Doggerel

Guanajuato, it appears, has no strip clubs for men. Oddly enough, there is one for women. Which leads to the following rumination in (a kind of) verse:

Suppose you are a young man in search of a little nocturnal entertainment aquí en Guanajuato.
If you are foolish enough to ask for the location of the nearest strip joint, you may well elicit the response "You wanna what?! Oh,
no señor, we have no place for that kind of perversion en nuestra ciudad".
So you may just have to entertain yourself with some kind of improvised homemade sexual aid, knick-knack, or doo-dad.

If, on the other hand, you are una mujer of a certain edad,
Who wants to have a night out on the townm leaving los niños with their dad.
Then yes, if you want a night of bawdy entertainment, free of your ball & chain and los nippers,
Every Wednesday night you can come on down to the Rodeo lounge and be entertained by the finest of Mexican male estripers.

I make no apologies for the above. Remember, at times like this, I am merely an empty vessel, channeling the muse of awful doggerel.

Counting sheep

Suppose you are a shepherd in Swaledale. The annual sheep-shearing festival is coming up and you want to keep track of your flock. How do you keep count? Here's how:

1. Yan
2. tan
3. tether
4. mether
5. pip
6. azer
7. sezar
8. akker
9. conter
10. dick
11. yanadick
12. tanadick
13. tetheradick
14. metheradick
15. bumfit
16. yanabum
17. tanabum
18. tetherabum
19. metherabum
20. jigget

I find it hard to convey just how much joy the discovery of this little vigesimal counting system brought me.

If you would like to read more about this, and other similar schemes, here is a link:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yan_Tan_Tethera

I defy anyone to count out loud to twenty using this scheme and not have a big - sheepish - grin by the end.

Oh, OK, here's one more:

yan, tan, tethera, pethera, pimp. sethera, lethera, hovera, covera, dik, yan-a-dik, tan-a-dik, tethera-dik, pethera-dik, bumfit, yan-a-bumfit, tan-a-bumfit, tethera-bumfit, pethera-bumfit, figgot.

Apparently these schemes are also popular among knitters in the north of England and South of Scotland.

And here's a wee folksong:

Yan, tan, tethera, tethera, pethera, pimp.
Yon owd yowe's far-welted, and this yowe's got a limp
Sethera, methera, hovera, and covera up to dik,
Aye, we can deal wi' 'em all, and wheer's me crook and stick?
I count 'em up to figgits, and figgits have a notch,
There's more to being a shepherd than being on watch;
There's swedes to chop and lambing time and snow upon the rick,
Sethera, methera, hovera, and covera up to dik.

Yan, tan, tethera, tethera, pethera, pimp &c..
From Caistor down to Spilsby from Sleaford up to Brigg,
There's Lincoln sheep all on the chalk, all hung wi' wool and big.
And I, here in Langton wi' this same old flock.,
Just as me grandad did afore they meddled with the clock.
Yan, tan, tethera, tethera, pethera, pimp &c..

We've bred our tups and gimmers for the wool and length and girth,
And sheep have lambed, have gone away all o'er all the earth.
They're bred in foreign flocks to give the wool its length and crimp,
Yan, tan, tethera, pethera, pimp.
Yan, tan, tethera, tethera, pethera, pimp &c..

They're like a lot of bairns, they are, like children of me own,
They fondle round about owd Shep afore they're strong and grown;
But they gets independent-like, before you know, they've gone,
But yet again, next lambing time we'll 'a' more to carry on.
Yan, tan, tethera, tethera, pethera, pimp &c..

Yan, tan, tethera, tethera, pethera, pimp,
Fifteen notches up to now and one yowe with a limp.
You reckons I should go away, you know I'll never go,
For lambing time's on top of us and it'll surely snow.
Yan, tan, tethera, tethera, pethera, pimp &c..

Well, one day I'll leave me yowes, I'll leave me yowes for good,
And then you'll know what breeding is in flocks and human blood;
For our Tom's come out o' t' army, his face as red as brick,
Sethera, methera, hovera, and covera up to dik.
Yan, tan, tethera, tethera, pethera, pimp &c..

