Winter Recap

Bingo room with a view

On November 19 when I ended that blog post with "I'm out of here," I didn't mean for four fucking months (which may turn into forever...I don't know, we'll see how this goes). It was kind of a hellish holiday/birthday season and I'd rather not talk about it. I did spend hours watching Criminal Minds' marathons which at least made me grateful some maniac wasn't harvesting my organs (while I was still alive) or a crazy woman hadn't paralyzed me and turned me into a living doll.

That last post was about how slow the snowbirds were in returning to the trailer park and already most of them are gone. Of those eleven full-timers I mentioned, well most of them have plans to be gone for the summer, some leaving as early April, so it will be down to about six of us. Five of "them" if I get my act together and get the van turned into a camper and head out of here for at least a couple months.

There were no big dramas at the trailer park this year. No one: died; had a psychotic break and had to leave the country; suffered a stroke; tried to kill their wife and neighbor. There was a mini-drama involving Flo's dog who bit someone. Nothing unusual there except that the dog bit Flo's friend and the friend's husband dragged the cops over to Flo's place. The cops sided with Flo who said, "hey, the woman was in my house; it was her fault." Twisted logic if you ask me but that's how the cops saw it, too. Somehow things always work out in Flo's favor. I almost typed "flavor." Maybe I'm suffering mini-strokes.

Bingo was a big deal at the trailer park. In the old days only people from the park were there and pots were around 30 pesos. Now all these ladies from New Kino come down and bingo has turned into a big event with regular bingo wins about 400+ pesos and blackouts over 1,000. The Frenchie sells fresh-baked breads before the game - baguettes, kalamata olive loaves, even bagels. Our table's turned into a potluck feast with all kinds of food, not to mention a few bottles of wine, and other tables are beginning to follow suit. Sadly there are only two more Wednesday bingo games left which signals the true end of the snowbird season, at least here at Islandia.

Of course a lot of other events happened in Kino this winter but I stuck close to home, watching the sea (and  TV) from the wicker chair in the house. Now I'm back at the trailer, finished with my nine-month house-sitting gig and so happy to be home in my tin can, vowing to get things organized and to try to revive at least a little creativity. Besides, I'm now caught up on all of the Criminal Minds' episodes. However, someone just gave me the first four seasons of Sons of Anarchy. And there's always The Walking Dead to look forward to. Not to mention Dexter....The Following...

The Vacationing Life

We went to Hermosillo yesterday. I needed to see the ophthalmologist and Demo wanted to see Spiderman. Neither of us like driving in the big city so we enlisted the services of our chauffeur.

I can't see out of my right eye - especially something glaring like a computer screen. According to the doctor one of my cataract lenses has formed a cloud, an opacity, which can be fixed with laser surgery for $6500 pesos (about $500 U.S.). I was thrilled to know that this problem was fixable and felt enthusiastic as we headed off to Galerias Mall to eat lunch before hitting the VIP lounge at Cinepolis.

ComicX is a restaurant chain in Mexico but the atmosphere and menu are total U.S. Action figures are everywhere. Lifesized Batman, Spiderman, Hulk and the rest. All kinds of action hero memorabilia adorn the walls. We were there when a family came in and the little boys went crazy. "Mira, mira" they ran from one display to another, "look, look."

We rushed through lunch - pizza, ribs, chicken - to get to the VIP lounge. We bought tickets to Spiderman, 100 pesos each which is a lot more than the regular theater but worth it. We walked in and I said "oh oh, there's no booze on the shelves." We tracked down a worker who said that their liquor permit had been revoked. Well why pay 100 pesos for the VIP lounge when you can't drink? I mean, sure, the leather recliners are nice but not that nice. We go there for the opportunity to drink alcohol with our movie. The Cinepolis management was very nice and gave us our money back.

Scratch the movie plans, we headed to the part of town where the rich people live, where there's a Starbuck's and a Chile's and an IHop and where the WalMart carries giant vodka for 100 pesos and Miracle Whip and Schweppe's tonic water. Afterwards we went to the Thai restaurant across the street and sat on the patio and had cocktails. Demo had chardonnay. Our chauffeur had some non-alcoholic beverage. I had a Tangueray and tonic but I had to provide my own tonic which I'd just bought at Walmart.

It was cloudy and we could see lightning off in the distance. There was a nice breeze. It was downright comfortable in Hermosillo which is often the hottest place in all of Mexico. I could've sat there for hours; it felt so city-like and civilized.

