We consider ourselves quite accustomed to the city these days; we're acclimated to the food -- not without minor "hiccups" here and there -- and we no longer walk with our heads down, tails between our legs. Mostly, our egos are buoyed by our success in terms of making friends and navigation -- and not walking into any sorts of disasters that all the naysayers and doubt-providers predicted we'd find ourselves in back home.
But every once in a while, we falter.
Say, when someone knocks on the door of our apartment, where the doorman and guards stand watch day and night, in a city where our Old Men friends jot down taxi IDs when we leave from wherever we depart. (We recently learned that los viejos slip out behind us and take down taxi information, "just in case.")
Sometimes we cower at 2 p.m. and tip-toe around our apartment for the next hour, "just in case." Juuuuuust in case it's The Banditos.
And then we peer beneath the door to see if any feet are lurking; it kind of reminds me of senior year of college, when the old roommate and I would jump in the closet when we heard a knock while writing our theses. It was most certainly our Senior Tutor telling us to "Get out. Just, get out." Now, it's The Banditos saying, "Countryside." and pointing to their tanks, which are awaiting us in the driveway. Most certainly.