Calle Baeza, Núm. 7
at 8:19 a.m. on 4 August 2012.
I know. I know. I said that I like that other newer one. However, after giving it a great deal of thought, I have to say that I am convinced that this house is more suitable to my station in life. I walk by this one often. Every time I do, I must stop and stare. Do me a favor. Click on that photo, and make it bigger.
For one thing, look at those classy flat roof drains. Unfortunately, there is one on the right directly above the front door. But I could live with that.
The beautiful park, Parque Benito Juárez, is across the street--right behind me as I stood to take this picture. When I stop and stare, I can actually see myself stepping out from the master bedroom onto that balcony in the morning with a cup of coffee and scratching my ass while I survey the park.
Consider this. The second plaque underneath the street number to the right of the door says, Casa de las Tres Fuentes, House of the Three Fountains. That tells me something. There are fountains strategically placed within that house or on the patio or both. Everyone must know how I feel about fountains by now. The house is bigger than it looks. It extends deep into the block to the rear.
The bulb in the lamp to the left of the door is burned out. That is the kind of home repair that I still have the gumption to undertake if I were given a few weeks to circle in on it. I am not sure whether the GMC pickup would fit in the garage, which was not made for motor vehicles. But hell, I could park it beside the house around the corner in that street, Calle Caballero Baeza, a dead end.
You know what keeps me awake at night? The thought that this house may be owned by a lonely widow lady who lives a solitary existence in there with only the maid and the cook for company during the day. A gentleman tenant to light up her life would be a godsend for her. Lively conversation on a broad spectrum of subjects in the evening. Somebody to bitch to about the quality of the help nowadays. A ride now and again around town in a great pickup truck. Some sage counsel on new and different ways to spend her dead husband's money.
All on the up and up of course. The maid could move her things into the bedroom to the left on the second floor. Or one of the other bedrooms toward the rear where she would feel more secure. She never goes out on the front balcony anyway.