Well, Wednesday was a delight. I got to stay home from work (a little stomach bug) but with our air conditioning on the fritz, all our windows were thrown open and I got a taste of that “indoor-outdoor” living we hope is not too overrated once we finally move to Mérida. Officially “on call” and checking my email, I was home on a workday, looking with a new perspective at this little Cape we’ve lived in for 20 years. My sunroom, if I squint, is my terraza, and those squirrels outside are iguanas. The cardinals are parrots. My pasta tile floors squeak because they’re really oak, but I can kind of ignore that.
Today is Friday, and the windows are still flung open, but it’s
only 65 degrees outside, which is 18 in Mérida, which seems even colder. I’d close the windows, but Paul worked so hard cleaning those screens. It’s cloudy and damp. No cross-breeze to refresh me, just drafts. I’m in woolly slippers and long sleeves. The pretend-I’m-in-Mérida fantasy is gone.
But wait. Sometimes it’s this cloudy and this cool Mérida, isn’t it? Everyone complains of the cold and school officials declare health emergencies. I was in Centro once when it was just below 60, and I still wore a T-shirt because back at home it was snowing. I felt fine, but Meridanos were turning blue, some wearing scarves and gloves. Is it warm out or cold? It’s all relative. And my here-I-am-in-Mérida fantasy is restored. It’s not exactly a pretty day out, but I’m not shoveling snow. I must be acclimating to the tropical weather while living in Connecticut because 65 used to suit me just fine, and now I’m very Meridanoish in my attitude. A light scarf wouldn’t be such a bad thing right now.
Maybe this will also help toughen me to the one thing I know will be a major challenge: Noise tolerance. It’s more than leaf blowers and garbage trucks. The annual Gathering of the Vibes is playing up the road at Seaside Park, and they go until 3 or 4 in the morning. It’s a huge Greatful Dead-ish concert event where attendees camp out and don’t smoke pot at all, not even a little, because that’s illegal, man. I’m about three miles away, and you could hear the bass playing the whole time. Not exactly like the trova music I heard in the distance last time we were on our balcony at Casa del Maya. But also not like a sala de fiesta across the street (or a sports bar over the fence) in Mexico. Being locked in with our HVAC system has cocooned us nicely, until now. We’re all about indoor-outdoor living these days.