I live in Col. Del Valle Tlacoquemécatl in Mexico City and a camote/plátano seller comes down my street fairly often. I feel so happy when I hear the blast of the steam whistle--I know that the old traditions live on. The knife sharpener passes by, too, with his pan pipe; the scrap metal truck comes by several times a day with its loudspeaker blaring, the harmonium player stands on the street corner with his wonderful tunes pouring out of the organ, and the church bells in the tiny church in the park near me peal the Angelus at noon. In the middle of this huge city, I feel the pulse of Mexico and its small-town past that keep the rhythm of the days.