back in the US of A

Leaving was, indeed, sweet sorrow. A gang of us went to one of the newly remodeled palapa restaurants at the pier and had fish tacos and shrimp cocktails. The two dogs came along. As we walked home, the retired rocket scientist (believe me, you're not aware of how many times people say 'well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist' until you have one in your midst), anyhow (another thing a lot of the male long-winded story-tellers say a lot), anyhow, as we walked home the retired rocket scientist pointed out the space station with the shuttle in its wake. That was awesome.

More people pounded on my trailer door to say goodbye. A nice Italian woman came over to thank me for introducing her to the concept of wearing skirts - can't beat them for warm climates and when you've had too many fish tacos.

In the morning as I was getting ready to pull out (and dreading having the dogs follow me out of the park) my neighbor went for a walk on the beach. I asked her to take the dogs with her and with some coaxing they followed her and I was able to leave guilt-free for leaving Osita.

Highway 15 north is a bitch. All that truck traffic has made the road majorly potholed. They are working on repaving and so there were smooth sections here and there. I dreaded opening my trailer door and seeing what kind of damage was done. At the border I unlocked the door for the customs' inspector and sure enough my trailer was trashed. We could barely get in. Limes rolled across the floor. Soy sauce had tipped over and spilled over the contents of the fridge. A shelf in the pantry came undone and let loose with silverware and canned goods and olive oil. Baskets of jewelery had tumbled open. All my clothes had fallen off the hangers. It was one fucking mess.

Which was probably a good thing when it came to the inspection. With all that mess the inspector ventured in only as far as the kitchen. She opened the fridge and barely glanced through the rest of the trailer. I could've had people or cigarettes or plant and animal life hidden all over the damn place so if you want to smuggle any of the above, I suggest trashing your trailer first. Of course it didn't hurt that her dad had a vintage Airstream and she loved their "retro" look.

At The Home of Dashed Hopes I retrieved my mail. The Jailbird's son reinstalled my shelf and we went out for burgers and his conversation disappointed the hell out of me. This beautiful young man who had been so the opposite of his dad was now spouting hatred against Mexicans and those damn illegals and how he turns them in now whenever he sees one. And how one old lady 'jewed' him out of some money. And how the whores in Mexico rip him off every time he goes there. On and on he went and it made me cry, literally. Needless to say, the meal did not go well as I said "I can't believe you're saying those things. You sound worse than your dad."

Anyhow, I've got laundry to do then I'm hitching up and heading to my new town where I will meet up with friends for a week's vacation before I start the real-life job search. Thanks again for all the bon voyages and safe journeys and junemoon's pink bubble (your record is solid).

he works in stone

I now know Chapo's real name. Miguelangel. Michaelangelo.

hasta luego, hopefully

Rapid posting because I'm on a roll...a writing roll...and because my time here is coming to an end and I'm not sure what kind of internet access I'll have in my new park in my new town. Hey, here's an interesting tidbit: My new site number will be 12, the same site number I had at The Home of Dashed Hopes for two years. How's that for a bit of synchronicity?

I cannot explain the sadness I feel. Even though I have left friends and family quite often over the past few decades, and I loved the people and the places I was leaving, I never felt a sadness about going. But here I'll look at someone who I may never see again and I'll get all choked up. Maybe that's the difference; with friends and family, I knew that we'd always be in touch, but I'm not so sure about the people who live in this little town. Unless I make an effort to come back. Which is certainly do-able beings as I won't be that far from the Mexican border.

At the office Rosa said "I won't say good-bye. I'll say 'have a good trip'."

"I know," I said, "let's pretend I'm going on vacation and that I'll be back soon."

Even the gringos say "Don't go. Can't you figure out a way to work here?" and I'm flattered that they all say that I'm an integral part of the park and they'll miss me - all except for Mrs. Texan who hasn't spoken to me in months but I think that's due to the politics of the park, that I'm a traitor for getting friendly with the snowbirds, rather than something I actually said or did. I think.

Last night some friends and I talked with a man who was here last year who took us out sailing. He will be down in April, just after I leave, but he said that in May the Colorado Springs Boys are planning on coming down and I said if that was so that I'd come back at least for a weekend. The Colorado Springs Boys aren't all boys - two are dads and two are sons - but are they partyers! And musicians. When they were here last year there was a lot of both, partying and music.

So hopefully I'll come down for a weekend in May. I can check up on Osita, make sure she is getting fed and getting attention. I'll get to see Rosa and the Bicycle Vendor and the Carver and all the waiters and waitresses and I can check up on the progress of the new pier which is replacing the one Henriette broke apart.

