exquisite handmade blue and white corn tortillas. She screams my name “senora chrissssstiiiiinaaaaaaaa!” outside the great wall of the privada where we live because we don’t have a door bell (hers is the only sound i don’t mind). Then there are the men who drive around in an old blue, busted and rusted Ford F150, honking their horn while in unison, yelling “fiero viejooooooooooooooo!” which means ‘old metal’. There are roosters too, including miniature farms a-top our neighbor’s roofs, packs of feral dogs barking at people walking by, cars driving much too fast for a residential neighborhood- so you listen for the THUMP! of the back of the car hitting the large tope (speed bump) in front of our casita. Luckily, the large fuming local busses are on the next street over.