One of its possible meanings in náhuatl is "the nose of the earth" and such nose may be seen in the pronounced hump on the Cerro del Sombrerito. Down below, on a lower cliff, there’s a red heavy bell. The bell that the town heard tolling one fatal time. They say that when the clapper hit the metal body, an army of bees came out from within, faster than a din don, attacked the congregation at the ears, caused it to flee down the mountain and took many lives with the venom in the stings. These are the stories you hear in Tlayacapan. The town can be crossed in an hour on foot, but it has twenty-five chapels, each with its saint, each with its deputed day for celebrations. The doors of the homes are always open, inviting to look inside. Dogs howl continuously; the same for cocks, not true that they only sing at dawn. People wave neighbourly after two days. Walking down the cobblestone streets one may encounter six or seven cows accompanied by the farmer and his silence. Nearby, a man with a hat brushes a horse in front of the vegetables market. Down the road, another two men drink beer sitting on a concrete bench in front of the warehouse. A lady crosses the street, her gray hair shorn in two braids on the head, her two bags full, her pace short and steady. On the other side, the lad who crosses the square on his bycicle with this enormous basket on his head, already empty of the bread he delivers twice a day. Above the sun comes down. The whitewashed walls of the houses and the children running after a ball light up of reds and oranges; and the fluttering of the wings of the birds in the trees sounds as if a rainshower were being released from the clear sky. Tlayacapan is one of those places where, at times, it is good to stop silent. Settle down. And listen.