FROM CITY TO FARM or I'VE GOT THE COCK, NOW WHAT .... Ramblings political, humourous, opinionated and/or creative writing from a man in flux


2014 08 19

So, my husband and I got motivated to move out of Zamora, by a variety of things/occurences, and thought we'd try the coast.  Puerto Vallarta, to be precise.  We went on-line and found a condo to rent for the month, got our asses out to the coast by bus and then sweated for 30 days.  And nights, I might add.  We had a good time, swimming in the pool, eating all sorts of foods that we can't get here in Zamora and generally not doing much of import.  We'd seen a house for rent on-line that looked interesting in the photos, and contacted the owner and went to see it.  Lovely place, and it actually looked just the way the photos showed, so uncommon in real estate photos.  Unfortunately, I can't/couldn't breathe in the humid hot air, and June is apparently better than any other month from June to September, depending on which local is exaggerating the size of the fish he's caught.  Oh, sorry, the quality of heat and humidity he has survived.   So, no coastal living, no quick access for the husband to the ocean, no more access to not-bad sushi and good to great fish'n'chips for us.  The kayak the husband laboriously dragged from California to here will remain in dry dock for some time yet.

We talked, and when we got back, we decided to leave the house (currently nicknamed Casa de las Putas) we were in and move to a new one.  There are many reasons for this move, all of them called Lulu or Pau.  Or the Vengeful Sluts( in the collective), depending on my mood.  These are the daughters of the owner whom are supposedly responsible for the house in which we were living.  The oven didn't work: tough shit, we are not going to replace it.  Well, I don't really need an oven, I never cook for more than six anymore, and my little countertop convection glass oven invention thing will work.  When they showed me the house, there was scalding hot water in the kitchen.  When we moved in, the hot water in the kitchen had disappeared.  I eventually discovered that in order to get hot water in the kitchen, something in the connections on the roof between the solar water heater and the supply pipes had to be switched around, which cut off water to some part of the house.  Last June, after a freak heavy rain, the roof proved to be leaking into the bedroom we were using.  Partly the rain, partly the fact that the water storage 'tinaco' was dripping into the same spot all the time, and partly that the drain had been half-closed by the last application of waterproofing.  I complained.  Pau sent a man to look.  They came back and scraped up all the old waterproofing, took out the old cement/asbestos water storage tank, cleaned out the drain - and left.  Not to be seen again until December 23.  In May of 2014, I finally got fed up and paid a contractor to waterproof the roof anddo repairs and deducted said cost from the rent.  In June, the month we spent in PV, my friends and protectors Miguel and Paul paid the rent for June.  But they gave it, in an envelope with the receipt for the roof, to Pau's son. When I got back in July, Pau asked me for the rent for June.  In short, they are lying cheating Vengeful Sluts scum, and we decided it was time to leave the house.

I hated the kitchens in our first two houses here:  both of them were small, no counter space, and so narrow that, with a rag tied to my ass, I could prepare dinner and clean the wall behind me at the same time.  Brings to mind old joke about the unreasonable boss and the worker with too few hands, broom up the ass - that old thing.  Anyway, I liked the kitchen in the Casa de las Putas a lot better, so I rented it despite the no oven thing.  This house has a kitchen counter of approximately 4 metres' length, enough room for two to pass without having intimate relations, and a counter open to the dining room, making the kitchen part of the life of the dinner party.  Storage space! counter space! working oven! It is older, which in this country really does mean better built, and it has some of the problems of all older buildings, door handles getting gunked with age and dust and odin-knows-what, scratches in surfaces that have been very badly repaired, nothing too major, so far.  Lots of safe parking.  On a corner lot,  and taller than most of what's around us, we get breezes and sunshine.  We're close to the central market (think fresh veg and fruit all year round) and there is a chain grocery store a couple of blocks away.  Noisy during the day, usually quiet at night.  So far, I'm loving it, to quote McDonalds' ad agency. 

And the most fun? - having to move without benefit of husband, who had made plans months ago to spend 7 weeks in the Untidy States relaxing and enjoying himself with old friends.  With a bad back, and a bout of pneumonia.  He gets home in about two weeks;  I'm thinking I'll let him live the childhood nightmare of abandonment:  coming home from a week at camp to discover that the family has moved away without leaving a forwarding address.  (joking, in case you missed that) 

I am so grateful to Miguel and his skills, he has kept us organised, found helpers and generally done a lot of heavy lifting (literally and figuratively) to get us moved.  The story of how he came to live with us is for another post, I have to go feed the cats.

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About Me

recently retired to southern Mexico from Canada