The Lay of the Land

Life in the Bay, Mexico City, escapism, and news of B.

I recently read that advise to not title a piece until after you’d written it, for how could you know what it’s about until you’d gotten it out of you? I usually have a germ of an idea, plop a title down, and then try to conform the piece accordingly. But, I often veer off, or find that constraining. Today, I’m launching in, title-less. We’ll see what happens.

We’ve had a series of beautiful spring days in the San Francisco Bay Area. A brisk ocean breeze sweeps in every afternoon, delivering a briny tang that was particularly noticeable a few days ago in Berkeley, where I met my friend J. at the Pacific Film Archive for the noir classic The Breaking Point, a strange, troubling, and unique movie about a working man driven by fear and poverty into a criminal enterprise.

Most surprising and arresting perhaps, in this movie from 1950, is the deep connection between protagonist Harry Morgan (John Garfield) and his friend and deckhand, Wesley Park (Juano Hernández). At a time when blatant and state-mandated racism (the South remained segregated) was a given, director Michael Curtiz portrays Park as a dignified and faithful friend at a time when the South was still segregated. The final shot of the film is one of the most heartbreaking I’ve seen, as Park’s young son, alone and ignored, searches the dock silently, fruitlessly, for his father, who has not survived a calamity at sea.

When we left the theater, a delicate sea spray caressed my face, delivered by the light fog drifting predictably in from our own sea churning at the bottom of the long sloping hill ending at the Berkeley Marina. I commented on it. J. said, reverently, Yes, I love it. I just love it.

We crossed the street to Ippuku, where we each had a beer and shared small, exceptional dishes of uni udon and steamed fish. We sat at stools at the counter and took in the vintage, Tokyo-inspired ambiance as 80s tracks redolent with the slightly strangled sound of male vocalists of the era filling the air. It felt like a safe haven from today’s brash, noisy, slick environments. Little lights in baskets hung from the ceiling, casting shadows on the labels on Japanese liquor bottles lining the shelves.

Ippuku’s romantic, timeless entrance

The big news is that I’ve “come to my senses,” as one friend put it, not unkindly, and decided not to entirely cast myself adrift in the world, as I had planned.

After being rudely and shockingly rejected by the Peace Corps less than a month before departure to Tonga for failing to disclose “medical conditions” that I don’t (and never did) have, I, in a fit of pique, decided to leave on a one-way ticket to Mexico City instead, on the same day I was to leave for Tonga with my cohort.

I thought, I’m still going on my (at least) 27-month adventure, casting off from Trumplandia, going where a cappuccino costs significantly less than the brazen, affronting $6.50 that it now commands here. I’ve been wanting to go hang out in Mexico City for years, and always intended to live in the EU before I die. Also, I want and need to live somewhere where I can have medical coverage or at least access to medical care that is reasonable and affordable. I knew I could get that in both Mexico and Spain.

I focused on Mexico and Spain because 1) they are far more affordable than here, and 2) I want to work on my Spanish, and have for years.

My friend J. (same J.) sent me a Financial Times article a couple of months ago titled Why ‘Trump regime refugees’ are falling in love with Madrid about the onslaught of Americans flooding into the city. Of course, prices are rising commensurately and rapidly, just as they are in Mexico City. It seems I’m always behind the curve, or frequently lack the courage of my convictions. I’ve been watching property prices in both of these locations for years. It wasn’t long ago that Madrid was incredibly, joyously “affordable.” (I say that in quotes out of respect for the many people for whom it was never that.)

Anyway. As I was in the midst of selling off all of my furniture, I began to feel uneasy. At the same time, I was looking for more consulting gigs and contracts to supplement my wages and stressing deeply about what would happen if I lost the gig I currently have.

The truth is, it would be a first-order emergency, immediately.

I simply don’t have the financial resources at the moment to cast myself off and trust the universe. Especially at the age of 57.

The truth is, it’s likely I would actually figure it out and actually land on my feet. As much as I worry, I tend to do that.

The problem is, there’s a very real, niggling possibility that it could be disastrous for me, and a very expensive mistake.

The notion of having to turn tail and run back (to get my client’s laptop back into the U.S.) and arrive having 1) no apartment or home, 2) no furniture, 3) no car, and 4) no money in the bank was simply too terrifying.

My friend S., when I told her my thinking, said, quickly, I’m so glad you to hear this, Christy. I was talking to David (her husband) about this. I was really worried.

I’ve always wanted to be the kind of person who could do something like this. Just go to India and change their life, just like that. Emerge enlightened, like Leonard Cohen, or my brave friend who left the corporate rat race a few years ago for a long trip to India, met a man, got married, and is now happily living in Goa with the love of her life.

