Everyone who lives on the street has a love/hate relationship with the feria. For the most part, I love it. I love sitting in my apartment hearing children squeal with delight as they bounce up and down on a trampoline that is 15 feet in the air. The smell of elote and tacos floating in through the windows is something that has become so comforting and sweet and delicious. Greeting the umbrella seller and the chamoyada stand that have a temporary home two feet from my doorway make me feel like we've got a nice, little community here. And the best part is the hour long parade of the Morelos-born Chinelos, traditional dancers dressed up to make fun of the Spanish conquistadors, who walk and dance and jump and blast their trumpets twice a day for ten days in a row, never hinting that they are hot or tired or have done this 20 times before.
The down-side to the festival is the fireworks (not the pretty kind, but the loud kind) that blast from our next-door lot at 2 am, 3 am, 4 am, 5 am and then about 100 to 150 at 6 am. Also, throughout the day. Always when you least expect it.