t was a safe distance away, and screamed my lungs out. I didn't know what else to do. All I could think of was when I was 7 years old; some murderous arsonist set our house on fire. Were it not for a kindly neighbor, who had just had sinus surgery and was up in the middle of the night suffering, we would have been killed. This neighbor, with her 5 teenagers, broke down our back door and saved us.

I had to act. I had to get everyone up.

My screeching like a crazy gringo worked and everyone got out of their houses.

The police were the first to show and began fighting the fire. They were screaming about the gas tank exploding. All the neighbors stood with us in the middle of the street several houses away from the fire. The fire truck rolled in put the fire out, everyone was fine, but Poncho's car is in ruins. As is the case with most poor, working-stiff Mexicans, he only had insurance to cover the passengers and not the car its

Those who suffer from Fibromyalgia would probably never in a million years say what I am about to utter. I am thankful to God for being afflicted with Fibromyalgia because the sleep disorder caused by my Fibro saved my life, my wife's life, and the Mexican neighborhood in which we live in Guanajuato.

This morning was typical. The pain woke me at 2:45 a.m. on June 3, 2007. This is a normal routine for those us afflicted, so I really thought nothing of it. After 16 years of being afflicted with this disorder, I've grown accustomed to the interruption. I got up, threw on some shorts, turned on the computer, and went through about 350 YouTube videos for my entertainment. I can't turn on the TV since that would wake my wife. She need not suffer too with my Fibro. I put in the earplugs and watched "When Bears Attack" on YouTube. I read the news, checked our books' stats on Amazon.com to see if any of you are still buying it, and then I heard a disturbance outside our bedroom window.

At first I heard a popping sound, like someone outside our window clanging on something metal. I looked over at our open window, and then went back to my 350th video of bears chasing hunters in the woods. Then I smelled the burning and heard more popping, crackling sounds in rapid succession.

I went to the window and drew back the curtain. All houses in Guanajuato have bars so you can sleep with the windows open. I looked out and directly across from our bedroom, not more than 20 feet away, saw a taxi in flames! The car belongs to our good neighbor, Pancho, who is the must humble Mexican we know.

I screamed a well-timed expletive while slapping my wife's feet screaming, "Fire…Fire!" She didn't just jump up; she flew up out of bed grabbing clothes as she ran for the front door. She then screamed, "I have to pee!" She finished dressing while sitting on the potty. I did not know you could put a bra on while making pee-pee but she did it.

I closed the window because, by this time, the smoke was overwhelming and I was coughing from my asthma. I grabbed the phone and called "066" which is Mexico's version of 911. The guy answered and, of course, my Spanish went right out of my panic-stricken head. He told me to say it the best I could and finally I got it out: the problem, the fire, and the address. We had to evacuate since this car was directly in front of our bedroom and the explosion, which I was sure was imminent, would have taken out our house.

We ran outside to escape the very probable gas-tank explosion. Mind you, we live on what we in the States would call a dead-end alley. It is a typically narrow cobblestone street with houses lining both sides of the alley road. The cocheras, or carports, are situated beneath the houses. The houses are elevated, as they were built on a small mountain, with the street having been cut through the mountain. These cave-like cocheras look like giant honeycombs or caves running up and down the street into which the car owners can insert their cars at night.

The flaming taxi was inserted into one of these cocheras with 4-foot flames shooting upward from the engine. Next to the taxi was a Volkswagen (its owner didn't even wake up) and next to the VW was a hot-water heater connected to two tanks of butane. When we ran into the street, I could see no one else was awake. The flames were growing and the smoke was wafting upward toward sleeping neighbors. In one house, directly in the path of the smoke, there is an infant.

I began screaming in the street. I screamed as loudly as I could, "Fuego…Fuego" which means, you guessed it, "Fire!"

Someone heard me, actually most of the neighborhood heard me, but the taxi driver heard me first, got up and ran from house to house beating on doors while I stood at what I thought was a safe distance away, and screamed my lungs out. I didn't know what else to do. All I could think of was when I was 7 years old; some murderous arsonist set our house on fire. Were it not for a kindly neighbor, who had just had sinus surgery and was up in the middle of the night suffering, we would have been killed. This neighbor, with her 5 teenagers, broke down our back door and saved us.