Now lambing time come reg'lar-like, just as it's always been,
And shepherds have to winter 'em and tent 'em till they're weaned
My fambly had it 'fore I came, they'll have it when I sleep,
So we can count our lambing times as I am countin sheep
Yan, tan, tethera, tethera, pethera, pimp &c..

http://www.ramshornstudio.com/lincoln_sheep.htm

At the concert

Last night was Nastasia's final night here in Guanajuato, so we went to the concert at the Teatro Principal and went out drinking afterwards. Like the previous Friday, the concert was by the symphony orchestra at the University, this time under the considerably shakier baton of a different guest conductor. After the 3rd symphony by the Mexican composer Carlos Chavez (1899-1978), the rest of the program was strictly middle European - Wagner's Prelude to Act 1 of Lohengrin, followed by two works by (Richard) Strauss, "Don Juan" and the (hootchy-cootchy) "Dance of the Seven Veils" from "Salome".

There were some distinctly rough moments with the strings in the Wagner, but things recovered just fine for the Strauss. My favorite part had little to do with the music, and everything to do with the visual image. The dance of the seven veils calls for reinforcement in the percussion section - I was transfixed by the guy second from the left at the back of the percussion section, who matched the wrestler Stone Cold Steve Austin both in looks and weight, and whose only function appeared to be to play the triangle. Which he did very nicely - it just looked hilarious!

My first margarita aquí in Mexico later last night must be considered a mistake if the verdict of Monte is to be taken into account.

Enough already. I'm as tired of writing about my gastrointestinal progress or lack thereof as you must be reading about it.

Hasta pronto!

D

In the hotel

One of the advantages of staying at the hotel is the anonymity it provides. So that occasionally, one hears conversations like this one (reproduced here in its entiretly):

Speaker 1: So, I've figured out exactly what you should do with the rest of your life.
Speaker 2: Tell me.
Speaker 1: You should totally finish medical school. But then you should make it a point never to practice medicine.
Speaker 2: Why's that?
Speaker 1: That way, when you come south to work as a gunslinger here in Mexico, you will totally have earned the nickname "Doc".
Speaker 2: Awesome!

I need hardly add that both participants in this conversation were male.

Medias Naranjas

Earlier tonight I went to see this play, "Medias Naranjas", at the Teatro Principal. It could best be described as a series of short sketches, each depicting a different aspect of love ("medias naranjas", literally, 'two halves of an orange', is a Spanish expression meaning - roughly - 'soul mates').

Schnitzler it wasn't, but it was fun, and funny in places. I was just happy that I understood most (90%?) of it.

Cultural life in Guanajuato

So, apart from the six or seven hours of daily classes, what does life have to offer aquì en Guanajuato? Well, recently I've been availing myself of the CineClub at the University of Guanajuato, where for only $3.00 one can choose to see stuff that's a little more highbrow than Iron Man and Indiana Jones. Not that there's anything wrong with either of those two movies, which I fully intend to see once the crowds have died down.

On Sunday at the CineClub I went to see "Atonement"; yesterday, I saw Cate Blanchett in "Elizabeth: the Golden Age". Both excellent films, neither of which I would probably have gone to see in San Francisco (note to self - you should get out more).

Tonight I'm going to see a play ("Media Naranja") at the Teatro principal, and then tomorrow evening the University orchestra is putting on another concert. So there's no shortage of cultural fare, most of it remarkably good.

Sadly, I have to note that Monte is bothering me again, vengeful undiscriminating bastard that he is.

Extra Krispy

The somewhat heavyset gentleman depicted above, who is perched, Prometheus-like, overlooking the city of Guanajuato, is called Pipila, and is something of a local hero.

What, you might wonder, did Pipila do to attain his status as hero? Something to do with fire, one might guess.

Your guess would be correct. Did he bring fire to the people of Guanajuato?

Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. In a heroic action that once again proves that heroism probably depends on one's point of view, during assorted hostilities surrounding the revolutionary fervor of 1810, Pipila's contribution to the conflict was to bring fire to the Spaniards who had holed up in the Alhondiga fortress/granary pictured above, essentially burning everyone inside to a state of crispy goodness.

I guess the criteria for being a revolutionary hero were a little different back then. Then again, maybe not all that different.

