Our driver, Manuel, picked us up at the airport and drove the camino sinuoso to San Miguel.
As he left the airport parking lot, the smell of burning electrical insulation wafted through his cab. He surreptitiously reached under the dashboard and wiggled something. The smell went away.
Manuel is a warm, friendly guy, and a skillful driver. I never experience anxiety when he drives us: not while passing trucks, not while dodging animals on the road, not even when his cab is on fire.
While we were away, Patti, our contractor, began construction of our asador (barbecue).
In planning this project, we must have taken leave of our senses, because we thought that by being gone for five and a half weeks, that the asador would have been completed when we got back. As a courtly gentleman once told a rude gringa who was staying with us, "Señora. You forget in whose country you are."
Yeah. We forgot. The asador will get done when it gets done. No point in asking for a status or a schedule. Patti will undoubtedly give us one tomorrow when we meet, but it'll simply be out of courtesy, and our actual results, as they say, will vary.
Wildflowers are at their peak in October. The rainy season is nearly over. Walls of girasoles (sunflowers) line the highways, towering overhead. Tomorrow morning, I'm taking Rose out into the countryside to photograph them. Here she is at Parque Landeta a couple of years ago.
This is what the campo looks like now—like something out of Arizona Highways Magazine.
Below, a steer munches mirasoles (cosmos). They grow here as weeds.
Santa Barbara is very beautiful—and very manicured. Mexico, too, is very beautiful. But it looks like the rural U. S. a century ago. Fields and fields of wildflowers, and lots of unfenced land to walk in.
After three years of living here, visiting the U. S. has become foreign travel. Mexico is now home. It's good to be back.