HOUSE ALARM, SAN MIGUEL DE ALLENDE

I can get used to the boom of fireworks at dawn detonating dogs, roosters, donkeys, church bells jolting the faithless awake on holy and unholy days,

Padre Dante’s wobbly hymns warbled from a loudspeaker, the Otomí procession of armadillo guitars, ocarinas, conch shells, drums thumping a furious beat, but–can’t get used to this: the billionaire’s house alarm wailing like a weary child at el Mercado San Juan de Dios.

Worse, los mexicanos see me as una gringa, think it’s my house alarm. I don’t have one. But, for safety’s sake, can’t say this.

The billionaire’s gone to New Zealand. This the reason his San Miguel house sits vulnerable to local and extranjero rage all season.

Summer simmers the ire of neighbors against all newcomers who have raised the rent and made living in el centro imposible.

Afternoon rains arrive ahead of the hurricanes that straddle both coasts every summer.

Clouds drag a violet shroud of rain across the valley. Beyond the gauzy mountains, strands of lightning crackle louder than the neighbor’s house alarm.

Temperature plummets. Scent of silver.

Pirul trees shiver a drizzle of dust. Palm trees sashay brittle skirts. Basso profundo rumble. Jackpot rush of coins breaking from the heavens.

¡La ropa, la ropa! Housewives rescue rooftop laundry snapping in the wind sweeping in from Celaya, fifty kilometers away, the most dangerous city in the republic, home base to our home state’s cartel.

But we live in the most beautiful city in the world. With nary a worldly care, save a false alarm. Or so our realtors swear.