Latin for the modern world

Not necessarily in the same order as in the original post:

1. Yo mama's so stupid when she found a coin with Caesar's name on it, she tried to give it back to him.
2. Yo mama's so fat, when she's in town Rome has 8 hills!
3. Yo mama wears combat boots.
4. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
5. Auntie Em. Hate you. Hate Kansas. Taking the dog. Dorothy.
6. If walking is all that good for you, how come our mail carrier looks like Jabba the Hutt?
7. Ask my opponent why he wants to tax American flags in order to fund gourmet meals for convicted murderers.
8. Taste laser death, alien insect scum!
9. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elderberries.
10. Man, that shit is potent --- I am like totally in the subjunctive.

No pans at the ...

Three classics

As promised, random sampling from my winter reading binge:

1. Eugene Onegin

Tatyana falls for Eugene, who rebuffs her (gently).
Time passes.
Tatyana marries a prince.
Eugene falls for Tatyana, who rebuffs him (gently).

And Pushkin whips the whole affair into this wonderfully frothy souffle, which any Russian will tell you is one of the summits of Russian poetry. It certainly disproves the notion that all of Russian literature is dark, brooding, and gloomy. The Penguin Classic translation is by Charles Johnston. Having just re-read the chapter about Onegin translations in Douglas Hofstadter's "Le Ton beau de marot", I'm inclined to seek out some of the other versions as well.



2. Madame Bovary



Flaubert is da bomb!

Seriously, who knew? I suppose if I had done French, rather than German, in high school I would have discovered Madame Bovary before now. Better late than never. Obviously, I knew what Madame Bovary was about before reading it. But I had no idea how brilliantly Flaubert would suck me in to the story. He pulls no punches, just lets the story unfold to its horrifying, inexorable conclusion.

What I hadn't expected were his unerring eye for the details of the life of the bourgeoisie, which he lays out for us in unsparing detail. Or how he manages to make us care about Emma, and to sympathise with her, even as she makes one misguided choice after the next. The flair with which he executes the set pieces. And the power of some of the images - Emma cramming her mouth with arsenic, the final stream of black liquid (like vomit) that flows from her mouth, just after the innkeeper's remark about how peaceful she looks.

It's not hard to understand why this book caused such a scandal upon publication.

Way to go, Gustave!



3. Dante's Inferno

When I finally decided, earlier this year, to try to plug some of the holes that my 'classical education' had somehow left unfilled, "The Inferno" was high on my list. Since I don't know any Italian, choosing a decent translation was one of the first questions to be addressed. I spent an hour in Cody's comparing various options (there are a gazillion translations out there) - this was one of two that I ended up buying. Surprisingly (to me at any rate), roughly half of the available translations chose the low road of not even bothering to preserve Dante's famous terza rima metric scheme, with the excuse that only a 'literal translation' can convey the meaning adequately. Fie on your lazy asses, say I - it obviously can be done, even if you are too lamebrained to try. So I rejected the 'literal translations' out of hand, for the same reason that I would not choose a translation of 'Eugene Onegin' that didn't at least try to preserve Pushkin's meter, when it is obviously such an intrinsic aspect of the work. I can't vouch for the fidelity of Carson's translation, but I liked it a lot. (I liked the other translation I read as well, but that's part of a different review). He does well by the terza rima, while managing to achieve an overall natural flow of the language. At times it is highly colloquial, which might disturb the purists:

"Ratbreath, when he heard this, rolled his eyes,

and hissed 'Don't listen, it's a dirty trick,

so he can jump. He must think we're not wise.'

And he, whose AKA was Señor Slick,

replied: 'It's dirt indeed, to get my comrades

in the shit; in fact, it's rather sick.'

Now Harley Quinn, unlike the other blades,

was eager for some sport. "

Canto XXII, lines 107-114.

As for the work itself, I think you all know the story. I haven't read "Purgatorio" or "Paradiso" yet - it seems highly likely to me that the "Inferno" is the most fun of the three, if only because it's entertaining to see how he uses it as a vehicle for getting even with his enemies. But, if you've been putting it off for years because you're intimidated by its status as a "classic", don't be put off any longer. It's actually a lot of fun, and easy to read. Comparing translations is an auxiliary source of entertainment, for those (like myself) who enjoy that kind of thing

Sunday Salmagundi (Part 2)

Useful Latin phrases for the modern world:

