El Domingo

I think you can tell a lot about a city based on Sundays.

In Boston, my Sundays are filled with the stress of finishing lessons, grading papers, entering grades, and grappling with the idea of launching myself into another week of school, so much that I hardly enjoy them. Living in the North End, in the summer and early fall, I at least get to enjoy the weekly parade, the marching band, the festival, and the occasional funnel cake.  In Paris, when I was a student and then as a teacher, too, Sundays were the days for the market visits, the picnics, the long family meals and the most quiet early morning city streets. I coveted Sundays in Paris. Time with my wonderful host family, time to visit the best markets and relax without deadlines or pressure, Sundays meant time to just take in the city and the scene. I've never loved Sundays more.

But Santo Domingo offers its own wonderful flavor of Sundays, too. This morning was the quietest I've heard the city since we arrived. I probably didn't notice it last weekend because I had only just arrived. But this morning, the only noises that I awoke to were of pigeons cooing outside my window (not as nice as it seems....). As we dressed for Catholic mass at the Cathedral of the Americas, we noticed that few people were out. Those who were out were clearly dressed for church, quietly making their way down our street. Cars, usually blasting music and honking horns, drove quietly, as if respecting what is Sunday mornings in Santo Domingo. As we strolled to mass, quiet neighbors nodded and said, "Hola," but kept conversations low and private, a marked contrast from the lively conversations we'd seen before. The city didn't feel asleep so much as in agreement of the quiet respect that a Sunday morning deserves.

We attended the Catholic mass, which tested our Spanish both because of its speed and the beautiful gothic cathedral's acoustics. Although we understood almost nothing, even with Maggie and Alexis both knowing the routine of mass, all of us felt the warmth as our neighbors shook our hands and kissed our cheeks and wished us, "Peace be with you." After mass, the city began to come alive. Women, almost all in white, flooded the streets in search of lunch, and family, and parks to sit in. There were so many women dressed in white that we began to wonder if we had missed a memo somewhere. Tourists filled mini-trolley cars, bustling through the streets while listening to explanations of sights. We ate lunch on a patio until rain threatened, returned to the apartment for a rest, and when we awoke, the city had become even more alive.

Here was the pièce de résistance for the day: At night, at the site of ruins that were once a monastery and then a mental institution, a dance floor is put down on the cobblestones facing, a stage is set with live music, and a dance party begins. Locals and tourists (although far more former than the latter) fill the street, turning a residential street into a dancing plaza, as live bachata, merengue and salsa are played. There's drinking, dancing, joking, greeting, wonderful music, and so much laughter. There's no typical attendee: dancers and attendees were young children, young couples, older adults, entire families, and the elderly, filling the streets with plastic chairs and watching the dancing and the evening unfold. It was a contrast to the Sunday morning we awoke to, and a great one. How a city can go from so quiet and private to so warm, welcoming, and loud, is such a beautiful thing. I can definitely see how Sundays here should be coveted, too.