I had to act. I had to get everyone up.

My screeching like a crazy gringo worked and everyone got out of their houses.

The police were the first to show and began fighting the fire. They were screaming about the gas tank exploding. All the neighbors stood with us in the middle of the street several houses away from the fire. The fire truck rolled in put the fire out, everyone was fine, but Poncho's car is in ruins. As is the case with most poor, working-stiff Mexicans, he only had insurance to cover the passengers and not the car its

isturbance outside our bedroom window.

At first I heard a popping sound, like someone outside our window clanging on something metal. I looked over at our open window, and then went back to my 350th video of bears chasing hunters in the woods. Then I smelled the burning and heard more popping, crackling sounds in rapid succession.

I went to the window and drew back the curtain. All houses in Guanajuato have bars so you can sleep with the windows open. I looked out and directly across from our bedroom, not more than 20 feet away, saw a taxi in flames! The car belongs to our good neighbor, Pancho, who is the must humble Mexican we know.

I screamed a well-timed expletive while slapping my wife's feet screaming, "Fire…Fire!" She didn't just jump up; she flew up out of bed grabbing clothes as she ran for the front door. She then screamed, "I have to pee!" She finished dressing while sitting on the potty. I did not know you could put a bra on while making pee-pee but she did it.

I closed the window because, by this time, the smoke was overwhelming and I was coughing from my asthma. I grabbed the phone and called "066" which is Mexico's version of 911. The guy answered and, of course, my Spanish went right out of my panic-stricken head. He told me to say it the best I could and finally I got it out: the problem, the fire, and the address. We had to evacuate since this car was directly in front of our bedroom and the explosion, which I was sure was imminent, would have taken out our house.

We ran outside to escape the very probable gas-tank explosion. Mind you, we live on what we in the States would call a dead-end alley. It is a typically narrow cobblestone street with houses lining both sides of the alley road. The cocheras, or carports, are situated beneath the houses. The houses are elevated, as they were built on a small mountain, with the street having been cut through the mountain. These cave-like cocheras look like giant honeycombs or caves running up and down the street into which the car owners can insert their cars at night.

The flaming taxi was inserted into one of these cocheras with 4-foot flames shooting upward from the engine. Next to the taxi was a Volkswagen (its owner didn't even wake up) and next to the VW was a hot-water heater connected to two tanks of butane. When we ran into the street, I could see no one else was awake. The flames were growing and the smoke was wafting upward toward sleeping neighbors. In one house, directly in the path of the smoke, there is an infant.

I began screaming in the street. I screamed as loudly as I could, "Fuego…Fuego" which means, you guessed it, "Fire!"

Someone heard me, actually most of the neighborhood heard me, but the taxi driver heard me first, got up and ran from house to house beating on doors while I stood at what I thought was a safe distance away, and screamed my lungs out. I didn't know what else to do. All I could think of was when I was 7 years old; some murderous arsonist set our house on fire. Were it not for a kindly neighbor, who had just had sinus surgery and was up in the middle of the night suffering, we would have been killed. This neighbor, with her 5 teenagers, broke down our back door and saved us.

I had to act. I had to get everyone up.

My screeching like a crazy gringo worked and everyone got out of their houses.

The police were the first to show and began fighting the fire. They were screaming about the gas tank exploding. All the neighbors stood with us in the middle of the street several houses away from the fire. The fire truck rolled in put the fire out, everyone was fine, but Poncho's car is in ruins. As is the case with most poor, working-stiff Mexicans, he only had insurance to cover the passengers and not the car its

a bra on while making pee-pee but she did it.

I closed the window because, by this time, the smoke was overwhelming and I was coughing from my asthma. I grabbed the phone and called "066" which is Mexico's version of 911. The guy answered and, of course, my Spanish went right out of my panic-stricken head. He told me to say it the best I could and finally I got it out: the problem, the fire, and the address. We had to evacuate since this car was directly in front of our bedroom and the explosion, which I was sure was imminent, would have taken out our house.