1. Mater tua tam stulta est ut cum invenerit nummum ferentem nomen caesaris, huic eum restituere conata sit.
2. Mater tua tam obesa est ut cum romae est, urbs habet octo colles.
3. Mater tua criceta fuit, et pater tuo redoluit bacarum sambucus.
4. Mater tua caligas gerit!
5. Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari?
6. Mehercle, illa materia tam valida est ut funditus in modo subiunctivo sim.
7. Quaerite a competitore cur vectigal vexillis americanis imponere velit ad epulas comparandas homicidis condemnatis.
8. Si quidem pedibus ire tam salubre corpori est, cur similis est noster tabellarius forma illi iabbae hutico.
9. Amita Aemilia: te Kansiamque odi, canem mecum abduco - Dorothea.
10. Oppetite mortem lumine amplificato stimulata emissione radiorum, cimices extraterrestriales foedi!

Note that the majority of these phrases have been taken from the most excellent book: X-Treme Latin: All the Latin You Need to Know for Survival in the 21st Century, by Henry Beard.

The plain people of Ireland: But, but, but!

The management: What is it now, wretches?!

The plain people of Ireland: You haven't told us what these phrases mean.

The management: You have a point. Check back in a day or two. In the meantime, maybe you could amuse yourselves by guessing.

Sunday Salmagundi (Part 1)

Or, if you prefer, Guanajuato Gallimaufry:

God, Astor trots a dog.

Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?
Was it Eliot's toilet I saw?
May a moody baby doom a yam?
Sis, ask Costner to not rent socks "as is".
Murder for a jar of red rum.

O Geronimo, no minor ego.
Drab as a fool, aloof as a bard.
Never odd or even.
Bar Arafat, a far Arab.
Cain: a monomaniac
Drat Saddam, a mad dastard.
Draw, O Caesar. Erase a coward.

God saw I was dog.
Go deliver a dare, vile dog!
Doc Note: I dissent. A fast never prevents a fatness. I diet on cod.
Don't nod.
Dogma: I am God.

Don't nod.
Do geese see God?

Life on the edge (x3)

No, the title of this post has nothing to do with Guanajuato. Or Mexico. Or my travels. It does have to do with my literary travels, however. For those of you who might wonder what I was up to this winter, when this blog was so long dormant, one of the answers (besides mundane stuff like taxes, estate planning, and time at the dentist - there's a hellacious trifecta right there, eh?) is that I was reading. Possibly more than is healthy - it's a bit of an addiction - and I was steaming through close to a book a day for a while there. For those of you interested in the full story, there's a little link to goodreads.com somewhere on this page, clicking on it will take you to a site where all the gory details are listed.

But on the assumption that not everyone cares that much about my reading trajectory, I thought it might nonetheless be interesting to include some of the recent highlights and lowlights on this blog. Which is what this post, and the next, is about.

In this post, I want to mention three books I read in almost consecutive order during last autumn. The connecting theme is that each examines lives lived under extreme circumstances; other than that, the books could hardly be less similar.

The first was Jose Samanago's "Blindness". In brief, I enjoyed it quite a lot, once I got over some initial dislocation with his deceptively simple, fable-like prose style. The recent movie adaptation appears to be getting mixed reviews. Here is a link to my review of the book:

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/8126425

The second was "The Sparrow" by Maria Doria Russell. Rumor has it that a movie of this book, starring Brad Pitt, is in the works.

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/8262494
http://www.amazon.com/review/R3917NFSYHWJR4/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm

The third, and by far the most irritating, was Russell Hoban's "Riddley Walker". The charitable judgement might be 'an ambitious failure'; a less charitable assessment would involve the phrase 'pretentious, time-wasting drivel'. I tried to be fair in my review, lord knows I tried:

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/8685319

Of the three, I would give my highest recommendation to "The Sparrow". Highly ambitious, not always successful, but its characters and their situation still remain with me.

That's it from the world of apocalyptic fiction for now. If you were expecting a reader's guide to "The Road", you're on your own. Cormac whatever his name is manages to attain a level of pretentiousness in his style which is incompatible with my reading habits.

Coming soon - 3 classics you might want to (re)consider.

tricentennial

Hard to believe this blog has made it to 300 posts.