I wanted to do that, to be that.

The truth is, though, I have done that, and it was a little bit problematic. That’s another story for another time, but in short, I went to Argentina, the kids hated it, my son returned to the US early, at 16, I met a very bad man, my daughter was exceedingly lonely, and upon our frantic flight back with our dog Daisy in tow, the view of our glorious, verdant, relatively pristine Bay Area, full of wild, oak- and meadow-strewn mountaintops was never more welcome. I was almost insane with joy to be home.

So, I’ve been there, done that. Maybe the residue of that experience has stayed my wild heart this time too, and maybe it’s okay.

The nail in the coffin of my grand plan to just take off was when I realized that I would be so stressed upon arriving in Mexico City that I would not be able to enjoy one iota of my “visit.” I know myself. I’d be spending every spare minute looking for work and backup work and conserving money like a motherf**ker.

It would not be fun.

When I, conversely, pondered going there for three or so weeks, checking it out, talking to expats and digital nomads, exploring the tango scene, knowing I have a safe place to come back to… the truth is, I felt much calmer.

As usual, the body keeps the score. My body told me, Don’t be so precipitous. Don’t be rash. Calm the hell down. Plan better. Save more money. Take your time. Think clearly. Make yourself safe.

Of course, as my son says, a feeling of safety and security is not about money. It’s something I have to generate inside. He says I could have all the money in the world in the bank, and I would still be riven with anxiety.

Maybe. Probably. Isn’t that the human predicament? That’s the existential angst of being human. Trying to make our lives mean something before we die.

So, that’s the news. I’m still going to Mexico City on June 16th, but now I’m excited instead of filled with dread. I’ve sold a little less than a third of my furniture, and it’s okay; the place was getting cluttered anyway. I still have to leave the flat, but I think I’m going to rent my son’s one-bedroom at Peacock Lodge, his place near Highland Hospital. It’s not the best neighborhood, but it’s not the worst by any means. It’s near Glenview, which is lovely, and I planted three gorgeous trees in front last year which makes the corner that felt exposed and vulnerable much more cozy and protected. I’m proud of those trees: two Roberts Sycamores and a Liquidambar (aka sweetgum). It will be a pleasure to watch them grow.

One of the main reasons I was impelled to leave, to really leave, was of course our ongoing trials with B., my children's father, who suffers from severe Bipolar I disorder and is homeless. We hear he’s been living in a park in Berkeley. His monthly disability money came in a few days ago, and predictably he now has the leech D. (against whom I filed an adult protective services claim over three years ago for the same antics) stuck to him. He called yesterday, saying he needed his passports so he could register at a hotel—a hotel that happens to be right around the corner, a one-minute walk from my front door.

Unsettling, to say the least.

I went to meet him at the hotel with his Venezuelan passport only to learn he had already checked in with “his wife” (the leech, D.). The Indian gentleman at the front desk was decidedly uncomfortable to field my questions, but nodded curtly and barely perceptibly when I named the “wife” and asked if that was who he was with.

Upon leaving the lobby, I encountered B. on the sidewalk. He’s alarmingly thin and gaunt, but doesn’t look sick or unwell. He doesn’t have an ounce more to lose though. He was wearing short blue shorts and a bright red, skin-tight, vintage, wool biker’s jersey with three buttoned pockets on the back and a small hole on the shoulder. He wore gold plastic Mardi Gras beads around his neck with an assortment of other necklaces. His long thin legs were a sight to see. At 6’5” and thin as a rail, his legs evoke a giraffe’s.

He flew into a rage immediately. We’re reluctant to give him his passports because he will lose them immediately, as he’s lost everything else including his wallet and driver license more than twice since his arrival from Venezuela in February. His US passport is invalid, and his EU passport will be almost impossible to replace. We know this from experience.

Anyway. Enough about that. The situation is a real thorn in our side. What was perhaps most painful yesterday, aside the fact that he followed me halfway home yelling, and I was scared, was the fact that he didn’t ask about our kids. How are they? How am I, for that matter.

Last night, I dreamed I had severe dementia. I also had a little baby, a son. I lived in a massive high-rise. I had left my son in an apartment on one of the many floors and had no idea which one. I was frantic. I was on the ground floor. It was mayhem—crowded, colorful, loud. I ran into three friends I knew in my early 20s in Budapest. They were polite but clearly uncomfortable with me. I discovered I had blood on the side of my face. I was sad, scared, and frantic because I couldn’t find my baby, couldn’t find my own apartment, couldn’t even find the elevator, didn’t know where I lived, didn’t know where I’d left my baby.

It was a nightmare.