Growing up in the suburbs, I never once saw an ice cream truck come through. Never. Okay, that’s not entirely true. Once, the kids from our bus stop and I put together $12 to buy a box of ice cream bars from the Schwan’s truck that drove through our neighborhood. Does that count? Didn’t think so.

Since moving to “The City”, there are ice cream trucks everywhere. In fact, I am convinced there are more ice cream trucks that come through this neighborhood alone, than go through the entire city in the summer.

- There is the “big business” ice cream truck with the song that I know not the name of, but that my husband can “do do do” all the way through.

- Then there’s the “was once a big business ice cream truck but now says ‘Garcia Sales’ on it” in all it’s crudely hand-painted glory, that plays “Three Blind Mice”.

- Third on the list is the white ice cream van that had it’s writing entirely in Spanish and that my husband swears he doesn’t remember. I do. It played, “Pop Goes the Weasel”, and sounded as if it were seconds away from keeling over.

- Lastly, was the van that, to be honest, I probably would not purchase anything from, nevertheless go near. It was a converted, grey mini-van with ice cream stickers on it. It played, “Farmer in the Dell” with one note just off enough that it made my husband NUTS. It came by so often when I was pregnant, that I would go to sleep at night convinced I was still hearing it at 2 in the morning. I never saw any children stop this van and I don’t blame them one bit.

Besides the trucks, we also have the niverias that send over the Mexican summer treat carts. Men (and one or two women) come by ringing bells on their pushcarts filled with shaved ice, duritos, fruit popsicles, Mexican sodas, and ice cream. Not to mention the wonderful tamale lady from the neighborhood that walks through with her shopping cart full, hollering, “tamALEEEEEEEEEES!” For the first 6 months living here, I was convinced she was just a crazy lady with a shopping cart that came around on the weekends to holler “ALEH!” to herself. Finally, we had our windows open one evening when she came by and it clicked. I went shooting downstairs, hollering at my husband, “SHE’S SAYING TAMALES! SHE’S SELLING TAMALES! GET YOUR MONEY!” And they were good. Very, very good. Come rain or come shine, the tamale lady and her shopping cart will be seen on the weekends.

While I may not live in the most upscale neighborhood in the city, I doubt there’s any other place where you can get a full meal by just sitting on your porch in the summer afternoon. I may have my ups and downs with this neighborhood, as I’m sure everyone does with their own, but there’s enough here that makes me stay and keeps me infatuated. And it’s not just the ice cream and tamales delivered to my door. Although, those don’t hurt.