The air was as dry as the desert it blew across. I sat on a borrowed chair outside my red brick Mexican slum dwelling waiting. Hungry. Thirsty. Broke. Disenchanted in my decision on returning to this hell hole.
A fiery sun bathes the crumbling neighborhood - dirty children play barefoot in the broken street, a block away a sooty train howls towards the border, various music and futbol games issue from the surrounding warrens - and I sit here and I wait.
An insurmountable sadness overwhelms me as the age old question washes over my reeling brain: What am I going to do? What next?
My plan - for whatever that may be - is to hole up here for a year living with fundamental basics and save as much as I can to relocate to Cambodia. That is if I can dodge Big Brother in lieu of receiving checks for a year. If that is attained, I can move to Cambodia and dig that teaching gig.
A year is a long wait. But, I must do this. I have to do this. I am thrilled - at the same time fearful - at the aspects of relocating halfway around the globe for further adventures and most importantly writing fodder.
Of course this is simply a stepping stone to a more vastly lucrative (and equally screwball) objective. If all the Internet crap is true, then I within a period of five to ten years, I could attain enough to open a small Bed & Breakfast or perhaps a cafe to retire in a certain amount of comfort.
Long, strange days are ahead to be sure. I simply have to keep my wits about me...and my health. And that is failing as rapidly as my mind.