All Roads Lead to Austen by Amy Elizabeth Smith

I was feeling sharpest, from Rulfo or Fuentes).
    I adored the resident cuizas , the rubbery little lizards I’d also spotted at Soledad and Salvador’s place. I’d randomly find them scurrying along the ceilings, dodging behind the bedroom curtains, staring at me from the showerhead. Before lights-out at night, bats would shoot through the hallway passage and sweep for insects. The least frequent but most exotic guests were garrobos , enormous lizards that would lounge on the rail-less stairs leading to the rooftop azotea .
    But what entered the house uninvited even more than the many creatures was noise. The daily volume in a Mexican neighborhood took some getting used to.
    Music topped the list. Shortly after arriving I spent a pleasant Sunday afternoon meeting Diego’s family at his sister Manuela’s house. Everyone was curious to see the strange traveling woman who’d entered their son’s/brother’s/uncle’s world. Diego’s mother had the same bright demeanor as his, and despite my paranoia that she and his sisters would give the stink eye to the hussy shacked up with him, all three women were kind and open. We enjoyed a wonderful dinner, complete with dessert coconuts that, when the meal started, were minding their own business up a tree in the yard. There was something darkly sexy about discovering that Diego could whack open a tough coconut with a single machete blow.
    Ah, but the music! From the noise level, the average American passing outside Manuela’s house would have assumed that nothing less than a wedding or a canonization was in progress. The only way to keep your neighbors in the United States from calling the cops if your stereo’s up that loud is to invite them over and liquor them up. I wonder how many ugly feuds get started in the States from a basic cultural misunderstanding—with Mexican immigrants thinking their neighbors are hassling them, maybe out of racist motivations, and the neighbors thinking the Mexicans are giving them a very stiff middle finger by playing their music so loudly.
    While my neighborhood was more tranquil than Manuela’s, the family across the street had a colossal parrot-like guacamaya caged in their front yard. Many families had noisy birds, but this one was off the charts. It muttered to itself constantly then every hour or so would let out a bloody shriek that set off every dog and rooster around. At first this seemed to be its only trick. Then with the first really hard rain, the bird went into an ecstatic freefall of sound that lasted almost an hour. It whistled, hooted, and screamed, barking out unintelligible words and raucously imitating the sound of human laughter.
    Each time thereafter, a hard rain drew me to the window. I would watch the guacamaya bob its gigantic blue head and sway on its thick wooden perch, transported, pouring out its song to the rain pounding the plastic cover of its cage.
    ***
    After the Pedro Páramo “They’re all dead” incident, I felt too embarrassed to go back to the bookstore downtown, so I found another along the main stretch to the airport, one with a reassuringly animated young clerk named Marisol. After the requisite apology for my poor Spanish, we chatted, and I explained about my travels.
    â€œIt’s your job to travel around learning Spanish?” she asked in surprise.
    â€œWell, the other part is reading. I’m doing reading groups on Jane Austen.”
    â€œThat’s your job, too?” She sounded almost indignant. “You get paid to read and talk about books? In different countries?” She glanced around the shelves, her expression saying loud and clear how much she wished she had time to devour every volume in the store. While traveling, better yet. “How do you get a job like that?”
    â€œWell, you study for years and years then fight it out with other people who want a job like that. There are very few university teaching