What's new? Well, last night I attended a concert by the Orquesta Sinfonica de la Universidad de Guanajuato. This cost all of $7.00 and was a fine experience. (It's possible that my status as a don Quijote student could have gotten me a 50% discount, but I didn't really have the nerve to ask for it). With 'director huesped' Stefano Mazzoleni and guest pianist Dimitri Romano, seven bucks seemed like a bargain already.

Unfortunately, I forgot the universal rule followed by program directors everywhere, namely their obscure compulsion to stick the audience with some vile modern rubbish, presumably in the name of 'progress' or showing how 'avant-garde' they are. Generally, they will front-load the program with this dreck so that there can be no hope of escape. So the smart concert attendance strategy these days is to arrive late and miss the first piece. No such luck last night, however - I arrived on time and was thus subjected to a purgatorial 16 minutes of noise by some 'composer' called Nicola Sani. If I say that, according to the program notes, one of his primary influences was the despicable assmarmot Karlheinz Stockhausen, fraudulent bane of concertgoers the world over, I think you will get the picture.

Fortunately, the remainder of the program was entirely satisfactory, though the closest it got to any of the mainstream romantic repertory was a suite of airs and dances by Respighi. Ol' Dimitri was da bomb on the piano, it has to be said.

And, miracle of miracles, despite it being Friday night here in ol' Guanajuato, I slept like a log in my interior courtyard room, undisturbed by any ambient acoustic pollution.

Today, if I'm up for it, I intend to take the 4-hour walking tour of the city. Possibly including mummies! Watch this space for further developments.

Price update

A highly selective listing of the prices of various goods and services here in Guanajuato: (all prices are based on an assumed exchange rate of 10 pesos to the U.S. dollar)

Cappuccino in a street cafe: $1.60 - $2.10
My lunchtime ham sandwich at the dQ cafe: $1.40
1 hour at the internet cafe: $1.00
1 package of Imodium (12 tablets): $5.90
1 can of Gillette shaving cream: $3.10
1 half-liter bottle of Sprite: 70 cents
1 one and a half liter bottle of soda: $1.40
1 bottle of Corona in a bar: $1.80 - $2.30
1 entree of fajitas de pollo: $7.00
1 entree of chicken Milanese: $7.50
1 cup of cafe americano: $0.80 - $1.20 (avoid - it's barely potable)
2 weeks of laundry, washed and folded: $3.50 (madrileños, take note!)
1 night at the Hotel del Frayle: $55
1 breakfast donut* : $0.60

All of which explains why a 200-peso note starts to feel like a huge bill, embarrassing to ask to have changed.

*: purchased at the local 7-11 (or OXXO) store, and possible culprit in yesterday's episode of gastrointestinal distress)

The Emperor of Scent

One of the unexpected, random pleasures of the internet world we live in is the occasional connections, however tenuous, that are formed. Regular readers of this blog will recall that I have, on occasion, amused myself by mocking the perfume reviews of the New York Times resident perfume critic, Chandler Burr. That is not the full story, however, and it would be reprehensible of me not to set the record straight here. You see, a few months ago I read Burr's book "The Emperor of Scent" (an account of the scientific work of maverick scientist, Luca Turin, on the biochemistry of smell) and was amazed and delighted to find the book an extraordinarily brilliant, awesomely written accomplishment of the highest order. I have written a more complete review of the book over on the goodreads site, here (be sure to read all the way down - the review actually appears in comment #4 on the thread):

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/15242638

Why bring this up now? Well, first of all, it seems inexcusable not to set the record straight. But also - in a message that made my day - yesterday I received an extraordinarily charming e-mail from Chandler himself, thanking me for all my comments on his writing, both negative and positive.

I don't know. It was just really sweet. Now, go out there and buy yourself a copy of "The Emperor of Scent". It could be a handbook for excellent science writing for the non-scientist. As I wrote in my review, it left me slackjawed in admiration.

All of which makes me hope I never hear from this guy

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/16882623

Or this guy

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/11583920

Actually I did receive an e-mail from Seth Godin, in response to my review on Amazon, offering to refund me the cost of the book. Though I suppose it is to his credit, I found it more creepy than anything else.

