Home alone

macMY CHILD BRIDE has gone off and left me, at least till Monday.

She hightailed it this morning at 8 a.m. to visit Guanajuato with two sisters and three nephews. I could have gone, but decided not to, so here I am, abandoned.

But I’m not completely alone because the house painter is here. If I fall down and break a leg or have a heart attack, he will haul me to the hospital, I hope.

The first thing I did after she departed was to enter the downstairs closet, climb atop a frayed, wicker-top stool and clean off the top shelf which harbored junk from many years ago. I’ll toss that trash into a dumpster this afternoon.

I found a machete up there. I bought it years ago, put it on the top shelf and forgot about it. Machetes are scary. Don’t remember why I bought it. Not going to throw it away, however. You never know when you might want to maim someone unpleasant.

At 1:30 I have a dental appointment downtown. I’ll leave the painter here alone while I do that. He’s applying red, waterproof paint to the roof of the kitchen and dining room. After the dentist, I’ll do lunch at a restaurant, then come home.

About 5 p.m., I’ll head out again with the aforementioned trash, pass by the dumpster, which is actually a parked truck, then head to the plaza for my usual afternoon café Americano negro and some down time with the Kindle.

I’m reading a bio of Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee. Don’t tell Antifa.

Later, as the sun sinks beyond the Yuletide-festooned plaza, I’ll hop into the Honda for the drive back to the Hacienda. Only then, I suspect, will my abandonment hit me hard. It will be dark and solitary. I’ll likely eat an egg sandwich instead of the usual salad.

The king bed will feel like a soccer field where I’m the solitary player.

I prefer a team of two.

A week of misery

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The swept sidewalk and the stone steps.

I’M ALMOST back to normal after a week of suffering from a cold.

It wasn’t a horrible cold as colds go, but no cold is a good cold. During the past week, I have done virtually nothing but sit it out, which is my approach to colds. My child bride’s approach, on the other hand, is to go to the gym and work out. She’s loca.

During the week, chores piled up. One, which had piled up far longer than a week, was to sweep the sidewalk out on the street. If you don’t sweep your sidewalk, it doesn’t get swept. The municipality does not sweep it. Our town has no street sweeper.

So I swept my sidewalk this morning. It had the usual collection of Styrofoam cups, candy wrappers and whatever else the slobs enjoy tossing out car windows.

Also this morning, I did my daily exercise walk around the nearby plaza. Thursday is market day, so there were stalls selling lots of stuff. I bought broccoli for lunch tomorrow. I have a nice spaghetti recipe that requires broccoli and garlic.

There were about 150 people lined up on the plaza for some reason or another, likely to benefit from some government giveaway.

In a month or so, we’ll start this year’s renovations. One must wait till the monsoon season ends. It used to end in October. Now it ends in November. Cursed climate change!

We need you, Greta Thunberg! Do you speak Spanish?

On the schedule is to paint the wall in the photo and get rid of that garish color we never requested in the first place. It was done a few years back during another series of renovations. I had asked for an adobe color. What I got was reddish-orange.

My attention must have been elsewhere when that paint was applied.

The stone steps rise to that steel door which leads into my child bride’s pastry kitchen, built in 2014. We added that door so the space could be used as a storefront one day. That day has never arrived and, I hope, never will in my lifetime.

Those stone steps are a very popular place for people to sit and rest a spell as they head down the sidewalk, especially kids. And lovers at night.

Thankfully, my head has mostly cleared up and chores are getting done. Scheduled for later today are buying breakfast biscuits in a pastry shop, washing the Honda (not me, a car wash), getting cash from an ATM and sitting at the coffee shop on the downtown plaza with my Kindle* and a nice, hot café Americano negro.

* * * *

* Just started Inside Trump’s White House: The Real Story of his Presidency which came out this week. It’s stupendous to have honest information about a man who’s turning out to be one of America’s greatest presidents. The author, Doug Wead, is a former adviser to two presidents and served as a special assistant to President George H.W. Bush. His numerous books are known for their primary sources (not partisan rumor).

Wondering about it all

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Sweet alyssum’s white flowers come to life in the summer.

IT BLEW SO hard last night the broom fell over.

Out on the downstairs terraza, that is. I heard nothing when it happened, just noticing it this morning. Around midnight I got out of the king bed to close the windows in case rain was coming in. Normally, the golden datura bush just outside that window blocks most rain, but you can never take it to the bank.

This morning I found a pool on the renovated upstairs terraza, so I swept it out through the inadequate drain hole. The guys are coming tomorrow (they say) to install the final canvas curtain, which will close off three of the four compass directions.

Right now, we remain at 50-50.

After bagels and cream cheese (lite) with black café Americano, we sat a spell, our morning breather, on the scarlet sofa with soft music, and I thought: Well, this sure is fine. One wonders that if life ends well it cancels or justifies the grief of the past.

Then we got up and started morning chores.

Sidewalk shoppers

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SITTING AT A sidewalk table abutting the plaza with a nice café Americano negro and nothing but time on my hands allows me to notice things.

Just up from where I sit are lines of  sidewalk stands where people we call hippies (they don’t care for the term) sell wares like earrings, handmade drums, things you tie around your wrist to look artsy, stuff you move to make the sound of rain, Indian incense, that sort of gear. It attracts tourists, especially on weekends.

I took this shot last Saturday. The two women cannot be from around here. They just don’t look like mountaintop people. They look like big-city gals, maybe from the nearby state capital or Guadalajara or even Mexico City.

I’ve spent 40 years, more than half my life, living in tourist towns. New Orleans, San Juan and now here amid the cobblestone streets and bougainvillea. People from more prosaic spots visit and think, “I could live here,” but then they go home and die in Dubuque.