One of my secrets to surviving eight years of being the only gringo in the ‘hood has been to practice a policy of appeasement towards all neighbors. Sra Brady, however, having grown up in the colonia, has no qualms about confronting them. She is small but fierce, or as they say here “chiquita pero picosa,” and very quick with rejoinders. One particular neighbor lady, let’s call her Sra R, and she have maintained an on-and-off again skirmish for years over such hot issues as a lost schoolbook, a briefly kidnapped puppy and an incontinent cat. Last year we expanded our battle field by buying an adjoining vacant lot, from which my wife and crew cleaned out ten bags of ancient garbage and temporarily set them on the shoulder of the road, right in the time honored spot where Sra R’s family has for years parked their truck. The shoulder of the road in front of their own house, directly across the street from us, they reserve for their junk business. At any given time there are, or were, a few broken down washers, fridges, cars and other status symbols of wealth in various stages of decomposition, waiting to be busted into valuable pieces of metal by a large hammer, nice and early in the cool mornings when my hangovers are most sensitive to loud, relentless noise. Of course, I am too wise and mature to quarrel with a man who, though older than I, can deliver twenty some sledge blows per minute to a household appliance for hours on end, so I never have complained about the noise, or the encroachment of a private nuisance onto the public right of way. However, when his wife, Sra R, came storming over one recent day shouting at the top of her sizeable lungs that we had obstructed their precious little parking place, Sra Brady’s rapier tongue sent her home trembling with rage. Within a week, all of their prized yonque antiques disappeared from their own road frontage and now they park their truck over there. An uneasy truce prevailed until the other day when the same Sra R arrived at the door, all smiles, with a newborn grandson in her arms, politely asking to talk to my wife. I immediately sensed that something was not right. When I explained that Sra B was not at home, Sra R launched into a long, complicated story, which as far as I could understand had something to do with my wife giving her el bebito an eye and some spit so he could sleep with gusto. Makes a lot of sense, right? Next morning, as we were trying to get the kids and caboodle out the door in time for the school bells, Sra R’s

daughter came over explaining the urgent dilemma: apparently my wife, who is always in a hurry to be late somewhere, had glanced at the admittedly adorable baby in the street but had not stopped to give him the traditional slobbery kiss of first greeting and now the poor creature was hexed, bothered and bewitched and couldn’t sleep and the only way to undo the curse she had cast was for Sra B to bless the child with her baba, that is, saliva. I kid you not, incredulous reader. Anyhow, my wife replied that she was in a big hurry and maybe some other time. After the neighbor girl left in a huff, we stood on the porch awaiting the bus (from our hilltop we can see it coming a mile away), discussing in Spanish what a bunch of superstitious nonsense those idiot neighbors were laying on us, and what obnoxious hypocrites they were, belonging to that fringy, holier than thou, nutcase religious sect that calls itself Christian while at the same time believing in evil spirits and so on. Then we saw the bus coming around the bend, and upon opening the porch door discovered that Sra R and her daughter, baby in arms, had been sitting on the steps quietly listening to our conversation the whole time. Well, even my wife was at a loss for words, and we ended up missing the bus so she could properly anoint the little insomniac. Later that day, a beaming Sra R told her that he was sleeping deeply again. Fortunately for me, in Mexico we macho men, as a rule which I appreciate, do not deign to involve ourselves in the little feuds and spats that arise between neighbor ladies. The saying goes, “No me meto en chismes de viejas” (literally, “I do not get mixed up in old wives’ gossip”). And I’d hate to spoil their fun by trying to introduce a rational point of view into their little squabbles. After years of detached observation and contemplation, I have personally arrived at the conclusion that a lot of the conflicts actually stem from recreational motives. Nothing like a good hen fight to liven up an otherwise dull day of drudgery around the house! I think they mostly secretly adore each other and would be sad to see a feisty neighbor move away. My hunch is that the whole arrangement goes way, way back to the pre-Hispanic days, when Mexico boasted the most advanced and sophisticated cultures this side of China. What I like best of all about the constant skirmishing (I could give more examples, but I’ve only got one page to work with) is when Sra Brady is fuming and venting about the latest tempest in a teapot, she is finding no fault with me. So let the fur fly!