Demo's car has an outside-the-car temperature display. When we left Hermosillo it was 81 degrees. We hadn't experienced 81 degrees since May. Halfway to Kino, in Calle Doce or La Doce or just plain old Doce, the temperature rose to 98. Shit. When we reached Kino it was 94. As I got out of the air-conditioned car my sunglasses fogged up.

After Francisco came over and put some freon in the refrigerator, and I had my newly-defrosted (unplanned) chicken breasts slow cooking, I checked out the laser procedure the ophthalmologist wants to perform. I tried to find out the cost in the U.S. One site said $300 to $500. Well, damn, that's cheaper than here. Another said $1500. So I'm trying to get some actual quotes from offices in the U.S.

After my visit to the eye doc I'd said something about the cost of the laser surgery cutting into my vacation money. The chauffeur said "Vacation? Your life is a vacation. Look where you live." I responded that for me a vacation is going to a place with bookstores, restaurants, coffee houses, and bars where I don't know anyone. A vacation is the opposite of day-to-day life.

When did living in Kino switch from a vacation to real life? It happened when the newness wore off. When I began working. When I started feeling bored. When I started itching for a change...a change of scenery, a change of people. Which is why I live in an Airstream travel trailer. I want my life always to be a vacation and for me that means newness. Which is why, when all these people ask why I drive that big blue van, why don't I sell it, I know that Vanna is my key to full-time vacation living. Whether I tow that Airstream out of here or just take extended road trips in that hefty Econoline, Vanna is the key. And as soon as I can see again, we're hitting the road.

It's Over

Another snowbird season comes to an end.

Late yesterday afternoon as I sat reading in the lounge chair on my porch I was overcome with a feeling I'm not sure I ever felt before: Ecstasy. Contentment and happiness are elusive enough but ecstasy? That's a rare one.

The motor home to my right is gone. I can see the sea. I can feel a breeze. I can hear the surf. The big ugly bus in the space in front of me is gone. I can see the sea out my front porch door. I can see the sea through the front window of the trailer.

I can blast my music if I want because I have no neighbors. If friends come by and want to party, the guy next door (who tried to kill his wife) isn't here to turn on his spotlight in an effort to run them off. (In retrospect, thank goodness that's all he did.)

It was a quiet snowbird season in the park up until the last couple months. There was one emergency hospitalization in a psychiatric hospital in Hermosillo followed a week later by the neighbor trying to kill his wife along with bear spray spraying and machete-ing people. Then a friend suffered a stroke which meant another Hermosillo hospitalization.

It's no wonder then that as the last of the big rigs pulled out and the vista opened up I was overcome with joy, peace and thrilled with the return of solitude. Of course there are people I'll miss but they'll be back in October and others will arrive and we'll see what kind of dramas next year's snowbird season will bring.

Except I won't be here, in this trailer park.

I'll be in a real house just a little bit down the beach from the trailer park. At this point it's a long-term housesitting gig - the owner will be back for a couple weeks around Christmas - then I'll go back to her house until she returns for a couple months in the spring. It looks like it will be a perfect arrangement. I'll be close enough to my trailer that I can walk over here every day and water plants, feed cats, hang out, have a presence at my home so no one's tempted to break in and steal my copper wiring (which is why the house owner wants someone at her house, having returned to a home stripped of copper). And to make sure the trailer doesn't get overrun with mice and palmetto bugs (the cats should help with that).

My hope is that this summer will be more tolerable when it comes to the heat because I'll have room to spread out and won't be confined to this air conditioned box. And because the house is right on the beach, there should at least be a breeze.

This is going to be quite a change - going from this tin can to a real house, and not just for a month but for months. I didn't like home ownership because I felt isolated, preferring apartment buildings and trailer parks. So it'll be interesting to see how I feel about it now. Will I miss the park and the dramas? Or will there be a balance as I roam between the two places?

I'm excited to see how this plays out...nearly ecstatic.

Leaving Portland

It was on this day seven years ago that I left Portland, Oregon, my home of 20 years. I decided to post an excerpt from my book describing that day.

The RV park outside Portland. Freya Too (the Airstream) and Vanna.

