Bad Days in Paradise
Paradise and I aren’t on speaking terms this week. We’ll work it out; we always do, but right now it’s testing me. That’s just how it goes between old friends who know each other too well to quit.
Sometimes it’s the sound of your water pump kicking on every two minutes and thirty-seven seconds (yes, I timed it) because there’s a hidden leak somewhere in your freshly “upgraded” plumbing. In Mexico, most homes use electric pumps, so every mystery drip means pesos and patience slipping away. Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart guy probably slept better than I have lately.
Thursday, in the narrow hours of pink-blue dawn, I woke up to a single blue eye staring at me from the corner of the bedroom. I was halfway terrified until I realized it was just Moby’s third eye, glittering judgment at dawn. I should have known. Noelle had picked him up the day before from his new groomer, who sent him home clean, smelling great, runway ready, and, if the third eye was any indicator, slightly more enlightened. It turns out groomers in La Paz often add a little jewel to a freshly bathed dog’s forehead.
Moby’s the enlightened one in this house. I wake up and pad down through the construction to the kitchen and attempt coffee, Moby encouraging me to come outside. Noelle’s not far behind. I like the quiet before the city stirs, the hum of doves and the rustle of palms, the sound of life beginning outside. Still, it’s their kind of joy that sets the tone. They start the day open to the world, and I follow suit, usually with coffee in hand. And the coffee here is some of the finest in the world.
La Choya, one of several excellent roasteries here in La Paz, carries a lineup of beautiful Mexican beans (Chiapas, Oaxaca, and plenty more) glistening and fragrant by the kilo. I’ve been rotating through them, still chasing the perfect grind. Some mornings the espresso sings; today it sighed, mostly because my sleepy self didn’t pack the machine right. Luckily, La Paz is full of great cafés for mornings like this, places that’ll hand you a perfect cup, remind you you’re not doing so bad after all, and, best of all, actually have somewhere to sit.
The nicest furniture I’ve ever bought (but don’t actually have yet) is somewhere in the middle of the Sea of Cortez, floating toward La Paz. A slow parade of Parota wood tables, custom-made chairs, a big mustard-colored armchair, and a giant couch built to fit the room just right, all hand-crafted and hopeful, bobbing our way. When it finally lands, I’ll have to keep it wrapped like Christmas morning because the house won’t be painted for another couple of weeks, and I can’t risk the overspray from those very welcome ocean breezes.
For now, I’ve got this camping chair angrily digging into my shoulder blades like it knows it’s destined for beach days. I get it. I’m not built for sitting still either. The beach does call to me, and if I’m honest, I’ll probably answer later this afternoon. Moby loves it there, sprinting for the waves like he’s got stock in the Sea of Cortez. People have started mentioning that the water’s getting “colder,” which always makes me laugh. It’s still perfect, clear, calm, and exactly the kind of “cold” that reminds you how lucky you are to live by the sea. I don’t mind my friend Paradise cooling down a little, to be honest.
Some of my frustration comes from learning new things, not just Spanish, but all the digital tools and real estate systems that seem to multiply overnight. It’s been tedious, full of starts and stops. I want to run, but I’m still learning how to walk. Every login, every upload, every new platform feels like another lesson in humility. I love finding homes for people, though, so it’s worth the bruises. I just wish there were more karate and a little less fence painting, fewer “wax on, wax off” days and more time out in the field kicking ass. I'm committed to the process, because I want every client to get the best.
So yes, I’m basically camping in my own house. But the pool’s perfect, and the inflatable mattress I once used as a bed now makes a decent pool lounger. Not glamorous, but not bad either.
And honestly, the bad days don’t stand a chance for long. There’s fresh sushi that rivals anywhere I’ve lived, mind-blowing tacos on nearly every corner, neighbors who look out for each other, and music floating in from the Malecón on weekend nights. The sunset over the bay hits like therapy. Moby snoozes under the palms like he’s cracked the code to happiness. A neighbor waves, the pump quiets for a minute, the air smells like salt and bougainvillea, and Paradise and I remember we go way back. We’re just good friends having a weird week, and by the time the sky fades pink, we’ve already forgiven each other.
When you find yourself in La Paz, let’s grab a coffee. Paradise probably met you at the airport. By then the house will be done, the pool will be ready, and we can sit awhile, swap stories, and see how I can help you find your way here too, with Paradise and Moby listening in, nonchalant and beautiful as always.
