To hear la cumbia floating from the windows

To taste the spices on fruta con sal

To stop by the stands of tacos and gorditos and quesadillas

To drive along the tunnels with the smell of old water

To name the stray dogs that come to lick the crumbs at our feet

To hail los taxis verdes with distant shouts and cram aunts uncles and cousins in the back seat

To jump at the sounds of cohetes that ricochet off the valley walls

To wake in the morning to the cry of las gallinas and the man who walks the early streets with baskets full of fresh pan

To see family again, just to stop missing them