I was pushing my weather luck by waiting until mid-November to head south, risking slippery roads from rain or snow as I crossed the Siskiyous at the Oregon/California border. But the morning I left Portland the skies were clear, not even the occasional fair weather cumulus or feathery cirrus. It was as though the Pacific Northwest had given me an all systems go for take off. I set about getting ready to hit the road. Because I was on my own with no one to direct it took about fifteen minutes to line up Vanna’s tow ball to the Airstream’s tongue. I’d back up Vanna, get out and check distance and angle, pull forward, back up, get out. The trailer looked closer to the van than it was. Okay, back up some more. Shit, too far. Finally, it was just right. I lowered the tongue onto the hitch then raised it a little to make sure it was firmly attached.

Next I went down the checklist of “hitting the road chores” like unhooking the television cable and electricity and battening down the hatches. Everything went fairly smoothly but I couldn’t get the chocks out from between the wheels. Just when I needed help, one of the neighbors who had never spoken to me showed up. After a bit of a struggle he managed to wrestle the chocks free from their bed of tires.

It was time to leave Portland.

I pulled out of my space very, very slowly. Remember, I had only towed Freya Too once before. The park was rather maze-like so several turns were necessary to get to the entrance on the top level. The trailer followed like a well-behaved dog on a leash. Good girl. I crept over speed bumps. Finally at the gate I turned onto the frontage road, stopped at the red light at the intersection, waited. At the green light, more creeping. I now knew why old fart RVers drove so slow. I’d probably never flip one off again. I looked in my rearview mirror. It was disconcerting not having a view of the traffic behind me. Seeing the silver trailer caught me off guard, as though some huge semi-truck was tailgating me, riding my ass. I couldn’t see around her. Oh yeah, the side mirrors. On the freeway entrance ramp my foot shook as it hovered over the gas pedal. Jesus, what in the hell had I been thinking? Can I really do this? Fortunately, traffic was light. I felt tremendous relief after merging onto I-84 without merging with another vehicle. I crept over to the middle lane and stayed there, constantly checking the rearview mirror to make sure the trailer was there because I didn’t feel her. There was no pull. Vanna didn’t seem bothered by the additional weight.

….

That first day I didn’t get too far, stopping at an RV park just off the highway a little south of Roseburg, Oregon. I was worried about the drive facing me the next day - the climb over the Siskiyous with the subsequent descent which would drop me into California. How would the van do, towing that trailer up a four thousand foot climb? What scared me more than the idea of going up was the coming down. Van brakes, trailer brakes – would they hold?

A trick I learned crossing the Siskiyous was to stay with the semi-trucks. When they pulled over to the far right truck lane, I followed. That way I could go as slow as I wanted without worrying about holding up traffic. Coming down the mountain, I stayed with the trucks, dropping the van into a lower gear.

Making it over that mountain, not encountering snow or rain, not burning out my brakes or having the trailer come unhitched thus reaching California before I did, I figured the worst was over.

One-Winged Angels

So, yes, angels appeared to help with home maintenance and in just about every case there was a glitch.

Before I left for Bisbee, Manuel said he would paint the rafters with a kerosene mixture to get rid of the termites. "Do not get paint on the picnic table," I said, "because it is not mine; it belongs to Roberto." "No problem, madre," he said. "I will be careful."

There is no kerosene paint on the picnic table. However, it is everywhere else: the backs of the white plastic tecate chairs, the walls, and the sides of my trailer. Fuck. Kerosene splotches and streaks all over the aluminum. Fortunately I was able to wash it off. I'd been meaning to repaint the porch walls so now I have an excuse to do so.

It's been weeks and containers of the kerosene mixture, tarps, buckets still sit behind my trailer.

Gordo did a beautiful job replacing the OPD valve on my propane tank. Someone who shall not be named (in case we become Facebook friends) offered to do the other. We discussed which direction the valve should be facing. Then he took off with the tank and didn't return for four days. I figured he had a problem getting the old valve off. As long as he didn't destroy the aluminum Worthington tank in the process, I didn't care how long he had it. Two nights ago he returned the tank and the valve was on backwards. It is still usable - the hose attachment will fit through the smaller backside opening - but IT IS BACKWARDS. I was most disappointed with his attitude, like, hey, it still works so what's the big deal? Had he done it for the gringo (emphasis on the "o") he's working for, he would've done it right. So now I have to wait until the tank is empty to take it to Gordo and have the valve put on correctly. It's an AIRSTREAM, for God's sake; it can't have a propane cylinder facing the wrong direction!

