Ferguson: My Living Room

Living room. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.

It surprises me sometimes the wash of pleasure I feel from color and clean lines.

My living room refreshes my spirit with its vivid simplicity.

Thanks to family members and secondhand stores for this daily gladness.

Some other nomadic living spaces:

Living space, El Paso, Texas.

 

Living space, Opelousas, Louisiana.

Living space, Alamogordo, New Mexico.

Ferguson: Spring Gone Missing

Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.

Oh, where is Spring?

Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.

It snowed on Easter.

Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.

 Unacceptable.

Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.

I had to take matters into my own hands.

Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.

On Monday, I picked up a bouquet of Spring from the local grocer. I put it next to the long-ago deflowered paper whites from official winter, which I clip every once in awhile to create the illusion of Spring to come.

Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.

 No, no, no, no. I am finished with winters in cold lands.

Bringing Spring home. Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.

I am already planning my next annual home. It will be a warm and sunny place.

In the meantime, these yellow and red-cheeked tulips sustain my spirit.

Ferguson: My Shower

Oh, my shower.

The water pressure.
The space.
The light of the sun that cascades through the window.
The window.
The Greek-Isle tile, the white walls.

The hot of the hot water, its arrival so prompt.

I am in the Mediterranean.

Shower, Ferguson, Missouri. November 2017.

After a year in the tiny capsule shower of El Paso, I am in luxury here.

Others may see just a typical bathtub and shower with a 1970s kinda vinyl liner surround.

Nay, 'tis a spa.

Shower, Ferguson, Missouri. November 2017.

My shower in Opelousas, not bad. But no window; dark. Scars and stains of many years in the tub.

My shower in Lafayette, also not bad. But also dark, dreary.

My shower in Alamogordo - no window, but fresh off of my time in Caucasus Georgia, it, too, filled me with grateful awe at its expanse.

My Ferguson shower.

It makes me sigh.

El Paso: The Very Uncomfortable Bench

My El Paso apartment is furnished. It has less furniture in it now than when I moved in, as I asked the landlords to remove some of the pieces, both to give me more space and to weed out non-useful items.

See that red bench in the picture below? That is what my landlady used as her 'couch' for many years, even to watch television. It is uncomfortable. Its only utility for me was to put stuff on it, and that didn't justify the valuable real estate it occupied in my tiny living space.

Wood bench, El Paso, Texas. September 2016.

I asked that it be taken away, which it was.

Imagine my surprise when I visited El Paso's International Museum of Art and saw the  representation of a typical salon of an upscale El Paso-Juarez family in the early 20th century.

Wood bench, El Paso, Texas. March 2017.

Perhaps the benches discouraged guests from staying too long.

El Paso: My New Digs

My El Paso apartment - in the back, unseen. El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

Back here I visited house hunting present and past.

I present you today with photos of my new digs in Sunset Heights. It came furnished, which has its pros and cons.

My kitchen. It overlooks the rooftop terrace. Which overlooks the landlords' garden.

My apartment kitchen, El Paso, Texas. September 2016.

My apartment kitchen, El Paso, Texas. September 2016.

My bedroom, office, and living room.

My living space in my apartment, El Paso, Texas. September 2016.

Look, a real bed. The first since I left Alamogordo. Not that I'm complaining about my chic red friend from Alamogordo and Louisiana:

My chic red bed.

In my "living room," see that folding table in the lower left-hand corner? I bought that from my friend "Suzanne" (who I visited in D.C. last year) at her moving sale, years ago, for one dollar, and it's traveled with me in the US ever since. Perfect height, perfect length and width, so light and yet sturdy, and it fits snug as a sweet puppy in the ledge beneath my car's rear window. It is my office.

View from rooftop terrace outside my apartment, El Paso, Texas. September 2016.

My rear view from the rooftop terrace that I access from what used to be the kitchen back in the day, but which is now the bathroom. You can see UTEP in between a neighbor's roof and a mountain.

View from rooftop terrace outside my apartment, El Paso, Texas. September 2016.

Here's a slip of a Juarez view - in the far background - from the side of my apartment, also on the rooftop terrace. 

View from rooftop terrace outside my apartment, El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

An evening view from the terrace. Most afternoons and evenings, the clouds congregate over by the mountain, unseen in this photo, but behind the foliage that's on the upper right quadrant of the picture.

The wind - the opinionated, bossy, busybody El Paso wind - likes to swoosh around the exterior corners of my apartment and complain and sing at I don't know what.

