I Built a Life Loud Enough to Interrupt Me

Around seven-thirty on Sunday morning, Lidia’s team arrived to continue painting the house. They were all relatives: two brothers, their wives, and a grown daughter. They came with supplies and the same good energy they’d brought the day before, when they pressure washed the house with a short hose stuck into a bucket of water. Apparently a pressure washer can just sip from a bucket like a horse if everyone agrees not to make a big deal about it.

Before opening the paint cans, they told us they had to stop for cochinita pibil. They asked if we’d ever eaten it and invited us to join them. I told them it was one of my favourites, but Heather and I had just eaten breakfast. We set out plates, and they settled together on our patio to eat while we cleaned up and worked on our Spanish homework.

Once they got to work, Heather and I tried to decide what to eat later. We’ve started making the food plan in the morning so we can get to the markets before the sun turns white hot.

That’s when I started to feel nauseated. It was probably gas, honestly, but my body doesn’t always wait for the full story before it starts making up stories. Something feels wrong, and the whole day can begin to fold around it. I’ve noticed that if I can interrupt that pattern, I can stop the unfolding.

We decided to head out in our carrito.

The roads have a lot of bumps, and the carrito is an honest gal. She makes sure we feel every crack, bump, and hole. Getting jostled around is partly a workout in holding on, but it’s also a great distraction from my body.

There were cars parked on both sides of the road, with one, two, sometimes three or four lanes of traffic crammed in between. Dogs, pedestrians, charcoal smoke, cumbia musicians, carts, wagons, potholes, blazing heat. It didn’t leave much room to think about how I was feeling, besides wondering if my body would ever learn to sweat at the right time instead of showing up late, in front of the AC, with its two friends, red-faced and cranky.

We passed our neighbour on his motorcycle. His face lit up, and he called, “Buenos días!” We called it back, and as we passed, he waved and yelled, “¡Saludos!”

No clue what it meant. We’d have to look it up when we got home. His smile told us enough for now.

The square was full of people, sound, smoke, and heat. We even heard someone playing an oboe. Traffic was jammed up beside us, people moving in every direction. The morning had already started without us, and we were just stepping into it.

After the bank, we went to the market, where I got to hear Heather ask perfectly in Spanish for the meat she wanted. She said it so simply, as if she’d always been able to say it. It didn’t sound like tears and curse words, which is what it was grown in. Just Heather standing there, asking for what she wanted, and being understood with a warm smile.

On the way back, there was more traffic, more food, more life pushing into the road. People selling tacos, tortas, empanadas, alitas, and jugos. An old man had two humongous speakers hooked up to microphones and a set of standing drums in front of him. Music blasted from the speakers while he played along, right there in the middle of everything.

It was our pueblo on a Sunday.

When we got home, the house was mostly purple. Music was playing, and Lidia’s family was still working, laughing, dancing on ladders. The other Lidia, her sister-in-law, was painting a wall like the colour had a rhythm of its own.

Heather and I sat down beside each other at the kitchen table, each on our own laptop, and went back to our Spanish lessons. Then Lidia, who was supposed to be off that day, sent a message saying she was coming over.

We knew it. She had to know what was going on and how well it was going. She runs a tight ship.

She arrived, chatted with her family, then came inside and gave us hugs and kisses. She asked if she could put her groceries in our fridge. She offered us food five times each. Eventually she sat with us, ate, and drank the Coca we gave her while showing us some of her favourite songs. We wrote some down and sang others together. For the better part of two hours, we had Spanish lessons without even trying.

When Lidia left, she took her groceries and told us to call if we went to the park near her house. Otherwise, she’d see us the following Saturday, when her family would return to paint the posts and garage door black.

Outside, the family was packing up. Andrés removed a yellow branch from our palm. The other Lidia swept our patio, which had nothing to do with painting. I looked at the purple walls and the way they made our chairs pop, knowing I’d always remember her dancing while she painted them.