Two days before the new decade I was be-bopping through the Centro district of San Miguel de Allende, deep in the geographic center and heart of Mexico. I was four days into a two-week trip, and had just been informed for the third time that it was speculated the town was perched atop a deep and vast reserve of rose quartz. I’d fallen in love with the town within four hours of my arrival, and was exploring every reach of it I could find on foot. This particular Sunday I’d managed to find the Mercado Sano for some “light” shopping, and was headed back to my teeny Air B&B – a wee studio “apartment,” one of four in the unit – all named after famous actors and actresses of Latin heritage. Mine was the Ricardo Montalban. Salma Hayek was across the way, and Anthony Quinn perched atop Mr. Montalban.
I blazed past a quaint wooden door on a hilly, cobblestone street at my usual walking speed that is somewhere between the speed of sound and the speed of light.
Quick point of note: all of the doors in San Miguel de Allende are wooden and quaint, and all of the streets are hilly and cobblestone. Think hilly on the scale of San Francisco, and cobblestone of the magnitude of Paris-Roubaix.
About six steps beyond the property something clicked in my head – it dawned on me that in the open doorway there were two things: a red and white Keller Williams sandwich board metal sign proclaiming “Open House,” and two emaciated Japanese men stereotypically taking pictures and looking vaguely worried.
Obviously I walk faster than I think, so it took a few beats (and steps) before my brain registered: “Wait, that was an open house…which means you can actually see one of these fabulous places you’ve been dying to see! Don’t have a hot date, a doctor’s appointment, or need to take a pill – stop in and see what’s what.”
Whereupon I doubled back and tiptoed past the anxious Japanese into the open expanse.
(My eternally curious, hamster-wheel mind demanded to know what they were worried about. Were they lost and thought this was their friends’ house, and couldn’t figure out why they’d suddenly moved? Could they be taking the sudden departure and total evacuation of furniture from the house personally? Were they under the mistaken impression this was the address of a restaurant they wanted to try, and were trying to figure out what kind of restaurant not only makes you cook your own food, but buy and prepare it as well? Did they see something they shouldn’t in there, like a dead body? …yes, all of these thoughts crossed my overactive imagination in the span of one leg stride. If there’s not already medication on the market for this kind of stuff, I hope Big Pharma comes up with a little medicinal cocktail soon. It’s exhausting.)
Also, I know the sign said “open house,” but sometimes I still feel a touch weird about walking into unattended open home doors. Especially in foreign countries. Where I don’t speak the language…or happen to have my passport on my person. Call me crazy.
Or, just reread the previous paragraph about how my mind works.
I followed the stairs upward from the room to the left, my mouth agape at the simple beauty of this unusual house. They just don’t build places like this in Oklahoma. Couple of reasons why: first of all, most of the Indian Territory is barren, red clay land upon which we like to erect ridiculous, sprawling structures displaying all the architectural imagination of an intellectually challenged kid working with two Legos, and tow, we have tornadoes – frequently – so we have to allow at least an acre of the lot devoted to some kind of below ground (preferable) or above ground (why the hell would you?) storm shelter device, which doubles in the non-storm season as storage for pickled vegetables, the dark scary place you double-dog-dare the littlest neighborhood kids to run into (and then lock them in there), and a breeding ground for insects and spiders only Stephen Kind could dream up. And whatever housing we erect in the cities comes from some IKEA pre-fab set, where you can only tell your apartment from the neighbor’s by the number on the door (provided it didn’t get blown off in a tornado), or, if you’re lucky, the fact that yours is painted a slightly different color.
We do the same thing with housing developments in our bedroom communities. While psychologically exhausting, it keeps the two-LEGO kids in chips.
The realtor met me as I was ogling the kitchen, approximately the size of a three car garage and appointed in every top-of-the-line appliance you could name. The fridge still had protective plastic wrap on it, and I was sure the flooring was made from the enamel of the tooth of some very small, highly endangered Amazonian rodent.
She introduced herself in heavily-accented English as Gina, and to me she looked like the Mexican version of a love child produced by Pat Benatar and Gene Simmons. Slightly heavy, masculine features, but slammin’ punk rock grrrl hair. I instantly liked her warm manner and how she attempted to explain the price to me in English as she drew the numbers in the air with a manicured finger.
“Ahhh, Juan poin’ Juan fie…no,” she shook her shaggy black half-Mohawk and started again, here eyeballs pointing up and closing as she searched hard for the numbers. “Juan poin’ Juan seeks fie meelyun.” She looked at me and beamed, both proudly and hopefully. I looked at the thousand square foot patio topped at the far end by a sunken, tiled Jacuzzi that could fit three Rugby teams and asked slyly…optimistically, “Pesos?”