El Paso: House Hunting

 

Sunset view from new home, El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

August 2016.

El Paso marks my 5th year of annual moves.

In Caucasus Georgia, my first nomadic year, my homes were assigned to me, the first in New Rustavi and the second in Old Rustavi.

In Alamogordo, New Mexico, my second nomadic year, I learned that renters:

• Are second-class citizens; and
• With unusual financial lives cause some confusion for potential landlords. 

Nevertheless, I found a terrific apartment quickly, with story here and here. And here was my temporary home til I could move into the apartment.

In Lafayette, Louisiana, I based myself in a hotel when I arrived. Miraculously, I found a teeny place in a dream location about two days after I landed, and was able to move in about two days after that. Here and here are about my hunt. And here is my moving day, heheheh.

In my year for Opelousas, Louisiana, I based myself in an airbnb - well, two airbnbs - while searching for my new digs. The fact that I arrived back in Louisiana just before Mardi Gras was not the smartest decision, but it all worked out fine. My Opelousas apartment turned out to be the perfect place for me. Friendly neighbors, walking distance to a grocery store, super close to I-49 to zip down to Lafayette, and a different view of South Louisiana than I had in Lafayette, which is exactly what I'd sought.

I've learned that when I get stressed out over finding a place, it's of my own making, and is not only unnecessary, but unhelpful.

Well, I should say that I've learned it even better after my El Paso hunting experience.

The biggest challenge, I've discovered, is finding the right information source for apartment hunting. Yes, most cities have a rent.dot.com or some such, but these generally focus on the larger complexes. Craigslist is useful, and that's how I found my Opelousas apartment.

In El Paso, it was Hotpads that led me to my chosen place.

But before I found it, I located a Plan B apartment - a teeny studio on Mesa on the west side that would have worked just fine for a month or two, if necessary.

Where I ended up, oh my, exceeded my dreams! I am within walking distance of both the university and downtown El Paso. I am just a few blocks from I-10. The range of architecture here is like a bag of Halloween candy - so many delectables to look at and sigh over.

My apartment is furnished, which means sleeping on an actual bed this year - the first time in two years! Although I cherished my red couch-bed, it's a luxury to have a real bed. The utilities are included, as well, which saves on start-finish hassles and deposits and bill-paying.

My cherished red chairbed from Alamogordo, Lafayette, and Opelousas.

Ouch, though. Frankly, the rent is a real stretch for me. And it's a tiny place with barely enough room for me to set up my work space. But location, location, location.

I'm in the Sunset Heights neighborhood, one of the several historic districts in El Paso. My apartment is within a large, historic home. I can see the roofs of UTEP from my rooftop terrace. (Oh, I didn't mention that yet?)

Louisiana: Departure Day: Don't Do What I Did

Pathetic. Just pathetic.

When I moved out of my Opelousas apartment, I broke all of the rules of efficient, effective, low-stress packing up and leaving.

Well, most of the rules.

Here's what I got right

• As per my lease language, I gave my landlord my 30-day notice of leaving in writing. In this notice, I gave my landlord a time range of two or three hours for when he could inspect my apartment.
• As a CYA in the event an issue cropped up with the return of my security deposit, I took photos of my apartment after I'd emptied and cleaned it, prior to the inspection, including the insides of the oven, refrigerator, tub, etc. (I had also taken photos when I moved in.)
• I sold my bulky stuff a few weeks before move-out day. I priced my stuff in accordance with my priority to sell quickly, out of respect for the time and stress I was willing to invest in the process.
• I delivered various items to second-hand stores in the days before my move. 
• I tried to weigh these variables in deciding what to pack or not: Replacement cost versus amount of space the item takes up in my car.

Here's what I got wrong

Complacency - the enemy of efficiency and effectiveness!

When I sold my beloved - but wildly bulky - chairbed, I had a fairy-tale calculation of how much extra space its absence freed up in my car, with this cascade effect: 

1. I miscalculated how much stuff I could take with me to the next home base;
2. I kept more stuff than I would have otherwise;
3. Didn't give as much thought to careful organization and packing as I might have otherwise;
4. I ended up with more stuff than could fit into available space; and
5. Had to ditch some things at the worst possible time - in the midst of packing my car for departure. 

