Happy hour at the campground started at 4:30pm. We left at 8:30. Margaritas. I spent the morning in a Christmas card-making class. In the afternoon, we went to the post office.
Four weird things about that. First, the two towns we’re sandwiched between have post offices which are only identifiable by the chalk (I kid you not, CHALK) U S P O above the doorway in very small letters.
Hey, this is the Wild West. The post office doesn’t even have a FLAG.
Second, you can only find it by asking someone. And that someone doesn’t know how to speak English. (And I’m fine with that; I am proud that the United States doesn’t have a national language. It’s part of our freedoms, and I value it.) My Spanish is limited to Uno, Dos, Tres, (don’t know how to spell them) Feliz Navidad, and the lyrics to Rayando el Sol (because I listen to it ten hours a day for the first two months after Glenn goes on a work trip). So getting the directions to said post office was… difficult.
Third, our normal mail goes through one town, while any express mail goes through another town. And… get this, express mail is not DELIVERED here. So you spend $15 for express mail, but unlike a 44-cent stamped envelope, you have to actually drive to the post office to get it.
Four, in order to get to the post office, we have to go through a border patrol/inspection checkpoint. I really tear up at least once every day about border patrol and attitudes toward Mexicans. The way they sell it down here, I’m learning, is it’s not about the Mexicans crossing; it’s about the drugs. (Well, that’s what the NICE people say.)
However, I had one person tell me I should not go hiking without first getting a concealed gun permit, and, as someone else later said, not because of the four-legged cougars. Which is still better than the all-Mexicans-from-Mexico-are-dangerous-criminals attitude. *sigh*
The drugs are not entirely a prejudiced concern. They just discovered a truck with like 1600 pounds of marijuana or something insane like that. I’ve seen border patrol catch people twice, once because of a flat tire, and once because of one headlight being out. And I really don’t see why a forty-five year old woman is so dangerous she has to be kneeling in a ditch with her hands over her head. A bus crossed over, how I don’t know, and we were driving amidst ten or fifteen border patrol cars carting them to Tucson. (I woulda thought they’d be going the other way…)
One thing I didn’t imagine before I got here, is that border patrol stuffs people in the bed of pickup trucks. There’s a top over the bed with a locked door, but it’s short enough that people have to be awkwardly scrunched in there.
Do you know how hard it is to step up into the bed of a pickup truck? (Near impossible if you’re not under thirty.) Okay, now imagine doing that, and then climbing through a three-four foot doorway.
Meanwhile, back in the campground…
Campground living is different. For example, if Glenn walks the 1 minute walk to the office to ask a question, it’ll take him an hour and a half to get back. You stop and chat a lot. And the people are the COOLEST. And most people are retirees, so an “activities director” is coming in a week to entertain the “snowbirds” for the winter.
I can totally get used to this life.
So what are you thinking this weekend? Any plans? What’s your life like?