I sleep on the roof, overlooking the other housetops in the Mexican city of Morelia. My room – a laundry room connected to the rest of the house by several clotheslines – is small but sheltered, and with the door open I can sleep under the sky in the open air. The night breeze blows over my sleeping bag and rustles the shirts drying on the line.

I arrived in Morelia just after sunset, after a four-hour bus ride from Mexico City. I held the address of the Valencia family house on a piece of paper in my hand. After a few moments of deliberation, taking in the area just around the bus station, I climbed into a taxi and got my first tour of the streets of this colonial city in the Mexican highlands.

We drove on winding, cobbled avenues in the near-dark, the sidewalks illuminated by lamps and the lights of storefronts. Everyone was in the streets, clustered around stands selling sweet potatoes, tacos and tortillas. Families stood around door fronts and vendors, talking and laughing. The taxi driver waved at his friends, exchanging greetings with them out the driver’s side window as we made our way to my destination.

“How long will you stay in Morelia?” He asked me.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “A month, I think?”

“A month! Good for you,” he said, and then began a long list of things I should see, people I should meet, and of course, the food I should try.

“Do you like mole?” he asked me.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ll find out.”

We traded travel stories, and he told me of the many places he had been to. “I, too, have the patos de perro, the wandering feet,” he said. “But I am glad to come back to my hometown, to Morelia. You will like it here.”

Out the window, I watch teenagers drinking cokes and women turning tortillas on street-side stoves. I wonder whether any of these people will be my English students in the weeks to come.

“Here we are,” said the taxi driver as we pulled down Calle Chopo. “What number are you again? Aha, this one.” The narrow, homey street is strung with paper decorations that flutter in the breeze. We stop in front of a rose-colored house.

“I’ll wait until they let you in,” the taxi driver said kindly. “I wouldn’t want to just leave you standing in the street.” I shouldered my backpack and knocked. After the door opened for me I thanked the taxi driver, who shook my hand and welcomed me one last time to Morelia before driving off down the street.

Like all of the houses in this neighborhood, the Valencia house is narrow and built straight up – houses begin as one- and two-room structures, then grow vertically. Many have reached two and three stories. All are painted in bright pastel colors. Travel-weary though I was, I looked around to get an idea of my new lodgings. The first floor is a large kitchen and dining room, with

family photos decorating the walls; on the second floor, several small bedrooms have a balcony overlooking the street. Finally, a narrow set of stairs opens up to the third-story bedroom, and to the rooftop.

When we got to the roof, I knew this would be where I would stay. “I’ll sleep up here,” I said.

That night I spread my things out on the floor under the shelter of the small laundry room, where they would be kept out of any rain. Then I left my mattress out on the rooftop, spreading my sleeping bag near the clothesline.

Here on my little piece of rooftop, I fall asleep listening to the neighborhood. I am part of the bustle, and yet, still in my own peaceful corner.

From the roof you can hear all the sounds of the street: the gasoline truck and the bread truck making their morning rounds, the dogs barking and music playing from the neighbor’s windows. Vendors herald their arrival with bells, music and shouted advertisements as they drive around the streets in search of customers. Neighbors call out greetings to one another from the balconies. A boy on a bicycle rides in front of the garbage truck in the morning, ringing a cowbell to alert the neighborhood to come outside with their trash and a few pesos to have it taken away.

I am learning by sound some of the daily rhythms of Morelia. And I hardly need my sleeping bag; the warm air of the Mexican night has been shelter enough.

Meg Adams, who grew up in Holden and graduated from John Bapst Memorial High School in Bangor, shares her experiences with readers each Friday. For more about her adventures and to e-mail questions to her, go to the BDN Web site: bangordailynews.com.