In my la-la thinking mode in the last couple of weeks, I spent time with last dance and other hurrahs instead of the dull mundanity of packing the little things in advance. Boring tasks such as organizing office supplies and papers and such, corraling them into tidy spaces, ready to be put in their right places into the car. Consequently, I found myself - on the moving day! - of stashing this shit every which place I could because the other thing I did wrong was:

Somehow forget just how long it takes to pack stuff. The process of sorting and packing stacks minutes into quarter-hours into half- hours into hours of tedium. My self-congratulatory glow over selling the big things quickly and early was so bright, it obscured the necessity to knuckle down in the days before the move.

Fortunately, a buddy came over and helped me out a bit, and I sure appreciate that.

Other than that blessing, my move-out day was fraught with frustration, stress, anxiety, and moments of despair. Every tiny bit of it a result of my own poor planning and execution. Damn it.

Once I was on the road, I had to work hard to give myself a break and let it go. Had to remind myself that, hell, I accomplished my mission, not as neatly and expertly as I would have liked, but I accomplished it. Put the damn experience in perspective and enjoy the day on the road.

Just ... don't do what I did.

Rootless: Upstairs, Downstairs - or - Going With the Flow

When I moved to Alamogordo, I thought I knew what I wanted: A second-floor apartment. I didn't get that second-floor apartment, and I'm glad I didn't.

As a ground-floor tenant, I: 

• Had French doors that opened out to a private corner of a community back yard, with shade trees, grass, an attractive stone wall, and my bird feeder, 
• Realized utility savings during the summer when I ran the air conditioning,
• Didn't worry about the noise I made when I walked around upstairs (as the sound proofing of the floors was very poor), and
• When family visited, the ground-floor access was so easy for them. 

My back yard view from Alamogordo apartment

When I moved to Lafayette, I thought I knew what I wanted: A ground-floor apartment. I didn't get that ground-floor apartment, and I'm glad I didn't:

As a second-floor tenant, I: 

• Have the privacy I crave in a place where, if I were on the ground floor, there'd be frequent vehicle and person traffic going by my windows; 
• Enjoy a view of big, lush, green plant life next to slanted roofs, and 
• Can sit outside on the wrought-iron chaise on the veranda by my door and look at the view and not a parked car. 

View from apartment, Lafayette, Louisiana

Speaking of views from my places, one of my favorites is the windowsill in my bedroom at Nely's house in Rustavi, Caucasus Georgia. This was an upstairs place.

Windowsill view, Rustavi, Caucasus Georgia

View from bedroom window, Rustavi, Caucasus Georgia

This wasn't exactly my view from Azeb's house in Nazret, Ethiopia, but it was close:

View from Azeb's house, Nazret (Adama), Ethiopia

This was a ground-floor place. At 6:00 p.m. sharp, one must close the windows because that's when the bimbies (mosquitoes) come out. 

Rootless Relocation: Departure Day Minus Two

Today:

1. I am relieved - sold both of my beds just this morning! And just as importantly, they have been picked up. 
2. Did laundry. 
3. Put on the khaki trousers that I'll toss at the end of the day Friday. 
4. Counted the eggs in the refrigerator and saw that I have precisely the quantity I need between now and my departure on Friday. 
5. Combined my hand-wash laundry soap and my machine-wash laundry soap into one container. I'd hoped I would be emptying the contents of the larger bottle into the smaller bottle, instead of the reverse, but no.
6. I think by the end of the day, I'll be able to empty the contents of my refill-size bottle of liquid hand soap into the smaller hand-soap dispenser. 
7. Put items for donation into my car so I can deliver same tomorrow. 

Reflection

I'm liking the return to empty space in my apartment. Feeling it's the right decision that, next time, no "real" beds. (Wouldn't it be funny if I found a furnished place in Louisiana? I could live with that.)

Whenever I think about the perfect space for me, I think about the large square room in the Hotel Taitu in Addis Ababa. An Italian teacher lived in this room. There was no bathroom in his room, but there was a sink with running water. There was also a large wooden balcony, covered, where he had a big table with chairs. From the balcony, he overlooked the little cafe beneath mature trees, behind the hotel. High ceilings. Every day, he was able to descend a grand, wide, dark wood staircase to the elegant, albeit a little tired, lobby.

It turns out I still have my poster from the Yukon, a relic of the road trip my daughter and I took to Alaska one summer. Only now it is in a different frame; I removed it from the orange frame that had lost its glass, and discarded the frame. So where I arrived in New Mexico with three frames, I leave only with one, having sold the first some months ago.

Will everything fit in the car?

