Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Despite these Herculean efforts, the side yard remained singularly uninviting. The soil
was sandy and hard and immature banana trees poked up randomly here and there. The
whole affair sloped downward at an alarming angle from our neighbor's retaining wall at
the top of the lot, to our own crumbling wall at the bottom.
In short, it was a much bigger job than we were ready to tackle at the moment. Endless
truckloads of dirt would have to be brought in to make the space even remotely utilitarian,
whether for a garden or, more ambitiously, a pool. And in either case some or all of the
trees would have to go—an eventuality we weren't prepared to face emotionally or finan-
cially just now.
In the meantime Michael set his horticultural sights on less ambitious territory—the
small sections of garden near the driveway on the east side of the house. These little patches
of turf were both manageable and woefully in need of attention.
And Michael was up for the challenge.
At least theoretically.
☼ ☼ ☼
In hindsight, we probably should have known better than to take gardening advice from
Feliz, our alcoholic neighbor.
As you may recall, Feliz's English left a lot to be desired, and our Spanish didn't ex-
actly qualify us for translating positions at the U.N.
So what were we thinking?
Not much, apparently.
It happened like this. We were standing in the driveway staring at the starved-looking
plants and bare rocky soil that constituted our sideyard, hoping for inspiration, when Feliz
shot down the road towards us like a stunt man out of a cannon.
¡Hola! ” he chortled. “You make jardín ? ” (garden)
,” we said somewhat unenthusiastically. In truth, we were convinced beyond a shad-
ow of a doubt that this man was both mentally defective and a hopeless drunk—what else
could explain his permanent state of cheerfulness, his complete lack of inhibition, his cas-
ual friendliness?
Yes, I know what you're thinking. They've lived in the big city too long and they're
jaded. Give the guy a break .
All good and well.
But you would be wrong—at least about the drinking part.
The guy was permanently plastered. You could see it in his crimson-flecked eyes, in his
jaundiced skin, in the roaring sourness of his breath—and if these subtle signs didn't con-
vince you, there was always the fact that he stood on his roof in the morning and crowed
with the roosters.
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