The greatest things about having immigrant hispanic neighbors:
- Never having the same parking space twice
- Never a quiet moment (except on nights before the workday)
- The occasional birthday party underneath my window, complete with piÃ±atas (even more entertaining if only just to see if the kids will accidentally whack each other in the head or their fathers in the nuts)
- Even more frequent barbecues, complete with rising smoke and with blaring, distorted conjunto playing from a car with raised trunk lid, underneath said window
- Leering glares as I cross the parking lot to my car to leave the noise
- The constant and interesting stream of fresh young cholos moving in with their scary driving habits
- Having kids playing near, around, and on my car with nary a chastisement from their parents
- The random and sometimes frequent chirping of hypersensitive car alarms going off when the dumpster gets emptied or the kids play too close to those cars
- A constant flux of roofing and carpentry detritus either scattered across the parking lot or piled dangerously near the dumpster
- The here-and-there appearance of an empty cerveza bottle, a pair of children’s shoes, or a metal ladder
- The wafting scent of boiled chicken blowing around when I get home from work
- The loud talking, frequent yelling, and occasional shrieking of young and old without being able to comprehend a single word
- And, finally, the dead car, with borrowed sandbags, stolen from a nearby road construction site, in front of the tires, rotting in one of the few prime parking spaces.
Ah, never a dull moment. God bless ’em.
Â¡Vaya con Diabolo!