And if anyone wants to excoriate my own literary efforts, you know where to find it:

http://gaelstat.com/book.aspx

En el hotel

An open letter to Montezuma

Dear Monte:

This is just a little note to say "ENOUGH WITH THE REVENGE ALREADY!!" What are you thinking? I really think you must be mixing me up with someone else. Let me just say at the outset that, although I have visited Spain, that's as far as the association goes. A simple fact-checking of history would suggest that, as an Irishman, I have far more in common with the colonized, rather than the colonizers. So, if you could let up already with your fabled revenge, I sure would appreciate it.

And here's a thought on a related, albeit tangential, subject. I know that when the makers of the fine bottled water, "Cryspura", brought in the naming experts to find a suitably evocative name for their product, that they wanted the name to conjure up images of a crystalline source, outstanding in its purity. What they seem to have overlooked, particularly to someone undergoing the wrath of Monte, are the subliminal associations with such other words as "Cryptosporidium" and "spoor". Which is probably not what they had in mind.

Just sayin', that's all. Peace out.

Pride and Prejudice

One of the interesting - and unexpected - aspects of this trip has been how much more friendly people have been once they find out that I am Irish, and not from the U.S. (as they tend to assume at first, reasonably enough, given my clothes). There's a distinct undercurrent of antipathy towards their neighbors to the north, which doesn't take much to surface.

A typical exchange would be the one I had the other day with the ladies in the don Quijote cafe, who make my life-saving one o'clock sandwich every day (without it I would faint dead away by two o'clock). Upon learning that I was from Ireland, several things happened. First, the volume of the ingredients stuffed into the sandwich has doubled ever since. Then, with suitable looking around and lowering of their voices, they proceeded to complain volubly - and at considerable length - about the perceived 'arrogance' of the U.S. students. Note that I say 'perceived arrogance', because - frankly - I think it is largely a matter of prejudice and perception. As far as I can see, the U.S. students are your average bunch - by and large pretty polite, with the occasional glaring exception.

But - further lowering of the voices - true vituperation was reserved for the students from Texas. And, in this regard, I regret to say that the cafeteria ladies were not the only ones to express frank contempt and hostility. I've heard it from sources as diverse as the waiter in the hotel restaurant, from the guy in the internet cafe, from the desk clerk at the hotel. So, I don't know what it is that Texas has done to Guanajuato in the past, but the rancor seems to run fairly deep.

All of which prompts one to an examination of one's own conscience about ugly stereotypes and potential racial prejudices. I'm not sure I should be particularly proud of the result. Because in my case the answer is that I didn't really have very many preconceived notions about Mexico or Mexicans at all before coming here. Which I suppose you could view as an admirable lack of prejudice. But which I think should be more honestly viewed as a kind of breathtaking, slightly colonial, arrogance - I'd just never given much thought to the country or its people, despite living a few hours flight away.

The silver lining? I am actively working on demolishing that wall of ignorance.

En la escuela

This week is pretty quiet at the don Quijote school here in Guanajuato - by my estimation there can't be more than about 40 students, as opposed to the maximum occupancy of about 120, and last week's contingent of maybe 70. The drop in numbers this week is because most of the huge contingent from the University of Alabama at Huntsville finished last Friday. There are a couple of stragglers still completing internships here in the city, but they are few and far between.

As a result, the pace is fairly intensive. In my first two classes of the day (from 9:00 to 10:45 and 11:15 to 13:00) there are just three of us in the class, and in my final conversation class (13:15 to 15:00) I am the only student. So there's no hiding or sleeping in that class. Fortunately, Manuel, the teacher is terrific. Actually, all three teachers are terrific, and it's been a real joy to feel my Spanish, dormant for the winter, come roaring back to life.

OK: "roaring back to life" would be a bit of an exaggeration, but the point is - the geeky fun I get from learning the language endures.

Also, I changed rooms within the hotel last night, and it has made a major difference. I am now ensconced in this enormous suite, the whole general effect is one of royalty down on its luck - the decorating ethos would best be described as 'shabby genteel'. But - blessedly - quietly shabby genteel.

Which is especially important this week. This is the time that the university students finish their exams, and they take to the streets in celebration in large numbers. The local version of what are known in Spain as 'tunas' (wandering student minstrel bands) are called 'callejoneadas' here in Guanajuato (from the word 'callejon', or 'alley') were out in full force last night, so having a room away from the street, overlooking an internal courtyard, was crucial in order to have any hope at all of sleeping.