dancing in my chair

I am in a Latin frame of mind today.


Before I get a big "Duh! You live in Mexico, dude!" from everybody, let me explain.


Our summer has begun.  Not by the calendar.  We will not be there until late June -- just as the rest of the northern hemisphere.


But the reality of summer arrives around here when the keepers of humidity say it is time to rehydrate the Pacific coast of Mexico.  That happened last week.  And it was as predictable as the naked, overweight guy pouring another can of water on the sauna's rocks.


The gills I developed for Oregon rains are coming in handy.  This is salamander weather.  When the shore and ocean gain enough kinship they couldn't even get married in Arkansas.


But it is not just the humidity that puts me in a Latin mood.  After all, this humidity could spell New Orleans just as easily.  And for all of its French and Spanish roots, New Orleans is no more Latin than is Chicago.


For the past hour, three of my neighbors have been in a battle of the boom boxes.  Almost all of it ranchera -- traditional and contemporary.  All at full volume.


My young neighbors to the east of me appear to have won.  In celebration, out comes the mambo -- the dance, not the snake.  And I become one with the music in my chair under the shady mango.


During the music war, I almost pulled out my headphones.  Listening to three music sources in different tempos and on different beats is only slightly less pleasant than listening to Manhattan street noises.


But, like everything else in Mexico, if you are patient, matters sort themselves out.  Usually.


Or they start all over again.  The battle has been rejoined by another boom box across the laguna.


But that is why the siesta was invented.