El Mirador

The viewpoint. It can be different.

Fact: The Bod does not like high heat and humidity.

Fact: It’s been 90°F at night in the boatyard.

Fact: Dry-docked Habibi retains the day’s temperature despite two fans and an air purifier.

Fact: A different perspective from the industrial/red light district in which I’ve resided for eleven months might be nice. (Been there, done that. Back in the 80s I lived in San Francisco’s Tenderloin neighborhood, and used to reprimand—by yelling out the window—the businessmen frequenting the Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theatre a block away.)

So I moved off the boat for the summer. I considered Peru (cooler! surfing!) but the logistics were complicated. New Zealand? La Baja? Neither was quite right. Instead I found a place two kilometers away, near Playa Mirador.

Fact: Playa Mirador is a snorkeler’s heaven, with bright green sea grass, reefy ledges, and freshly hatched fish (cute as yellow-and-black buttons). The Little Yellow Dog Gang likes it too, rolling in the rough sand, splashing through shallows, fishing and swimming in tide pools. Plus the locals are friendly. A few days ago, a young woman offered her nearby shower after my swim. Another day, Victoria and Maria Socorro made sure I knew where they lived, “in case you need anything.”

On moving day, today, the LYDG accompanied me, as they are wont to do. We were all so happy as I towed the wagon to the new abode. Every so often we stopped so I could re-tie the load, and they could eat chicken or drink water. But we made it.

However, the owners were not as enamored of the LYDG as I am. Valiente camped out near my casita door, while Emma guarded the passageway. When I led them to the property’s gate, shutting them outside it, they merely squeezed back in, and took up their positions.

The owners were not amused. And so, after I’d made two trips uphill with the wagon, after I’d completely unpacked, after I’d started a vat of chai tea on the stove, even though I offered to pay a deposit, I was evicted. Street dogs, you know. Ick.

What to do?

Breathe. Pack. Pray.

I messaged someone who had sent me info on other places. Asked about dog policies. Asked if he could pick me up. (I simply couldn’t face towing the wagon back to the boatyard at high noon.) We had not met in person, he was part of the boatyard group chat. Marcos.

He said yes.

Marcos showed up in a small white sedan, completely undeterred by my wagonsful of belongings. He cheerfully drove me to other places in the same area. At the third one, I met Alma, walking toward us in a long green sleeveless dress, mosaics on the side of her house, and a private apartment upstairs with an ocean view.

A surfer, dancer, artist, dog-loving woman with an herb garden and green leafy trees. A kinswoman, sister. Hermanita, she calls me.

I was cheaping out on myself at that casita this morning, which was really only a studio apartment in a line of studio apartments. Alma’s one-bedroom has more space and air, privacy and harmony. And a bicycle with a basket. Within walking distance of the Sea.

Thanks to the LYDG, I am sheltered and embraced (literally, Alma is a hugger) better than I imagined.

Fact: a song by Delysia, “Radical Joy,” reinforces my belief that there is more good than I sometimes remember.

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Bookshelf:
Romy & Julio
Diary of a Reluctant Traveler
Sea Change: stories & splashes
Shoulds are for Saints: the true life adventures of Suzy Le Speed
Dance First …ask questions later: poems & paintings