I love being able to walk into my newly organized bodega. But El Vikingo took two of my books - books I wanted to keep. One was on the wines of Italy and the other was on the flora and fauna of the desert southwest. (That perfectly illustrates my two lives. My old life - an interest in fine Italian wines now so out of reach - and my new - an interest in the creatures and plants in this still-new-to-me desert life). I'm not sure how this confusion came about. They were in a crate with other books to be thrown out like out-of-date Woodall's campground guides. Apparently El Vikingo thought these were trash too. When he walked to his car, I didn't know how to tell him I wanted to keep them. My bad. I really should learn Spanish.

Bug carcasses are showing up all over the place thanks to Victor the exterminator. However, there is one bug he missed - the one living in my freezer! I was totally freaked out - and confused - when I saw mouse turds on my ice-cube trays. How in the hell could a mouse get in - and live - in my freezer? Then Flo mentioned that palmetto bug turds are nearly as big as mouse turds and that made sense, that a cockroach could flatten itself to get into any space. And we all know those suckers can survive anything, even frozen temperatures. I guess I feel better that those turds belong to a cockroach and not a mouse but still....

One of the things I've learned living in Mexico is that everything is fixable - glueable, paintable, tapeable, wireable. The only thing I'm worried about is that pinche palmetto bug taking up residence in my freezer.

Sounds Like Rain

Apparently that last post, the Buddy Guy post, was some sort of rain dance because it rained here in the land of "it almost never rains here."

Somewhere around midnight I woke to turn off the AC because the trailer was freezing-ass cold. I turned on the floor fan, keeping the windows closed because I knew it was still hot and humid outdoors. I crawled back into bed and heard the pat pat pat of raindrops on the trailer roof. You know how sometimes you'll wake in the morning and go outside and the patio is wet and you'll think hm, it must've rained last night? Well living in an aluminum house there's never any guessing about did it or didn't it rain. Even one drop of rain causes a reverberating ping on the roof of the trailer.

I laid in bed expecting the rain to end but it didn't. I fell asleep but woke a little later just to check. It was still raining! It rained all night. Not Arizona raging monsoon nor Portland steady downpour, just a sweet two-step on the trailer roof.

It rained enough that there's a puddle on my trailer floor from where the roof leaks around the Fantastic vent. Small price to pay for a cloudy Oregon day on the Sea of Cortez.

Accidental RV'er - Part One

This photo from Big American Night.

I do not recommend RV'ing if you're afraid of traffic and big vehicles. Which is why I am not an RV'er. I just happen to live in a home which can be moved from place to place. (Well it could be moved if its tires were all in one piece and not spontaneously combusting but that's another story.)

Malia is an RV'er. That woman takes her motor coach all over the damn place - from Alaska to Michigan which is where she is as of this writing. Malia has a passion for exploring new places. Like Michigan. I've not thought much about Michigan but Malia can spark an interest. She's the igniter. However, the likelihood of me ever towing my trailer to Michigan is not slim to none but just plain old none.

A wanderlusting friend who lives in Austin (who's started her own blog) sent an email suggesting I check out Pecan Grove RV Park which is where Malia stays when she's there. Yep, that looks like my kind of place - a trailer park full of eccentric people, a lot of them living in Airstreams. The best part is that the park is in the city, close to music venues and all the stuff a city has to offer. All the stuff I've been missing for six years.

The worst part is it's in the city.

Which means traffic. Traffic and a city I've never been to before are two things that scare me when it comes to driving a normal-sized automobile much less a one-ton van with my home attached to it. But if I really, really wanted to go to Austin, I'd make it happen. I'd take a deep breath, call on my road angels, and head out. From here to Austin I'd have to deal with two cities - El Paso and San Antonio. Okay, I've driven through El Paso before so I think I could do that. Can I skip San Antonio? There's a road from I-10 to Austin through Fredricksburg. I wonder what that road's like. I'd stay outside of Austin in Dripping Springs or some such place, leave the trailer and head to the city on a recon mission. I'd find Pecan Grove, map out my route, go back and get the trailer, leave Dripping Springs before the crack of dawn so as to miss rush hour traffic....

Whew. What a lot of work. The thing is, I've gotten lost on backroads while towing and it wasn't fun. I got lost in some California suburbs the day before Thanksgiving, pulling my trailer through Albertson parking lots and that wasn't fun either. I've had to slam on my brakes in freeway traffic and that was even less fun.

What was fun was towing my trailer on Hwy 82 from Nogales to Tombstone, a two-lane road with minimal traffic. A two-lane road through some of the most beautiful desert country I've ever seen. That was my image of my new life before I left Portland in November 2004. That image of a lonely desert road, sun bouncing off the shiny aluminum trailer (which is no longer shiny but that's another story too).

