For two days, the neighborhood came alive with fireworks, parades and all things festive. The next-door videoke queen sang her signature "Happy Birthday Dear Heartache," announcing to everyone that the Video Singko machine is back on track. Cars crowded our otherwise empty streets, and afternoons rang with shouts from the makeshift cockpit just a block away.
It's all quiet now. There is nothing that hints of the village fiesta anymore--except for empty beer bottles, plates that need to be dried and kept, hopelessly soot-covered pots. That and an earful of chismis more exciting than The Buzz, courtesy of course, of the family "chronicler."
The quiet takes some getting used to. As the neighborhood gears up for yet another post-fiesta weekday, I am back to my usual nocturnal soundtrack: barking dogs, the drone of recycled air, and snoring husband.