Crossing our fingers

Yesterday I again awoke to water under my feet. This time I was pissed. It was the third time in two weeks and nobody had done anything about it. I left for the office prepared to send a nasty letter to the chair of board of directors in San Francisco. When I got there I think I successfully conveyed my attitude because Hilda went straight to her desk and called the landlord. She had to threaten to find another place before he would agree to come do something about it.

At 1:30 I grabbed mike and we headed home. Hilda came at two and it wasn’t until about 2:30 that Don Simeon, the landlord finally showed up. After traipsing half the muddy street in with his boots and kindly depositing it on my wet bedroom floor, he surmised what I’ve been insisting since day one; It’s coming through the #%@! wall. I showed him the trench alongside the house and he set to work clearing it so that the water can run out. I sure hope this works.



While Simeon was checking out the house, the city power died. Thus, we didn’t have an opportunity to troubleshoot the “bomba” that pumps water to our faucets and toilet. According to Mike, one morning after I had left for work it died for good (not the stutter-start thing it seems to like doing every so often). It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s not designed to be unplugged all the time and then plugged back in each time someone needs to take a dump.

Not having any water to do dishes, Mike and I ventured out to get a meal. We happened into an interesting conversation with an Angelino native to Guatemala. He was in town for the seven year anniversary of the death of his mother. It had been a long time since he had returned.