Howdy Blogbots. At long last, I'm coming to you from beautiful northwest Tucson. It really truly finally happened. As promised, I moved. It happened fast. On Wednesday, April 21, I took a deep breath and unplugged from the internet. I spent a feverish day loading up my minivan with as much stuff as I could fit and still leave room for me to drive. That night, I slept snuggled in the reclined passenger seat. Apart from setting off the car alarm when I made my final trip to the bathroom, everything went smoothly. I drove away from Portland at daybreak on Thursday, April 22.
I've had a lot of alone time to figure things out. My friend and her partner left on Sunday in their fabulous RV with their orange cat who rides shotgun above the cab. I've spent the past week alternating between driving my minivan in circles (which I call "learning the city") and hunkering in the cool burrow of their mobile home. With only myself to talk to, I'm fully present and feeling things.
The first two days, the weather was lovely, blue sky and sunshine, not too hot. The next two days, thunderstorms blew in and dumped bands of torrential rain across the trailer park, rattling the awnings and turning the sky an ominous gray. It was cold. I was glad I hadn't tossed my fleece into the U-Box. The City of Tucson upped the chlorine content of the city water supply. For a couple days, I thought I was drinking from a swimming pool. I looked up how to neutralize chlorine in tap water: You can boil it at least twenty minutes, let it stand (could take days or longer to dissipate), or you could add ascorbic acid, also known as vitamin C. After a few days, the chlorine is gone, and that is how I realized that rainstorms upset the quality of the City's water supply.
When I'm feeling discombobulated, which I am right now, lost and confused, I turn to my routines and task lists to ground me and give me structure. My routines are shot to hell, starting with waking at dawn. I've never been a morning person! But as soon as the first white-winged dove starts chortling, my eyes pop open. One particular dove is getting under my skin: I can almost make out what she is singing: It's either Give us this day or Hang up and drive. I have no opinion on religious white-winged doves, it's the repetition at 6:30 a.m. that I find irksome. So my routines are toast, how about my task list? Thanks for asking. My task list evolves daily. I managed to find my dinky bottle of white-out, thank god. My calendar is getting pretty crusty as things keep changing. For instance, I successfully applied for an Arizona driver's license, but I have to wait to register the car until I get the title from the State of Oregon in about three more months. I can't get a local bank account until I get the driver's license. I couldn't get the driver's license until I got a street address. See how that works? White-out is my little helper.
I'm house-sitting in an amazing over-55 gated trailer park. The trailers butt up close to each other, all painted in pale shades of taupe, gray, and peach. All the front yards are filled with rocks and various types of cacti. Some of the saguaros are home to multiple cactus wrens. There are mourning doves and white-winged doves all over the place. I saw four Grendel's quail marching in a row across the street. Rabbits noodle around in the gravel.
It's an orderly but strangely silent community. Other than the Neighborhood Watch person Linda, who drove over to me in the golf cart on the second day I was here to find out who I was and what I was doing in their community, I rarely see anyone. In fact, since the day my friends left, I have had no interactions with anyone in the trailer park, other than to wave at a gentleman who drove by in the golf cart (husband of Linda, I believe). The house is on a cul-de-sac, so I know he received a call from someone across the way. Suspicious activity, better check it out. I was outside organizing the boxes in my car in preparation for taking them to my new storage unit. That is how I know people are watching me, even though I don't see them. I don't tend to peer into their windows.
Tonight I decided I would give them something to talk about and even call the golf cart dude if they felt inclined. I put on my sneakers, a long-sleeved shirt, and a sunhat. I brought my mp3 player and strapped a mask around my neck. I locked the kitchen door behind me (I don't trust anyone) and went out into the breezy 88°F evening sunshine. I walked in the middle of the narrow Disneyland-esque street, admiring the twirling pinwheels and spiky cacti, smiling to show I was not a threat. I did not dance, nor did I flip anyone off, as I walked past a dozen or so mobile homes to the secret gate leading onto the bike path along the Rillito River. My friend left me a key to the lock that leads from the trailer park onto the bike path. In moments, I was through the gate, free.
I walked to the west toward the setting sun and then turned around and walked to the east, taking photos of cacti, mountains, the Rillito River, and the Tucson Mall. The river bed is wide, dry, and overgrown with shrubby trees. I wish I'd thought to see if it filled with water those two days we had rain. I imagine it's pretty spectacular when the water starts flowing. Now it's like the ghost of a river, all sandy bed, rocks, and beat up plastic bottles, chairs, and bags. I saw a jack rabbit. I guess it was a jack rabbit. It definitely wasn't a plump fluff ball like the rabbits in the trailer park. He posed, and I took his picture.
It felt good to be out walking. Distances are less than I imagined. This area of northwest Tucson is consumer heaven, if you like shopping, which I don't, all stores, strip malls, and wide traffic lanes occupied by speeding SUVs. I'm learning the grid of streets in the area. On Friday I found my way to the vaccination site at the University of Arizona. On the way back, I stopped at Trader Joe's for Vitamin C tablets, just in case I need to treat the drinking water again. Before she left, my friend warned me to pound down the water and she wasn't kidding. With relative humidity in the single digits, everything desiccates quickly to a husk, including human bodies, especially if there is a breeze. Today there's a red flag fire warning in Southwest Arizona. Fire danger is everywhere, and in the desert, water is a scarce resource.
So, in other news, the check engine light came on again on Friday. I'm hoping it's just the gas cap, you know, maybe I didn't get it all the way screwed on—it's been twenty-four years since I pumped my own gas. The gas cap is new. But you know how it is with cars. And teeth. They rarely heal themselves.
Tomorrow the plan is to deal with reality as it comes at me, like we all do, the way we all meet the bumps and potholes in whatever road we travel.