It's still a mystery.

The Volume of Space

Borrowed space  

For the last two years, I lived as a perpetual guest in Missouri and Rustavi, Georgia. I lived in other people's space, among their things. I was very lucky with the beneficence of my hostesses and with the attractiveness of their environs.   





My space

Now, for at least a year, I'm living in my own space again.

And by "space" I mean that in two contexts: 1) my own place; and 2) several rooms that are mostly empty. 

Volume of space

Over time, I'll need to add a few pieces of furniture to my place. A guest bed. A couple of chairs. A table.

But for now, the airy volumes of space, the unobstructed expanse of floor, and the blankness of the ivory walls and ceiling feel soothing. They are a freedom.

I do have color in my line of sight, but it is bound neatly by frames.  My Jim Logan poster. My Pasenko Band poster. The french doors frame the green backyard, through which I often see, in the afternoon, a trio of black cats loiter beneath the tree. 
    

I'm not sure I'm a fan of the late architect, Paul Rudolph's, designs, but this quote about and by Mr. Rudolph resonates, taken from The Paul Rudolph Foundation blog: 

 Paul Rudolph, the Carl Jung of architects, believed that architecture was basically about manipulating space, light, proportion, texture and material to fulfil the psychological needs of the occupants.

Famously, he said, “People, if they think about architecture at all, usually think in terms of materials.

While that’s important, it’s not the thing that determines the psychology of the building. It’s really the compression and release of space, the lighting of that space and the progression of one space to another.”

As I appreciate the beauty of my volumes of space, I can't help but think of a bad example of space design. It's a state office building in Jefferson City, called the Howerton Building. It's a big empty box, for the most part, but its volume of space is merely a warehouse for human capital, not a space that respects humanness. The interior is crammed with cube farms and long, claustrophobic, empty corridors that make you feel like you're on a spaceship. The exterior lacks only coiled barbed wire atop a chain link fence to distinguish it from a prison. When you learn that the "human capital" within is responsible for providing social services, it's even sadder - the enervating physical environment making a challenging job even more difficult.  

Howerton Building, Jefferson City, Missouri

Not sure how I digressed over to the dark side of the volume of space. Maybe because when I have volumes of space that promote feelings such as liberty, serenity, and creativity, it makes me angry about designs that dehumanize a building's inhabitants.

So to get back on a happy note: this rootless person feels good about my airy space - it belongs to me and yet it doesn't weigh me down.

Rootless Relocation, Part 11: My New Permanent Temporary Home

Permanent temporary?

It's permanent temporary because I only plan to be here in New Mexico for one year, two years tops. I've taken to telling people that I'm into r-e-a-l-l-y slow travel. Not this slow, but slow.


Moving in

Here's a photo of all of my worldly goods, carried here with me in my car.

All my worldly goods

It took me about ten minutes to move in. No beer, no pizza. I did pop a diet Coke when I finished. Oh, and that's the dining room (or breakfast room, if you prefer).


A permanent temporary home for what remains of my classic, paperback sci fi? 

This great apartment has a beautiful built-in bookcase in the den. Who would have thought there'd be a place for my remaining library of paperback classic sci fi?!  

I'll continue my release-to-the-wild project, but in the meantime, I'm happy they have a comfortable and lovely spot to hang out.

Which brings me to .... 

I'm going to have to accumulate some stuff again.

Like: 

• Bed(s)
• Broom, mop, vacuum cleaner
• Coffee maker
• Bed linens
• At least one table
• Some real chairs (not just the two camp chairs I have)
• Microwave? 

A TV is not in the plan.  

The apartment is so great and I feel that nesting urge to buy cool stuff to make everything "perfect." 

I have a dilemma: How do I balance a desire for a personal environment that gives me sensory pleasure with a desire for practical asceticism?

And what thought process do I want to use when buying more stuff?

• Buy new?
• Buy used? 
• Get from a place such as freecycle? 
• Combination of the above? 

I'm naturally a frugal person, so that's a key driver in which direction I go, but do I also want to espouse any particular philosophy about where I get my stuff? For example, some people only get used stuff. Or only get free stuff. And so on.

Fortunately, Alamogordo has more thrift shops per capita than perhaps any town I've seen, so theoretically, I should be able to find some cool used stuff.

Alamogordo also has an active freecycle presence. (I learned about freecycle from my daughter.)

Until I figure some of this out, I'll be sleeping on the floor. 


