It’s seven minutes after 10 p.m., and the usual ruckus ensues. My husband, Peter, is wearing earplugs. He is in the habit of doing this when we’re staying in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, because our little apartment is right in the center of town and, like all the homes in San Miguel, there is no air conditioning because it is cool this high in the mountains. But the last few weeks have been warm, and it’s nice to have fresh air. So we open the sliding door to our little balcony, and we hear everything that happens on our street. The occasional truck rattles down the cobblestones. The street is too narrow for large vehicles, so it’s only a few small trucks and folks getting home late from work. We are surrounded by churches in all directions, and church bells ring early most mornings. Visitors are mystified, trying to understand when they ring and for how long. I suspect this is not, in fact, an exact science. Someone has to climb all the way to the top of the bell tower to ring…