One Week

At the beginning of each day at the top of our lungs we yell, "Buenos días, Cholula!" to the church on top of the piramide, to the horses in the fields in front of us, to the buses running every ten minutes, and to the volcano, Popocatepetl.
To be honest, he yells. I only whisper. It's still a little strange to wake up each morning and look out my window to such a beautiful sight. I'm not comfortable enough yet to yell, to greet Cholula like an old friend. To me, Cholula seems almost sacred.
I'll get there though.
After one week I no longer pretend no one is home when the señora knocks on the door before she enters to clean; she isn't a religious man in a suit. She's just doing her job.
After one week I'm making eye contact with everyone I pass on the street. I'm not flinching when the low-lifes honk me off guard, and as to their cat calls... after one week, I'm not embarrassed. I feel sad for these guys. They're so lonely. I ignore them.
I'm already a pro at taking the bus to work, too; I have my six pesos in hand even before I can make out the word "LOMA" on the windshield.
I'm not quite sure what or where LOMA is yet, but maybe that is something I will learn in week two.

Today it is cloudy, but at the very top you can see Popo's white smoke.