The music of Loreto this morning is the resonant thud of mangoes falling on rooftops. On our patio they plop solidly. Breakfast is a six-mango-smoothie. It could only be more local if they fell into my glass.
This morning’s walk sought out the west side of buildings or even tall vehicles to avoid the freshly risen sun. July is warm in Loreto. There is no wind, but a light air falls gently down from the mountains, pausing against the west walls.
The smells of Loreto mix honeysuckle-sweet tropical flowers with rotting fish steeping in garbage cans. Dogs pant loudly, or sprawl in the shade.
The sea is a grey mirage of something refreshing. But there is still something deeply attractive about Loreto, even in the July swelter.
