de mal humor

Monday I returned home from a trip to Huehue to find my door ajar. Now, I was certain I had locked it on the way out. I went to ask my neighbor, "Who went in my room?"

(It should probably be stated here that at this moment there were many people outside my front porch. Most of them were Señoras who were efficiently killing and starting to cook over ten turkeys. The rest were the mayor and the auxiliary mayors from the surrounding communities. No one would give me a straight answer about what they were doing with the turkeys.)

"Well, we needed to get into the room adjacent to yours, and the key to the outside door wasn't working. So we went in your room."

"Um...well...if you do that again, could you close the door afterward?"

"Oh, but we were all out here. Nothing bad would have happened."

Given the fact that we were in front of all of the local government, I contained myself, and went into my room, shutting the door behind me. I uttered an oath. Then there was a knock on my door.

"Yes?" It was the girl who had rented my room before I moved in.

"Can I come in?"

I let her in. She seemed to just want to shoot the breeze for a few minutes, and informed me that she is probably moving into the adjacent room (the one that my neighbor got into) next month. I was still trying to keep my cool.

On her way out I asked, "Ana, why are they killing all those turkeys?"

"Yes." She said. And she left.

As she shut the door, I uttered another oath and made some disparaging remarks about...well, I'm sure you get the picture.

Then I saw it--the open bottle of wine from the difficult night before, sitting on the table in the middle of the room. If they didn't think I'm a hard drinking, loose American woman before, they surely will now. I swore again.

Security has warned me against going into too much detail about my valuables and possessions on this website, but there are plenty of things in my room, including my new stove and tables, that I would hate to lose. My room ought to be my room--not an entrance into another area of the building. I know this culture is a communal society that doest put a high premium on privacy. I'm trying to make concessions. But I need people to respect the lock on my door. I'm still pretty incensed about it, but I'm not sure what to do yet. Pissing off the wrong person, especially on the mayor's staff, could mean death to projects I want to do later. On the other hand, as Marcelino warned me, "es una inseguridad."

And the fact that no one would tell me what they were doing with the turkeys was just annoying. I mean, if a bunch of people showed up and started hacking up poultry in front of your door, wouldn't you be a little curious as to what was going on?

The truth is, I've been in a bad mood ever since the incident. I felt like there was a big deficit in respect for me personally, as well as my privacy. And my intelligence. Ideas on how to delicately handle the situation?

a stone for a pillow

For the past several days I have been driving both myself and everyone I love crazy with the following conundrum, which I will now proceed to share with you.

Moving is traumatic. Most of us weren't meant to be gypsies. We like to, at the end of a long day, come home to a warm bed, perhaps a cup of a favorite beverage, and some source of entertainment.

For the first four months here, I lived with a delightful family in cell-like room with a lot of hygiene problems. I was glad to leave, but saying goodbye to my family was a tearful and emotional experience. I still miss walking with Ana by the river and letting little Franco into my room to color.

So I moved into the second floor of a really nice building, with an indoor, first-world style bathroom, a proper kitchen, a little balcony, and an area to entertain. After a lonely first night, I settled in and looked forward to enjoying the next two years there.

Until I went to see the mayor with the president of the women's group. After we left the office, she tarried a few minutes talking to him, and then hustled out, grabbed me by the arm and spoke to me in a hushed tone: "Listen, the mayor wants you to move into the apartment next to me. It would be free. You could keep me company. You could move in this afternoon!"

I panicked. The room next to hers is a medium-sized with bright pink walls. For me, especially after an entire floor to myself, it would be smallish. Also, I would have to buy a bed, a table and a stove (at least), whereas in the bigger place I was just borrowing those things.

In the end, I could not find a way to politely refuse the mayor's generous offer, though I would really prefer to stay here. So I will wind up spending a big pile of money on furniture other needs in a place I don't actually like as much. Hey, at least it's free. And maybe it will endear me to the mayor.

When I get depressed about it, and want to start wallowing, I force myself to think of two F-words first:

1. FREE. This will save me about 13% of my income. I have decided to indulge in more travel, or maybe more peanut-butter every month with this savings.

2. FRIEND. I will have a next door neighbor who always loves to chat. This would be different from the current family I live with, who is standoffish. Furthermore, she is an important person in the community, especially with the women and adolescents, who are two groups I really want to work with.

After reflecting on these two F-words, I allow myself to think of any other F-words that come to mind. But forcing myself to consider the positive aspects always makes the glass look a bit fuller.