We ran outside to escape the very probable gas-tank explosion. Mind you, we live on what we in the States would call a dead-end alley. It is a typically narrow cobblestone street with houses lining both sides of the alley road. The cocheras, or carports, are situated beneath the houses. The houses are elevated, as they were built on a small mountain, with the street having been cut through the mountain. These cave-like cocheras look like giant honeycombs or caves running up and down the street into which the car owners can insert their cars at night.

The flaming taxi was inserted into one of these cocheras with 4-foot flames shooting upward from the engine. Next to the taxi was a Volkswagen (its owner didn't even wake up) and next to the VW was a hot-water heater connected to two tanks of butane. When we ran into the street, I could see no one else was awake. The flames were growing and the smoke was wafting upward toward sleeping neighbors. In one house, directly in the path of the smoke, there is an infant.

I began screaming in the street. I screamed as loudly as I could, "Fuego…Fuego" which means, you guessed it, "Fire!"

Someone heard me, actually most of the neighborhood heard me, but the taxi driver heard me first, got up and ran from house to house beating on doors while I stood at what I thought was a safe distance away, and screamed my lungs out. I didn't know what else to do. All I could think of was when I was 7 years old; some murderous arsonist set our house on fire. Were it not for a kindly neighbor, who had just had sinus surgery and was up in the middle of the night suffering, we would have been killed. This neighbor, with her 5 teenagers, broke down our back door and saved us.

I had to act. I had to get everyone up.

My screeching like a crazy gringo worked and everyone got out of their houses.

The police were the first to show and began fighting the fire. They were screaming about the gas tank exploding. All the neighbors stood with us in the middle of the street several houses away from the fire. The fire truck rolled in put the fire out, everyone was fine, but Poncho's car is in ruins. As is the case with most poor, working-stiff Mexicans, he only had insurance to cover the passengers and not the car its

cut through the mountain. These cave-like cocheras look like giant honeycombs or caves running up and down the street into which the car owners can insert their cars at night.

The flaming taxi was inserted into one of these cocheras with 4-foot flames shooting upward from the engine. Next to the taxi was a Volkswagen (its owner didn't even wake up) and next to the VW was a hot-water heater connected to two tanks of butane. When we ran into the street, I could see no one else was awake. The flames were growing and the smoke was wafting upward toward sleeping neighbors. In one house, directly in the path of the smoke, there is an infant.

I began screaming in the street. I screamed as loudly as I could, "Fuego…Fuego" which means, you guessed it, "Fire!"

Someone heard me, actually most of the neighborhood heard me, but the taxi driver heard me first, got up and ran from house to house beating on doors while I stood at what I thought was a safe distance away, and screamed my lungs out. I didn't know what else to do. All I could think of was when I was 7 years old; some murderous arsonist set our house on fire. Were it not for a kindly neighbor, who had just had sinus surgery and was up in the middle of the night suffering, we would have been killed. This neighbor, with her 5 teenagers, broke down our back door and saved us.

I had to act. I had to get everyone up.

My screeching like a crazy gringo worked and everyone got out of their houses.

The police were the first to show and began fighting the fire. They were screaming about the gas tank exploding. All the neighbors stood with us in the middle of the street several houses away from the fire. The fire truck rolled in put the fire out, everyone was fine, but Poncho's car is in ruins. As is the case with most poor, working-stiff Mexicans, he only had insurance to cover the passengers and not the car its

t was a safe distance away, and screamed my lungs out. I didn't know what else to do. All I could think of was when I was 7 years old; some murderous arsonist set our house on fire. Were it not for a kindly neighbor, who had just had sinus surgery and was up in the middle of the night suffering, we would have been killed. This neighbor, with her 5 teenagers, broke down our back door and saved us.

I had to act. I had to get everyone up.

My screeching like a crazy gringo worked and everyone got out of their houses.

The police were the first to show and began fighting the fire. They were screaming about the gas tank exploding. All the neighbors stood with us in the middle of the street several houses away from the fire. The fire truck rolled in put the fire out, everyone was fine, but Poncho's car is in ruins. As is the case with most poor, working-stiff Mexicans, he only had insurance to cover the passengers and not the car itself. Tragic.

Pancho thanked me for waking the neighborhood. He also apologized for his car disturbing us.

I was touched to the point of tears welling up in my eyes and simply said,

"No hay problema, mi buen Amigo."