Technically I’m still in booger town, but 6 blocks away is a whole different world. If your bar is low and your expectations for housing and a neighborhood “experience” have been wiped clean like a sandcastle against high tide, it’s just fine. In fact, much better. An old house that has been likely sitting for a while, owned by a family who has plenty of money (they own several motels and the Beer Store) and thus zero incentive to repair or maintain, it has good bones and good light and cool casement windows and a completely walled and private property and some trees. Like 3 but it’s the desert. And a bunch of nopales (cactus) paddles growing.
There are so many variables in a move that you hadn’t planned, (landlord just changed his mind, sorta. Renting out apartments in the house and I was allowed to “stay” if I wanted to go back to renting 2 rooms attached to the scrap yard. Price the same, renting out my bedroom, contractors moving in from the pipeline and other things I’m NOT interested in) you have to shorten the bucket list. Price, safety, noise, dust, cut through traffic, dog fight corners, neighbors, walkable to tienda. You can’t have everything. Like a kitchen. Or screens.
I’m having to basically cobble together a kitchen in an area with a sink we’ll call it but that’s not uncommon in Mexico in barrios familiares. Gringo finishes get Gringo Pricing and I’m still putting Humpty Dumpty back together again financially so this isn’t a time to be house poor. Plus they know I’m the Gringa Dog Lady, and so here we are. I lied to the lady across the road where the new taco Dad cooks on the weekends (every block has one) when she asked how many dogs I had. Como, seis? I mean what’s the diff. 6 or 10. It’s a lot but they are well mannered by now and everyone has their own sofa corner and an extra bedroom with blankets all over the floor and there are lizards in the trees to stare at and even a tom cat, not very aware of his surroundings, who came to visit inside the fence who they caught and killed. So they’re having a ball.
Someone is practicing the tuba quietly most mornings and the neighbors are retired or fishermen and most have been here 30 years or more. Less foot traffic because I’m not sandwiched in between a church and 2 motels. Definitely less car traffic and no moto delivery guys. Less dust but still dust, roads are unpaved.
Big Brown Uncle Dusty is having a hard time letting go of his bromance with the carne asada guy, hasn’t even given the new Taco Dad a chance. The Crazy Carne guy has brought him back twice and tied him to the gate, last night he gave a weirdly dramatic saga of how he has very big problems right now, and when that’s over he’d like to come and adopt Dusty, but for now, he just can’t. I didn’t ask him to adopt him, he just needs to stop giving him steak and he’ll likely stop laying under his cart. But I’ve had this conversation with this old guy 20 times, so.
There are 8 street dog males on this corner, Yellow Pedro has taken up his residence inside or on the street in front of my gate and chases them over to their side of the road. Old Snoopy, brother of Brindle looking, some coyote looking fellas and Max the Jack Russell on three legs and some of the survivor houndy pups from the field who lay around until it’s time to dump trash with the stray horses. Dusty wants to live out his young dog street smart days, much like the Crazy Carne guy (he’s 70) but also likes to eat in bed and has a bad shoulder. Uncle Dusty, I don’t know what the Crazy Carne guy is going through and pray he doesn’t tell me. My guess is the wife is hauling ass because she saw she could make $700 catering a party for the Gringo Contractors and yes, I told her how to price it but 20 years in restaurants and catering, I can’t act like I don’t know. And also Gringo Contractors building a pipeline on per diem. Charge them. And after 20 years of macho shithead controlling behavior, I’m sure she’s formulating a plan. Good for her.
But I’m out of the soup of that dank neighborhood. I feel the energy, light and cross breezes—- and River, the litmus test of all things residentially weird, is comfy and unfurling on the sofa someone left here and being her goofy self. Once in Lake Chapala, Jalisco which I find offensive and just off, River spent the entire night sitting on the bathroom vanity like the floor was on fire. She’s the border/pointer so sensitive with her reflexes I’m sure that’s how she led Brady out of the car crash and to safety at some farm in the desert.
I’ve got the Crock Pot rolling for the Doggo Soup Sauce and eventually I figure I’ll find some good sleep. But sometimes big improvements come from small moves. It’s not Italy, but that doesn’t mean I had to stay until A Perfect Situation came along. Sometimes you have to let yourself off the hook and just take one step up. The days of skipping the rungs on the ladder are over for me right now and were likely a mirage anyway. Sometimes you get lucky and find a hook in the kitchen where you can hang your omelette pan. And that’s Good for Now.
linktr.ee/lolasdogrescue Thanks for reading, and sharing and subbing.
I giggled a little at "Someone quietly playing a tuba." Is that even possible? 😁
Sounds like you're settling in slowly!