I am drinking mate yesterday afternoon, reading "Three Cups of Deceit," extremely intrigued when suddenly I hear that familiar sound of a neighborhood ice cream truck. You know, "du du du DA du, dududu DA du, du du du DA du, dududu DA du, dududu, du du DU, dududu, du du DU, dududu, du, du, du, ddduuuu." I think to myself--an ice cream truck?! In Mendoza?! How come I did not hear the melodious sound once this summer?!
Therefore, I look out the window, just to witness the potential frenzy of children following the truck, maybe a few even jumping in to "borrow" some ice cream for themselves. However, what I found was not that familiar white van plastered with colorful yellow & blue stickers, but a cart, with a yellow & maroon striped umbrella and pulled by a bicycle, filled with churros. Warm, fresh, greasy, dulce de leche-filled, churros.
No wonder I did not hear the glorious ice-cream truck once this summer, because here in Mendoza that sound is not the sound of the summer ice cream truck, but the sound of the fall churro cart! And, people here would be crazy to enjoy a warm churro in the summer because, well, it's crazy. It is these little things that one does not really notice about one's own upbringing until presented with something different.
So, I should not expect to get a pink baseball mitt with a huge white gumball in the center anytime soon.
K bye.
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