waking up in saigon

It does not happen often. But, when it does, it is a bit -- well, not disconcerting. Maybe just disorienting.

One of the joys of living in a tropical climate is taking a quick afternoon nap in the patio. It is even better when the pump is running the waterfall in the swimming pool.

But, there I go again, misdirecting the conversation. Today's theme is not about my old-guy habit of stolen siestas. It is waking up from them.

My Mexican neighbors (particularly, the women) enjoy sharing tales in the street in front of my house. The scene usually starts with one of them arriving by motorbike and beeping that distinctive high-pitch horn to announce her arrival. I refer to it as the trailer park door bell.

That blast is enough to start pulling me out of my slumber. By the time, I am half-awake, the conversations have begun. In that state between consciousness and the embrace of Morpheus, the in-street chatter sounds as if I have woken up in Saigon.

My Spanish is not particularly good, but I do have an ear for accents. Spanish speakers from Guadalajara, Havana, Colombia, and Madrid have a distinctive way of speaking. And I can usually spot the almost-songlike rhythm when my Mexican friends slip into street slang. But that is not what I hear when I wake up to the sound of neighborhood gossip.

Whether it is a local affectation or simply a patois reserved for women sharing Schadenfreude tales, I have no idea. Whatever it is, it is distinguished by an odd nasality that turns Spanish into a cousin of the Asian tonal tongues. That and the motorbike horn must be the time machine that transports me back to Saigon -- where I did not take afternoon siestas by my pool.

I am not the only person who seems to have analogy issues between Mexico and Asia. I think it was Walt Rostow, while he was an adviser to President Kennedy, who said: "To understand Latin Americans you need to realize that they are Asians." That sounds as bizarre to me today as it did when I first heard it.

But Walt (and, by extension, Mexpatriate) may not be that wrong. While on my morning walk earlier this week, I strode to the end of the jetty in Barra de Navidad and snapped the photograph at the top of this essay.

Who knows, maybe I do wake up in Saigon now and then.