Another quick shake, a quicker grin, and “Noh. Dullars.” She beckoned me to follow her deeper into the house.
“Oh, is that all?” I asked, wondering how many Volkswagens would fit in the master walk-in closet. “I’ll take two.” She grinned.
At this point another man sauntered in who bore the snarky attitude and air of someone who actually could afford this gig. I left them to it and walked up more stairs to explore the remaining three bedrooms, each of which had its own, private patio terrace, and when I returned to where Gina’s makeshift office was (I had to follow the breadcrumbs I’d dropped to find my way back), I caught snippets of his comments.
“Yes, well,” I heard him lecture as he sniffed haughtily, in his khaki safari hat, knee socks and bad skin, “in a year it will only cost half that amount.” The disdain was all but dripping down his chin at having to explain – what he thought – were clearly the basics of economics to this poor, ignorant Mexican. Woman.
My skin was crawling.
He was the kind of guy who gave Americans a bad name. He clearly knew it all, obviously thought Gina was beneath him, doubtless voted for Trump, and was a MAGA hat away from completing the image. While I didn’t find him physically threatening in any way, I loathed his comportment, and decided to stick around for a bit just to soften the blow of his snarkiness and hopefully leave Gina with a better taste in her mouth about Americans.
When he finally decided to grace other Mexican nationals with his superiority, sniffed and maundered off, I gently thanked Gina for her time, wished her a lovely day, and commented on her fingernails, which were perfectly gorgeous. I love myself a good manicure – always have. When they find a genetic predisposition towards noticing nails, I will be the test bunny for their research.
She asked if I would sign her guest register, and if there was anything particular I was looking for in San Miguel. “At these prices, I was wondering what you have in, say, a nice refrigerator box by the side of the road?” She giggled and I left, complimenting her nails (they really were fabulous) and wishing her well. Another family of five had walked in who looked kind of like they’d crossed the border in a 1964 VW Microbus held together with coat hangers and duct tape, but who probably owned the VW plant in Mexico.
<Down here, I was learning, make zero assumptions based on the cover of the book, and you will always be pleasantly surprised. (Aforementioned American MAGA asshole exempted. He surpassed all expectations about what one suspected he’d be like based on what he looked like.)>
The next day I emailed Gina (she’d given me her card) and asked if she had a link to some information on the house that I could forward to a millionaire friend of mine. “Make no mistake,” I wrote, “I certainly don’t want to mislead your expectations – I couldn’t afford this even with a winning lottery ticket, but I have some friends in the states who might want to see it.” I described myself physically to remind her who I was, and hit send.
Within 17 seconds she responded with a link, said of course she remembered who I was, she’d be happy to show my millionaire friends any other properties, and, at the end of the email, said to let her know if she could help in any other way. Muy, muy friendly.
I almost left it at that, but then – like a cartoon lightbulb going off over my head – I remembered her nails. The perfect shape, the perfect length, and super fun colors. Her pinky and ring fingers were painted an iridescent Weimaraner color, her middle fingernails were shimmery gold, and the remaining digits a soft, dusky pink. A palette that not only worked together, it said, “I’m professional AND fun,” followed by an air snap/wave and hip thrust. I couldn’t get them off my mind.
Yes. Fingernails. I’m convinced it’s in my DNA. Bring on the test tubes and lab coats, I’m ready.
So I wrote back and, on a whim, remarked on them again and asked where she got them done.
Long story short: she gets them done by a woman in Dolores Hidalgo (that’s the town, not the woman), and her kids live there (Gina’s kids…not too sure about the manicurist’s kids), she’s actually going there tomorrow, it’s maybe thirty minutes out of town, and she would love to have some company if I wanted to ride with her. Also Dolores Hidalgo is known for it’s important role in the Mexican Independence, and she’d love to show off her town to me! Would I like to go?
Another quick point of note: I have recently started to perform in improv.
Rule #1 of Improv: Listen.
Rule #2 of Improv: Always say “yes, and.”
So even as I pictured my poor mother twisting slowly on the rotisserie spit of worry, no doubt convinced I was going to wake up in a bathtub of ice with both kidneys gone, I threw caution to the wind, embraced (and listened to) the Universe’s Gift of Interesting People and Adventures and wrote back, “Yes! And where and when shall I meet you?”
Half Maverick 
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