Ni Modo

They're sealing up the back windows - perfect open squares that let in the air and light - with cinder block - four to a hole, and sloppily securing them with cement - dripping on the floor - the worker on the ladder dumbfounded as I exclaim, No, what are you doing?! in English, because when I am emotional I still revert to my native tongue. Que tu estas haciendo?

Pues no sei, following orders, is the apologetic response. Dust and cement everywhere, the place a total mess, as though a tornado has come through over the weekend, since we made the deal, and I promised to come with the deposit on Monday.

I've got the roll of pessos in my in my pocket ready commit, to begin my own life in Green River [Ranch] after five months living with host families - sharing toilets, air space, gorditas, morning conversation in sleepy Spanish. After 20 years living on my own. And after 2 months of searching the city for a place to settle down, then a week of toiling over the decision, I'd finally decided on this place with light.

High on the top floor above the people, with a large balcony and a view of the church steeple - I could breathe, drink my morning coffee, practice a few new verbs, and contemplate my day before entering the fray. But it wasn't perfect - expensive, in disrepair, cracks in the walls, fixtures hanging from holes in the ceiling, a super who I detected was already attempting to take advantage of me, and worst of all, with the marble floors and gated entrance and condo feel, not exactly fitting with my image as a Peace Corps volunteer.

And now they're closing up all the back windows. Why? We're calling the owner to find out. The rain. I haven't seen a drop of rain since I arrived in November. And are there are no other options but cinderblock? How about glass?

Dan, my Peace Corps counterpart, says now you know how the Mexicans feel. This kind of thing happens all the time, with no warning or explanation.

Yes, of course. This is just an apartment. But what about the bigger things - the currency crash of 1994 under Salinas when they all lost everything.

Ni modo, is the expression I hear everyday, said with a shrug of the shoulders. It means there's nothing I can do - nothing I could ever do - so why bother trying.

But there IS something I can do. I can say No. I can keep my 3500 pessos and walk away. It's the only power you have over the system at times.

Or as Michael Keaton put it in that cinamatic tour de force, Nightshift, with Henry Winkler and Shelly Long, I choose 'to shun, from the Latin, to push away... to say uh-uh no thank you anyway I don't want it.'

That's what I do...I walk away from the mess and head to Jiminez where Margarita has a sweet, clean, furnished studio with hotplate and mini-fridge, services included, half the price, and befitting of a Peace Corps volunteer.