There was supposed to be a meeting today between the seller and the real estate agent early this evening. The real estate agent was supposed to pay the seller the remaining part of what he is owed. (I also found out the seller was not telling the 'whole truth' when he told me he had not been paid a dime.) Tomorrow, the workers are supposed to have access to the house. I am supposed to have access to the house. I am finding it very difficult to believe anyone. I do not want to loose my faith in the human race. I can only trust my intuition at the moment. I'm hoping the rest will gradually come back. Tomorrow is supposed to be Thursday. (That is my sick sense of humour.) We will see.
Today I kept very close to home. I felt fragile. Like something might snap. I tended to myself with care and love.
Sylvia shopped for groceries. I felt sad I could not be there to help. However, that's the way it was today. When Sylvia comes home from grocery shopping, it is a sight to behold. Her kitchen comes alive. She gears up into overdrive. Everything is organized down to the last green bean. It's fun to watch. Martha Stewart has nothing on Sylvia. All items are organized and put away 'just so'. Fresh produce is soaked, cleaned, dried and put into fresh bags for refrigeration. Lettuce and herbs are washed, then laid out individually to completely dry before storage. Limes are cut and put into containers to be at the ready should we need some to squeeze on our salads, in our beer, over our fruit or some other new idea which Sylvia might have researched on the web the evening before. Sylvia toasts almonds, peanuts and oatmeal. Home made granola is prepared. Sylvia cuts up fresh corn tortillas and deep fries them into tortilla chips. Fresh salsa and guacamole is prepared. Sylvia is a marvelous cook. Every night we dine on sumptuous foods prepared and cooked to perfection in her domain. Sylvia still thinks I am leaving as soon as my house is finished.
And so ... we whiled the evening away, enjoying tapas on the terrace. Fresh salsa and freshly cooked tortillas. The air felt incredibly new, full of ozone as the thunder and rain rolled over San Miguel. We retired into the house, cooking a dinner of cactus salad, green beans and fillet of chicken pounded thin by the butcher. Candles lit the evening as dusk settled, classical music filled the air. The sound of huge rain drops in the courtyard comforted us as we watched from the snugness of our table and chairs. We laughed. We talked about our dreams. We spoke in 'southern' accents and pretended we were sitting on the porch of our antebellum mansions sipping mint juleps. We wondered where 'Prissy', Miss Scarlets' maid had gone. We wished she was with us. We consumed dark, rich, black chocolate. Life is sweet.
Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before, how infinitely rich and beautiful life is in every way, and that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever...-- Isak Dinesen