Maybe this little town is my home. I don't think I'll know for sure until I leave.

chapo y chapita

We were standing at the sea wall watching a group of men walk along the beach. In that rough cigarette-smoking voice the Ex Trucker says to me "Mexican men sure are good looking." I was kind of surprised because she's told me that she's sworn off men, the lousy no-good-for-nothing bastards, and I didn't think she'd ever say anything flattering about men, especially of the Mexican variety.

I agreed that generally speaking, Mexican men are good looking. "You know who I think is hot?" I said.

"No, who?"

"Well, if his teeth were in better shape, Chapo."

"You can say that again. I'd do him. Did you ever see anyone so strong for such a little guy?"

"Did you watch him building that wall? All the guys were standing around, leaning on shovels, while Chapo picked up huge rocks and put them into place. And he's no spring chicken."

"There's not an ounce of fat on his body."

"He's got great arms."

We pause as we ponder Chapo's arms.

"What say we go halvsies on some new teeth for Chapo?" the Ex Trucker suggested.

"Count me in" I say.

Chapo means "shorty" and Chapo isn't much taller than me although he is probably half my width. He's always had a friendly smile and wave but it wasn't until I jokingly said he could call me "chapita" that he loosened up and now whenever he sees me he shouts "hola chapita" and I shout "hola chapo!"

We have major crushes on each other and Chapo hugs me (full on body hugs) whenever he can which has only been twice, actually. The first time was when I gave him a Christmas card with some pesos in it and the second time just recently when I saw him digging a ditch after dark, after he had been working on that wall all day, and I brought him dinner and orange juice.

Now that he knows that I am leaving next week, he is very sad and last evening after work he came over for a cup of coffee and an attempt at conversation. When he left he put my hands to his lips and kissed them.

I'm thinkin' that maybe I could finally have a successful relationship with a man I can't talk to. We would not have words to get in the way. That would alleviate a lot of misunderstandings and hurt feelings, wouldn't it? There'd be no "where were you? you said you'd be home at 5" because we'd not be able to get that far. As a result, we'd totally be living in the moment. And because words wouldn't count, actions would. We'd be together as long as we treated each other well. That would be the bottom line.

I can't imagine Chapo with a healthy set of teeth. I think they'd be too big for his face which is delicate and smooth. I think they'd be more of a distraction than his current measly set of choppers. Besides, I'd rather focus on his blue eyes and his arms....

Whew! thank god I'll be hitting the road soon. I could be in a lot of trouble.

obituary for a mangy dog

The park dogs have many jobs but their main duty is to keep town dogs out of the park. They do a great job. These lazy-ass mellow dogs go through an amazing transformation when a stray dog enters the park. Pigeon, Little Bear, and Tracy take off at full gallop after the intruder, hair raised, teeth bared, barking loudly.

But not so with the mange dog. Not only did they let him enter the park but Tracy seemed to be protective of him, keeping him within her sights, curled up not too far away from this dog who appeared to be on his last legs. Maybe that's why they let him stay.

He was not the most attractive dog. He looked to be part dingo and part coyote. His coat was a horrible mess of bare spots and scarred-over wounds. His ears looked nearly chewed off, either from pests or fights.

The Ex Trucker became protective of the mange dog. She caught quite a bit of hell from some of the men, especially Mr. Texan: "Don't feed that mangy dog over here. Feed him at your place" I heard him yell one morning. And some of the guys (including Mr. Texan) threatened to take the dog out into the desert and kill it. The Ex Trucker is not one to be bullied and so she carried on feeding the mange dog and slipping antibiotics and other meds into his food. Other people began feeding him and he started to revive. The Ex Trucker called him Boy but a couple of us called him Bambi because of his long legs.

I would hear her call "Here Boy" in the morning as she set his food out and he'd run over with his tail wagging. He took to coming to my place and I'd say "Hi Bambi" and he'd put his head down so I could pat his head. "Damn dog won't let me do that," the Ex Trucker complained. I said "It's because you're always poking and prodding him. He'll come around." And he did. He started accompanying her and her dogs on their morning beach walks.

He became one of the park dogs. Even Mr. Texan started giving him left-over bones. And in the end, that act of kindness is what killed Bambi/Boy.

Mr. Texan should have known better than to give a dog chicken bones. Hell, even I know that. But I guess he figured this one was okay because it was bigger and would not splinter off and do damage. It was about two weeks ago when we noticed Bambi/Boy having trouble breathing. But he seemed to get better. Then he disappeared. Two days ago I asked the Ex Trucker if she had seen him. "I think he's dead. Someone saw him fall over as he tried to take a piss."

I saw the Texans. "Have you seen Bambi?" I asked. Mr. Texan said "I think he's dead. I saw him on the beach and he couldn't walk. He kept falling over. I wonder if someone gave him heart worm medicine. That would kill a grown dog." We wondered if someone hadn't poisoned him.