Connected

I got connected to the internet the day after I moved in.


 
 

Rootless Relocation, Part 10b: House Hunters Alamogordo: The Decision

In Part 10a, I introduced my housing choices in Alamogordo:


Three apartments. Which will she choose?

• Apartment #1: Amenities for a price
• Apartment #2: Two bedrooms but kind of isolated
• Apartment #3: One bedroom but cute

If you'll recall, I arrived in Alamogordo on Monday, September 24, and looked at the above three finalists on the same day.

#1 had no vacancies, but I left an application in case something opened up in the next few days.

On Tuesday, I returned for a second look at options #2 and #3. I went ahead and completed the application for these properties (both offered by the same realty), paying $30 for the privilege (which included a credit check). The property manager would run my credit while I looked at the two properties again.

When I returned, my credit check had been completed (and the property manager immediately gave me a copy of my report) and I was ready to make a decision.


Ruled out

After the second look, I ruled out the two-bedroom place.

There was nothing really wrong with the space. It was workable, and I liked that it had the 2nd bedroom, but the living room was tiny. But even this wasn't a huge deal because I don't need a lot of space. Nevertheless, what I had here were three segregated rooms - I guess it was the flow that felt off-putting. The shared courtyard accessed via the front door was pleasant, but the sun really beat down on it and the door was flanked by two large shrubs, both factors making it a challenge to make a little shady spot for me to sit outside and read or just enjoy the fresh air.

Also, the neighborhood, although nice enough, had a barren feel to it. Not much to deflect the sun vegetatively or architecturally. I'm a shade-loving girl, so this was a negative.

Rent = $400. 


I chose ...

My perfect place was option #1, the large apartment complex, but there were no vacancies, alas!

But I was lucky in that there was a lot to love in option #3, the one-bedroom with a private little courtyard.

The kitchen was completely open to the living room with a spacious counter top in between, perfectly suited for my dining and computer work. The back door and windows overlooked the sweet little courtyard - all mine! - that had a petite shade tree. An adobe wall with a lockable gate separated the courtyard from my designated parking space.

The apartment was on a little cul-de-sac off of a secondary street, so it provided easy access to the main parts of town but without too much traffic.

I jotted down some maintenance issues to share with the property managers, and we agreed they'd discuss same with the property owner and they'd give me a call the next day re: his willingness to do what I wanted him to do. In the meantime, I said, I'd call the apartment complex for #1 on the off chance something had opened up. (The property managers knew this had been my first choice from the get go.)


But what's this?

The next day, I called the staffer at the #1 option in the apartment complex. He said something cryptic: "I think I'll have some information for you in about an hour and a half. I'll call you then."

I waited.

And then: "The owners have a question about your ability to pay the rent. But I have a one-bedroom apartment I can show you that's already rented, but the new renter hasn't move in yet. If you want to see it."

No hesitation on my part: 'Yes!"

I went over to the complex at the agreed-upon time. First things first, about my application. The staffer explained that the owners were concerned about my income stream.

I wondered aloud if my sterling credit rating would reassure the owners, and by the way, I just happen to have a copy of my fresh-off-the-press credit report! Would the owners like to have it?

Yup, they would, so I handed it over.

So we went to look at the one bedroom apartment. He had shown me a two-bedroom apartment when I arrived on Monday, two days earlier, as that was all that was available to view then.

The one bedroom. Love. Love. Love. It was perfect for my needs. The den, a small room off the living room, although it had no door, was the ideal size for a guest room. French doors (swoon!) led out to a common green space. Ceiling fans in every room. Mmmm, ceiling fans.   

And then came the climax: Several military renters had just received deployment papers, thus there would be several vacancies. Available on Tuesday, one week hence. Rent = $475.

Do I want one?


I chose again

Yes!

Rootless Relocation, Part 10a: House Hunters Alamogordo

Back here, I described my apartment hunting experiences on one afternoon.

Now, I found myself in a classic House Hunters scenario.

Three apartments. Which will she choose?

