After two major house renovations (Ashby Avenue in 2009 and Virginia Avenue in 2006), Bob and I are quite content to be living in an apartment, with someone else responsible for the maintenance. Every place we live has its idiosyncrasies. The most memorable for us date back to our second year in Romania. Here is Kuwait the routine is not unfamiliar. Call the maintenance guys and then wait! And wait and wait.
In Kuwait, a city of roughly two million people, there are apartment blocks everywhere. Villas are fewer and farther between, at least in our area of town. We call our surroundings "The Projects," but in an endearing sort of way. Our eleven-story building has eight towers, with three apartments per floor. That's a total of 264 apartments. Bob tried to capture the 264 air conditioners with his camera, but it was hard to fit them all in.
Our apartment is nothing fancy but we are enjoying it. We have a spacious living and dining room area, and two large bedrooms, one of which will eventually be converted into a studio for Bob. Interior decorating is on hold at the moment, till my 100-day probationary period at work is over.
In the meantime, we've rearranged the furniture so that the kitchen is no longer just a place to cook and do laundry.
We regularly sweep up the plaster that falls from the crumbling walls.
We've taken out the windows, caked with dust, and have gotten them into pristine condition, which makes the sunrise over the water each morning even more glorious.
Most importantly, we've gotten to know the plumber, the electrician, the air filter cleaner, and Abu Ahmed, the general manager of the apartment complex, whose good side it is important to be on. Maintenance happens when it happens, sometimes two weeks after the toilet stops working (fortunately we have two bathrooms) and sometimes late at night. The other night we were playing music with friends, and the doorbell rang at 10:00 p.m. Our new cheap toilet seat had arrived to replace the old cheap toilet seat that had broken in two.
As I write this blog post, I hear the drip from the kitchen faucet that I've heard for the past several weeks. One of these days (or nights), I'm sure the plumber will show up!
Don't worry. It wasn't I who got the tattoo. It was my niece Natalie. I was a mere accomplice on that day, holding her hand while Bob photographed and videoed the process. After the big event, Natalie and I wrote the hit song "I Got a Tattoo." 
The tattoo reads "Agape." Natalie chose this word, written and drawn to look like a human being, based on the verse in Colossians that talks about "clothing ourselves in love." The verse had special significance during Natalie's year in Mexico, and now, she'll be reminded of it for the rest of her life. Here are the words to the song:
I got a tattoo; I got a tattoo.
Below is a short video clip of our first take on the song. (Unfortunately, technical failure cut us off before we were done.) If you're interested in the sequel written by my sisters, niece, and I to sing back to Natalie, you can find it on my Facebook wall, posted by my mom. By the way, the part about that song sticking in my head is so true. I have probably sung the song hundreds of times since its creation in June. Hopefully, someday, I can get the rest of the original posted here, or somewhere.
He performed two solo concerts in June in the beautiful Santa Ana Theater, housed in San Miguel’s public library. Playing banjo, guitar, and ukulele, his repertoire included the following:
He had a good time working on these and other songs and then performing them for two welcoming audiences. He also did instrumental improvisations on all three instruments. He hopes to have more such opportunities in the future.
In the past, as a painter, Bob worked mainly from his imagination. Then, a few years ago, he took a landscape painting workshop in Slovenia, where he discovered the beauty of plein-air painting—painting in the out-of-doors. He would like to offer similar workshops here in Mexico, so this summer he spent his time on the edge of town or in small villages painting some of the many chapels in and around San Miguel. The architecture and simplicity of these chapels appeal to him. So do the bright colors that he decided to use as his medium. If any of his paintings appeal to you, they’ll be on sale soon. (I’m his agent—I have to say this!) You can see his paintings from the past ten years and listen to some of his improvisational music at his website: 
Each morning we watched the local fishermen bring their boats onto shore with their catch from the night or early morning hours. Each morning Bob bought fresh fish directly from the fishermen, and then the restaurant prepared it for us. Each morning we had grilled fish for breakfast—red snapper, white snapper, and sail fish. Life doesn’t get much better than this—eating fresh fish, watching the activity on the shore, and listening to the waves and the wind. Playing in the waves, walking the beach, and watching surfers were a great pleasure as well. There’s nothing quite like the ocean!
While at the ocean, we took time to reflect on some of our favorite water spots that we’ve enjoyed over the past ten years since we first met. I wanted to make a top ten list, but it was too hard to choose only ten. Here are some of the places we love and what we love doing there:
On May 12, I was cleaning the house—sweeping the black-and-white tiled floor. I lifted up the wastebasket and there was the scorpion, not more than two inches in length. Scorpio did not move, and neither did I. We both froze. I called “Bob, Bob,” but Bob did not hear me from our rooftop bedroom where he was playing music. What should I do? I wondered. I didn’t have the guts to kill the thing, and I figured if I went upstairs to get Bob, the scorpion would disappear. Sure enough, when Bob and I came down the stairs, there was no sign of Scorpio. He had retreated into the hole in the plaster from whence he had come in the first place. Bob took the vacuum cleaner to the hole, hoping to suction him out, but who knows whether that worked.
Two days later, after a big rain storm, the second sighting took place, only this time we were ready for action. Bob and I walked across our star-lit rooftop, flashlights in hand, into our bedroom. Bob immediately felt that we were not alone in the room. He walked over to a side wall and shone his flashlight on the floor. Sure enough, there was Scorpion #2—not moving at all. Bob took off his flip flop and smashed it dead within seconds. In my mind, I had rehearsed doing this myself since the first sighting. Bob had said, “Don’t think. Just kill.” That first day, I was initially spooked. I walked around wondering when and where the next scorpion would appear, afraid to be barefoot. Bob reminded me, “This is Mexico, and only the little light-colored ones have a fatal sting.” Linda consoled me, “The sting doesn’t hurt any more than a bee sting.” With their heartening words, I decided to have courage, and I soon got used to the idea that we were sharing our apartment. Now each morning when I come down the stairs, I greet our friend in the hole in the wall. “Hi Scorpio. How are you today? Are we going to see you today?” Now, instead of me, it seems Scorpio is spooked—at least he’s hiding out. 
While listening to Tonya’s many Mexican sayings, we both watched her smooth agility in flipping the hot tortillas over with her bare hands. When they’d made enough, we sat down to a tasty snack of fresh homemade gorditas filled with a ground beef and potato mixture called picadillo. Bob is now the tortilla guy in our family.