Grass is greener, both sides of the fence!

One day last week Leo asked, “Had breakfast yet?”

I grabbed my bag and we headed to the gordita place. I’m certain there are a hundred gordita places in Etzatlan. This one is on the man street; that’s what I call it. Block after block of repair shops, tire and tool stores, that kind of thing. Man stuff, man street.

These aren’t stores like we are used to seeing. Might be five or six a block, open fronts, no signage. Might be more workers than tools.

I sat in a plastic chair, at a battered red metal Coca Cola table, waiting for my gordita. Across the street, a dozen men hung out around the moto (motorcycle) repair shop. Judging by the number of motor bikes in front, my guess is some are for sale.

The tortilleria next door had a fair number of customers in and out, each taking time to chat before leaving with a kilo or two of fresh tortillas in hand.

Crosswise is a farm seed store. A spotted white roof dog is asleep on the upper corner. The other lot has a dozen big trucks parked in and around, in various stages of repair or waiting.

Constant traffic streams past; walkers, school children in uniform, a young man picking up trash. A truck delivering bags of cement, the propane truck, a garbage truck, a lawn and garden truck, another stacked with homemade bricks. An ordinary day.

“I miss this,” I told Leo over plates of assorted gorditas. “I miss the constant street activity, watching people, feeling like I’m part of it all. I had that in Mazatlan.”

Leo, who is an old man in a young body, said, “Sondrita, sometimes you lonely. I see you.”

Well, that was last week!

This week I am in Mazatlan, not at my old stomping grounds, but a hoot and a holler south. I’m staying at a resort with friends. Altogether there are nine of us. Plus, I get to see other friends. Hard to be lonely with this group!

We love Mazatlan. Kathy and I hit the ground running, seeing old friends, knocking items from our Mazatlan “to do” lists.

Ironically, last week I wrote about finding friends in the Obits. This week I nearly got to write my own. That is a terrifying thing.

I left my studio unit to meet Kathy and Richard in the lobby to catch the shuttle to the Marina for dinner. I am wobbly enough without sea water on the elevator floor to add to my woes. My wet shoe sole slid out from under me. I didn’t fall; I soared and hit the marble tile head first.

Kathy said I had the biggest goose egg she’s ever seen. I thought my head split open and there was nothing funny about it.

Within minutes trained staff, a lifeguard from the beach and the hotel doctor were caring for me. When they could move me, they transported me to Kathy and Richard’s room where I was incarcerated for the night, under Richard’s good care. He is a retired GP.

I’m so very lucky. No broken bones, no concussion, no permanent damage, not even to ego. Details are fuzzy and may they ever remain so!

Colorful. That is me in shades of purple and blue. And black. Black from above my brow to mid-cheek. I’ve the best fright mask for Halloween. May it please not remain that long!

Blind-folded, we poke our hand inside a bag of life and pull out our day. From now on, whatever I reach, I’m calling perfect. It might be gorditas and the street scene. It might be my balcony over-looking the beach. Might be my backyard.

As usual I’ve caught myself pining for grass on both sides of the fence. Do I never learn?

Meanwhile, I shall work on a new definition for “Golden Girl” as purple, my main skin color of the day, segues into gruesome gold. It is an annoyance, not a disaster!

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].