Olivia barks ferociously out (or at) the window. Is it a) a street dog; b) neighborhood boys; or c) the cat? It’s none of the above. It’s Sunday morning in Yucalpeten and the kibis man is coming by, shouting about selling his wears. When I think of ambulatory vendors I think of New York in the 19th and early 20th century, a sepia toned scene of an old man with a cart piled high with produce or cool steel pails of milk. I have a clear, conflated picture of history book tenements, Mrs. Hannigan from Annie and a child-size version of my grandmother in mind. In a simpler time women were house-bound by children and endless chores; you stepped outside in curlers and an apron, there was less of a fixed boundary between public and private space.

In Merida, where we lived fairly sheltered in the Suites del Sol, we only heard tell of the milk man on his bicycle cart, whose horm mooed as he pedaled past, the old man pushing his paleta cart, temporarily setting up shop when school lets out, so children could get a cool treat, and old coconut man on his tricycleta, who tapped the flesh and inserted a straw into the fruit so that you can enjoy the milk. In Merida like Old New York so much business is conducted in the street. And maybe people are home more, back for the midday meal, grandmothers sitting in the front room watching television, the day is more fluid for many of the older city folk.

It’s practically suburban we we live right now, on breezy, pretty Calle 29 in Progreso. The houses on the beach are hidden behind walls and manicured lawns. There are a few full time residents but many homes are only for weekends and vacations, as we saw a few weeks ago during the spectacle of semana santa. It’s a long stretch of road, wide and well-lit at night, from the shining marina on one end to the…well, the house where the goats and geese live, where you must turn right, cut over to Calle 31, where you’ll find one of our favorite restaurants in town, La PInata. It’s quiet here.

On weekends we hear the call of the vendors, along with the birds and shifting of the palm fronds, crisp and light on the back of the wind. Younger men selling the more serious newspaper Diario Yucatan, The Times compared to the Post-ish Por Esto, shout “Diario” every few meters. Then there is the sweets seller, who balances his tray on his head and carries the stand under one arm. I alway think of Caps for Sale when I see this guy, whose call is “merengue-merengue-merengue”, indicating the favorite treat. Finally the kibis man, who often travels with a wife and family trailing alongside. He keeps the kibis in a plastic box. A fried finger food from the Lebanese influence in the Yucatan and to me tastes like dry falafel (a little tahini would go along way).

I do not usually buy anytihng from these walking working men. There are other services offered from door to door that have proven quite useful. We agreed to the pest control guy who sprayed the perimeter for about $20.00, Mac once got some okay shrimp from the mariscos scooter guy, and I give water and change to the old blind beggar who offers nothing but his worn and weary face just outside your door. You can get Crystal water for the cooler, gas tanks refilled for cooking, and garbage bags directly from the truck, if you’re at home and listening, as we often are. Personal space is different here, as we have said, and a lot more goes on publicly; you should expect more at your doorstep than Girl Scout Cookies and the occasional Jehovah’s Witness.