• Apartment #1: Amenities for a price
• Apartment #2: Two bedrooms but kind of isolated
• Apartment #3: One bedroom but cute

Apartment #1: Amenities for a price

The pros: 

1. In familiar territory, I wouldn't normally find this a desirable quality, but in terra incognita, I do: It's a large apartment complex, which means I'm in the middle of a herd, which feels more secure. 
2. Ceiling fans
3. The one bedrooms have a den, making guest accommodation nice
4. Beautiful landscaping
5. Swimming pool that I might not use much, but which would be nice for my guests
6. Small gym
7. It's in a part of town that's fairly close to city center
8. A bit of outdoor space
9. Laundry facilities on site, free use

The cons:

1. Although under my budget of $500, it's significantly more expensive than options #2 or #3
2. Carpeted floors, which will require the purchase of a vacuum cleaner
3. If I'm on the ground floor, noise from foot traffic in the unit above mine may be an issue, especially if there are kids
4. There is not currently a unit available to me, so I may have to wait for a vacancy to move in, and I may have to take whatever opens up first, regardless if it's ground or second floor; or a two-bedroom versus one bedroom. (The two-bedroom is still under my $500 cap, but really, it's more space than I need or want to heat or cool.) 

The squishy:

1. I really like the complex, based on no tangible reason. 
2. The air conditioning factor is a plus/minus. On the plus side, it's familiar and reliable, independent of humidity. On the con side, it's definitely a budget concern.   

Apartment #2: Two bedrooms but kind of isolated

Pros:

1. At least $75 cheaper than option #1
2. Two bedrooms, meaning private accommodations for guests
3. An exterior courtyard that is pleasant
4. An old, but kind of charming little kitchen
5. Laundry facilities are steps away
6. It's vacant, so occupancy is almost immediate
7. No upstairs neighbors to make noise above my head

Cons: 

1. Although the place isn't isolated, it kind of feels isolated
2. The vibe seems a bit more staid than I'd like

The squishy: 

1. This apartment is perfectly suitable for my needs, but I'm not in love with it. 
2. Swamp cooler, about which I feel ambivalent.

Apartment #3: One bedroom but cute

Pros:

1. At least $75 cheaper than option #1
2. Tile floor throughout which means easy maintenance and no vacuum purchase
3. A private little gated courtyard with a sweet little tree, all for me
4. Designated parking spot
5. A breakfast bar
6. It's vacant, so occupancy is almost immediate
7. Kitchen is large enough to accommodate a small table, though I'd probably not use it for that 
8. No upstairs neighbors to make noise above my head
9. It's in a little cul-de-sac with some other buildings, all of which seem well-maintained

Cons:

1. Will the owner do some of the minor maintenance tasks I've asked about? If no, will that be a deal breaker for me?
2. Accommodating guests will be more difficult than in the other two options, as there's only the one bedroom and the very small living room
3. One of the tenants has a derelict car parked right in front and the property managers seem uninterested in talking about it to the tenant who owns it

The Squishy:

1. At the moment, I don't have a bed. While I could make do indefinitely in my sleeping bags on a carpeted floor, that just ain't gonna work on a tile floor.
2. There's a little free-standing fireplace in the corner of the living room that adds charm, but that also takes up space. At the end of the day, it doesn't add value to the place, but it doesn't take it away, either.

So, which will she choose?

Stay tuned.

Rootless Relocation, Part 9: Roof Over My Head

About a month before I left Missouri, I started looking for possible places to live in Alamogordo.

What I didn't want

I knew I didn't want to live in a free-standing house. Didn't want the yard maintenance, mostly. On a lesser level of concern, I wanted my abode to be one among others rather than standing solo. Felt more secure.

Also, while acknowledging that Alamogordo is basically a desert land, I didn't want my immediate environment to be like a barren parking lot, bereft of any landscaping.

I didn't want to spend more than $500 per month.

What I did want

The perfect-world scenario would be a furnished casita in someone's back yard. Barring that, I wanted: 

• Apartment, one or two bedrooms
• $500 or less rent
• Some charm
• Some attractive landscaping on the exterior - no water-sucking lawn needed, but certainly indigenous shrubs and other plant life
• Within Alamogordo city limits (as opposed to nearby Tularosa or La Luz)
• Landlords who maintained their property well

The above were must-haves.

I also preferred a place without carpet, so I wouldn't have to buy a vacuum cleaner.  Every durable good I buy, I'm going to have to get rid of in a year, so I'd rather not accumulate stuff like that unless absolutely necessary.

Where I looked before I came to Alamogordo: 

• Craigslist
• Apartment complexes that have websites
• Real estate companies that have rental properties listed on their websites

I had no luck looking for properties on the local newspaper's online site.

Also, websites such as rent.com - waste of time in places like Alamogordo.


