I live in a gringo-infused area of Mexico called Lake Chapala. Both beautiful and ugly, new and old, with art everywhere and cobblestone streets, Ajijic is still a real Mexican town. An added benefit–a low crime rate—except stealing purses. People are friendly and care for one another here. Mexican or Gringo, we are friends.
Inexpensive when compared to The States, Ajijic still has rapidly rising prices, as elsewhere. Nevertheless, my expenses here are about half what they were in the Silicon Valley. Including my house, which—to put it nicely–is old and funky.
I moved here about six months ago, when I had to find a place in a hurry. The dogs and I had been evicted from our casita after living there about five weeks, and I needed a place in a matter of days. The place I found was in a great neighborhood; it had a huge yard. But. The landlord had a huge Chrysler SUV with flat tires in the driveway, and my little Honda barely fit behind it. The gate opener didn’t work, so I had to open the huge metal gate by hand. And the house? Old. Not well-maintained. Painted colors I didn’t like, with pictures I hate, and an old torn couch with the springs not working. The beds—you don’t want to know. A colony of roaches lived in the oven. The washer and dryer were filthy. In fact, the whole house was filthy.
I have always rented furnished houses down here; they are readily available, but owners throw all their old crap in their rentals. Usually, the first thing I do when I move in is pack up all the owner’s stuff and use my own. Anyway, this entire house is an old, broken-down kluge of a shack.
As time went on, I repaired and replaced a lot of stuff. And, of course, I got the place fumigated. When the dogs and I wake up, we spend some time in the yard, me in meditation and light exercise, and the dogs running around and, I hope, taking care of business. The owners are nice, if unresponsive. Which means that I get most things fixed myself. And everything broke in the first few months I lived here.
However, I have come to enjoy the place and accept its shortcomings: It is large, the rent is reasonable, and the gardener/handyman does a good job.
My dogs loved the place, too, and no one complained about them. The neighbors’ dogs barked; my dogs barked. That’s the way it went.
Then one day I got a phone call from the owner. I couldn’t imagine what the call could be about. It turned out he and his wife had decided to sell my house. They wanted to sell it to me, and I wanted to buy it. But a few short conversations with friends convinced me that I was in Fantasy Land. No way could I afford this house.
The real estate agent I consulted gave me a bottom-of-the-market estimate, sight unseen. It was far outside my budget. Which left me stunned. The house I thought I hated, that I’d be out of in a year, that I came to enjoy, was being sold and I’d probably have to be out soon.
The good news is that the owner says I can stay as long as I like. That, if true, will be very helpful. Mostly, I’m sad to be leaving. I try to get excited about a better-maintained space, and enough of a yard for two small dogs. But I just wanted to relax here for a while.
Well, things change, especially here where rental agreements don’t mean anything, and besides, I don’t even have one. Perhaps it will be nice to move to a more livable house.
I’m leaving on vacation soon, and I plan not to think about where and when to move for the week plus that I will be gone. Then we’ll see. I’ll need to save money. And it seems that I can take my time finding a new place. Not so bad.
