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Tag Archives: home
If I got in my car this too-hot afternoon, I could be in Juarez in time for dinner. When we drive across the Rio Grande for Sunday lunch with his grandparents, I tell my son that if we built a … Continue reading
I try, I really do, to do without. When we moved into our house in Mexico, I endured a full two weeks of cold showers before I climbed up to my roof with a lighter and a Leatherman knife and … Continue reading
As that first night in the new house deepened and wore on, and on, this belief was rattled by nuisances far worse than leaky ceilings and cold showers: namely, late-night karaoke blaring from the “Video Bar” around the corner and down the street.
Worse even than the karaoke… Continue reading
“Don’t worry,” the girls’ mother told me in Spanish when she joined us. “There’s nothing up there that can hurt them.” She had been raised in that house herself.
The way I saw it, there were three generations handing off the house to us. Continue reading
Would someone even rent to foreigners? Would we be taken advantage of? All-out robbed? What discomforts did we not know to look for or expenses we did not know to ask about? Would there be roosters and bedbugs and dry faucets and fussy toilets and scorpions and general, crumbling decrepitude? Would we care? And, most important, would it—whatever it turned out to be—ever feel remotely like a home? Continue reading
Ordinarily, I am paralyzed by the act–no, the necessity of packing. Sometimes, I don’t even get to the act. Someone else does it for me, or I just throw a few random things in a backpack so airport security will have something to rifle through, and call it quits.
As a traveler, this has been a handicap. But not this time. Continue reading