Once I arrived:

The afternoon I arrived in Alamogordo, I looked at potential apartments:

Visited the apartment complex that looked the most attractive to me in my distance search. Priced under $500 for both one and two bedrooms. The one bedroom had a "den" that could accommodate my guests. Beautiful landscaping. Pool and small gym. Alas, no vacancies at the moment, but I was able to look at a two-bedroom empty apartment that would soon have a new tenant. The manager gave me a head start in some energy-cost realities in Alamogordo. Because it's so hot and because this complex uses refrigerated air (versus the swamp coolers), summers are very, very expensive energy-wise. He noted that the ground-floor apartments were easier to cool than the second-floor spaces. I completed an application on the spot so I could be ready if someone should decide to move out at the end of this month.

Looked at three apartments offered by a real estate company I'll call Sweetheart Realty. This is because the receptionist called me sweetheart. The way it evidently works in Alamogordo is, if you want to look at some apartments or other rental properties, you go to the real estate office, let the staff photocopy your driver's license, they give you the keys and an hour to look at the properties, then return the keys to the real estate office.

So I looked at the three properties, each priced at about $450, and I was pissed. In two of the three apartments, the linoleum floors in the kitchen and bathroom had to be from the 80s, if not earlier. There were gouges in the floors. The carpet was that two-shaded brown short shag, also from the 80s. The counter tops had bare spots along the sides where the laminate had broken off. Didn't look as if the walls had been painted since the last tenants. The back "yards" were a barren slice of gravel and dirt, oppressed by the sun.  I took the keys back to the real estate agency and asked (in a neutral voice) whether the agency owned the properties or managed them. "Sweetheart" said it managed them, and I replied that I'd take a pass, as the owners did not maintain these properties; they didn't invest in their upkeep. I politely asked for the  photocopy of my driver's license and "Sweetheart" replied that the agency needed to keep it. I asked why, and she said "for our records." By this time, an agent had emerged from her office to conduct some sort of business. I asked the receptionist again, in a non-confrontational tone, "why"? And she responded "for our records." I tried one more time, "I understand you want it for your records, but why? What do you do with the photocopy"? For a third time, incredibly, Sweetheart said "for our records." The agent who'd emerged instructed her to give me my photocopy as it was clear I wouldn't be doing business with the agency. She was right, and I accepted the photocopy.

Note: Renters aren't serfs seeking the favors of a lord. Renters are paying for a product and landlords are selling the product for a time. A landlord wants to know a renter can pay the rent and give reasonable care to the property. In turn, the renter wants to know a landlord respects the renter and property enough to invest in its upkeep. A landlord who expects the renter to sign a one-year lease has a responsibility to assure the renter that he will keep his side of the deal by providing good maintenance. 

I visited another real estate agency, that I'll call The Good Company, about its rental properties, and the atmosphere couldn't have been more different. No "sweethearting" me here. When I was asked for my driver's license to photocopy, I asked if I could have it back when I returned the property keys, and the rental agent immediately agreed. I liked both properties. One had two bedrooms, the other had one bedroom but it had a charming, albeit tiny, enclosed courtyard with a juvenile tree. I returned the keys, said I was interested, but they were my second choices after the ones at the large apartment complex. The agent explained the application process, gave me an application form, and I was on my way.

With three possible options in my pocket, I turned my attention to a hotel for a couple of nights.

Motel

I'd already selected my motel option before I came, based on internet research. The White Sands Motel. Checked in. A killer place. Great wifi (secured). Clean, clean room. Nice mini-fridge and microwave. Coffee machine. Nice TV. Clean telephone. And here's a thoughtful touch: A power strip on the large desk that makes plugging in various electronics a cinch. No crawling under and behind clunky furniture. Immaculate, tidy, nicely landscaped, and colorful exteriors.  All for $50 per night. Fabuloso.

Camping

Also part of my lodging plan was to camp at the Oliver Lee Memorial State Park until I found a permanent place. So after I looked at the rental properties, checked into the hotel, and had lunch, I drove out to look at the park. Gorgeous. Gorgeous. And at 10 bucks per site, wow. It's about 12 miles from town, so there's a trade-off in convenience, but I'm not going to invest in a hotel til I move into an apartment.

On my drive away from the park, I saw a black tarantula cross the road. Think about it. This spider was large enough to grab my attention in the road ahead of me as it crossed. Gol-lee. I briefly revisited my camping plan. I'm not even going to find a photo to upload. Would just give me the shivers looking at it.