Bambi/Boy showed up yesterday and the Ex Trucker asked me to bring over one of my blankets and we opened it up in the shade and she laid Bambi/Boy down. She fixed up a mixture of sugar water to try to rehydrate him. She gave him something for pain. She asked Mr. Texan about the chicken bone and he actually admitted that that might be what caused the problem and he felt downright shitty about it.

Just before sunset the Ex Trucker came over and said "The guys are taking Boy out to the desert. Francisco is going to shoot him."

"You did a good thing, taking care of that dog. He probably had a terrible life but those last few months here he was in dog heaven what with all the attention and food and people not throwing rocks at him."

"I guess you're right. Well, I thought you might like to know."

I don't imagine I'll be getting that Mexican blanket back. I'm hoping the guys kept him wrapped up in it as he rests out in the desert.

i am more than my bed

The countdown begins.

In 2-1/2 weeks I will move on to life #_____ (I've lost track).

I've started the packing and reorganizing and sorting processes. It's not easy. For instance, how to wrap and where to pack the ironwood carvings and indian baskets I have acquired? What about the shells? Some are definitely special but what about the others? I have done a major 'catch and release' but I've kept some ordinary shells back just in case the urge hits and I want to make shell wind chimes in Arizona. Aw, come on Antonia! You're not gonna want to deal with shells when you're in Arizona, are you? Well, you never know. I might.

Books. I've done it before and I can do it again. Let go of some of these damn books! Not only do they take up valuable space but they weigh a lot, a factor one must take into account when towing although that's not much of a factor with this beast of a van pulling this smallish trailer.

Speaking of the size of the trailer, in these older Airstreams the bath takes up the entire rear of the trailer, then moving forward is the bedroom, kitchen, front gaucho area. For the past 2+ years I have kept the bed pulled out in the double position even though it takes up so much room. I first pulled the bed out in October of 2005 when I let a sexy and wild long-haired southern boy move in for a couple of weeks. After he left I had many occasions in which to share that bed with various assorted and sundry males and, now and again, a pit bull.

Yesterday I returned the bed to the twin position. I like the way the room looks, less cluttered. I certainly have more walking-around space. And now the bed resembles a berth on a boat or something a monk or a nun or a prisoner might sleep on.

I used to think that the position of my bed was indicative of my life (not just my sex life): Open in the double position meant I was open to people, expansive; the twin position indicated a feeling of being closed off, alone. But no more. A little over two years ago I learned a valuable lesson: With enough tequila, more than one person can fit on a twin bed.

they're gonna make me lonesome when i go

These are my two amigas who with me form the beach group known as the '3 short fat blonds' (okay, so only the Fat Pigeon Dog is actually fat; Osita and I are just a bit on the chunky side).

They follow me everywhere. They are my shadows. I can no longer walk to the market only a few blocks away or to the tortilla factory. I have to drive. The park is their domain but outside these walls, the streets belong to the town dogs. I don't want to risk one of the Blonds getting into a fight.

The same is true for walking the beach. If we venture too far towards town, I worry for their safety although I imagine they can take care of themselves.

Last week I went kayaking with the Ex Trucker and another friend. As I got in the kayak, the Blonds hovered, sniffed the kayak, tried to get in. I shooed them away and paddled off. When I returned about an hour later, there they were on the beach, barking their greeting, tails wagging, even venturing into the surf. I later heard that they had planted themselves on the boat ramp and watched my progress from there.

They have sleep-overs at my house with the mange dog. When he first got to the park he was near death. Now that he's healthy, he's rather pushy and I've had to kick him out of the party when I hear him growling at the Blonds.

People say Pigeon and Osita hang out with me because I feed them but I rarely give them food. I think it's because I give them attention, because I tell them how pretty they are and how good they are and how smart they are. Mexican dogs aren't accustomed to being treated this way.

I feel terrible about leaving Osita. She was abandoned by RVers as a puppy and recently abandoned by the family who took her in. In 3 weeks she will be abandoned by me. She likes having her own human, unlike Pigeon dog who is more of a people dog. But Osita will be okay. I think I did pretty good as a foster mom. Under my care she became less shy. She learned to make the begging rounds: homemade dog cookies from this trailer, left-over bones from that one. She knows what time the gringos gather for happy hour. She and Pigeon dog became closer (as can be seen by their kissing in the photo above).

People say I should take Osita with me but I can't. My trailer is too small and it would not be fair to keep her on a leash or cooped up in this tin can.

Living a life on wheels means I'm always saying good-bye to people. I never in a gazillion years thought I'd be saying farewell to dogs and that those farewells would be harder.