So in a way I became an accidental RV'er, someone not interested in visiting every state in the U.S. but someone looking for a place to rest - a place that could change every year or two or three when I became bored, when the newness wore off, when my adult ADD kicked in.

There are lots of other reasons why I don't consider myself an RV'er but those will have to wait for another time. Right now I have to rescue the rock guard (the big plexiglass thing that protects the trailer's front window from rocks) which is de-riveting itself from the trailer.

Single Bed

When you live in 160 square feet - give or take a foot - some things have got to go.

I slid my bed back into the single size. Now it looks as inviting as a nun's cot.

Which is fitting being as I haven't had sex in four years.

Which is sad because four years ago I was on such a roll - a sex roll - and I thought those good times were here to stay.

As the sexual drought moved in I comforted myself by thinking it was good I had no men to distract me from the tasks of writing a book and finding a job. Now that those tasks have been accomplished, the universe could throw a man or two my way. I'm ready. Actually that's not true. I could care less about racking up sexual partners - I've had opportunities for that over the last four years - old gringos and young mexicanos. I'm more interested in something long-term, something lasting or semi-lasting.

Some may say that returning my bed to a size barely big enough for one shuts the door on "calling in the one" but I beg to differ. My man monsoon happened spontaneously with the bed in its narrowed manifestation (during monsoon season, I might add) and so I'm willing to test that particular law of attraction theory.

After six years of the luxury of a double bed it took a couple nights to adjust to my new berth. I kept banging my elbows on the wall. I would wake whenever I needed to roll over because I was afraid I'd fall out. When I'd fling out my leg it'd dangle off the side of the bed. But now that I'm used to it, I don't mind the narrowness and I love the added space. I have room for a yoga mat to be laid out on the floor. I can get to the overhead cabinets without standing on the bed. It's nice. And if someone comes along who is worth opening the bed to the double size, that'll be nice too.

Home - for now

A couple posts back, Pam asked why I stay here. Besides the obvious reasons - the beach, the Mexican people, the culture - there's also this: after six years living in a 25' trailer, I'm not ready to give up my additional space.

What a treat it's been having a nearly screened-in porch and the use of a friend's picnic table. It's great having a work area where things can be left out and not put away each night. However, as you can see, I do need organizers. My work area is a mess.

I don't look forward to the days of having to open and close my awning. There were so many times in southern Arizona when I had to get up in the middle of the night to close the awning because some unexpected windstorm had moved in. If I had a fancy rig with a push-button awning opener, well, that'd be a whole other deal but it takes work to open and close the Airstream awning, especially for one person. Especially when it's windy.

Yes, I used to have a Vespa scooter but that's another story.

Now that my trailer's Dometic refrigerator is dead, I so much appreciate having a giant fridge in my bodega. It takes getting used to having to trek outside to get cooking ingredients, making sure I gather everything I need in one trip, but it beats no fridge at all. When I leave here, getting a refrigerator is the first item on my to-buy list.

The first item on my to-fix list is the stuck black tank valve. Sitting in one spot, it's not a big deal but when it comes to moving around, you want to be able to close the black tank. You certainly can't boondock unless you have a shitter than can be closed.

This year my bougainvillea are doing great. The wind and salt water take their toll on the plants in the park but so far mine are surviving, maybe even thriving. The good news is that when/if I leave, Barbara, who will be taking over my space, is a terrific gardener and she's promised to look after them.

And then there's the financial considerations. When I do leave, it's gonna cost a pretty penny...the fridge, the trailer repairs, the tires, the gasoline. So I hang tight. Even though I'm itching to explore new places - and new saloons - now is not the time to go. Until it is time to go, this is a good place to just be. I ain't complaining (because I gave that up for Lent).

Airstreams and SOBs

Why I chose an Airstream...

Airstream aficionados - or Airstreamers - speak disdainfully of Some Other Brands (SOBs). You know, all those motor coaches and trailers that look alike inside and out. Can you tell the difference between a Dolphin or a Gulf Stream as you pass one on the highway? No, not until you see its name splashed across its side or back. But I bet you know an Airstream when you see one.

When I started this adventure, I didn't want to be an RVer, someone who lives in any old SOB. I wanted to be an Airstreamer. What do you envision when you think of RVs? Concrete parks with forty-foot motor coaches lined up one next to the other, barely enough room to open an awning. When you think of Airstreams, don't you picture lonely desert highways? That is what I wanted.