Impossible to cancel #Comcast in #Santa #Fe

While at dinner with a friend, Aaron, I told him about the conspiracy to prevent the Internet from reaching my home.  Aaron, a founder and board member of the local public radio station, said he had a good experience allowing the phone company to handle the phone, and install Internet and the TV reception.  All he needed to do was add that QWest would also balance my checkbook, take out the garbage and erase mold from toilets to make what he was saying beyond too good to be true.

The next morning I called Qwest and give them the entire job.  This required a long and complicated conversation with a friendly woman, who began by adding services to my phone line, even though I was happy with what I had. 

Then I had to stop the Comcast trenchers from going to 6 Estambre Road, Place, Court, Ditch, Trench, Trough, Alley or any other variation. 

I called Comcast and heard the following message seven times: “For English press one.  Thank you for the delay while we process your call.   Thank you for calling Comcast.   Our walk-in lobby hours are… thank you for taking time to listen to this message… thank you for being nice to us before it was necessary… thank you for being you… thank you for sending the money…”

After I pushed Number 2 to downgrade or cancel service, I heard another “Thank you” and then NOTHING.   No lush violin music that says that the telephone company really doesn’t want to answer your questions about why your bill doubled from last month to now.  No sitar or tabla tunes indicating that I had been transferred to India.  Nothing.

Remember: I was attempting to speak to the highly technical cable television company that proposed to be responsible for bringing me the miracle of dozens of channels for entertainment, shopping, religion and celebrity poker.   It is this cable company that is no phone service!  Does this suggest overwhelming competence?  

While in the Land of No Sounds, I punched in Marianne’s extension.  Nothing.  

Tried zero for operator.  Nothing! 

Then I alternated, Marianne’s extension and zero dozens of times and got nothing.  Not a sound, not a raspy moment of heavy breathing, not even a suggestion to go to their Internet site (which I couldn’t do until I had access to the Internet). 

Sometime between my 4^th and 7^th call, I became resigned to the fact that was impossible to cancel Comcast or to communicate with any human being who worked for that company.   Perhaps, from this time forward, any appointment made with Comcast could never be unmade.

The next day, while we were at lunch in central Santa Fe, a man called my cell phone and said that Comcast was at my home, ready to dig that trench and install the Internet and television. 

Although I wanted to ask exactly where they were, I said no thanks, please do not trench.  I explained that I couldn’t get through to Comcast or the supervisor the day before.  Expressing no emotion whatsoever, the man thanked me and ended the conversation.  So the relationship with Comcast ends not with a trench but with a polite non-whimper.  Now, will QWest show up as promised tomorrow?

When All Connect #Santa #Fe doesn't

When I called All Connect to find out why we had not been visited by their technician on the agreed-upon day and time, I was told that our order for television and Internet connections had been put on hold.

I inquired, “When were you going to tell me that we were on hold?”

Answer, “I’m informing you now that it was put on hold a week ago.”  I was glad to finally get that information.

“Why was it put on hold?”

“I was not given a reason on what I have in front of me.”

So I called the phone company again and was given the name and phone number of Comcast, a service that might install both cable TV and Internet access.  

The woman I talked to at Comcast tsked-tsked, adding that All Connect had a terrible reputation.   She guaranteed on the grave of her mother (which, I believe, already had wireless Internet connections for any emails from The Beyond) that Comcast would do a far better job. 

I was reminded of going to a new dentist when I was a kid.  The first observation from the new tooth-puller was that all fillings by all other dentists who worked on my mouth were amateurish, dangerous and needed to be removed before my overbite allowed me only to audition for the Blue Collar Comedy tour audience.

However, despite all the promises of being the better company, as far as Comcast was concerned, I was a new customer and would have to be on the bottom of their technician’s considerable waiting list.  Any installation was at least two weeks away.

I reluctantly agreed.  During that time, I continued going to the local El Dorado library that had several computers on which to read my email.  It was far from a perfect solution.

I was concerned about the titles of the emails from my friends that I might open in that small, almost intimate public library staffed by friendly El Dorado volunteers.  What if I opened the joke about the prostitute and the Pope and that traumatized an innocent nine-year-old lad who went to the library to play the computer game Sponge Bob Square Pants: The Battle for the Bikini Bottom?   Rather than being banned from the library, I threw away all jokes without opening them, even the ones with a subject line  “I laughed so hard I wet my pants.”   

I couldn’t order additional films from NetFlix.  This was becoming important because we didn’t have cable TV and were watching Netflix every night.  My list of 25 titles to see was rapidly diminishing and Grace began complaining about my depressing choices, including “Deep Water,” about one guy’s failed attempt to sail around the world in a homemade boat; “Veronica Guerin,” in which a female newspaper reporter gets murdered in the first three minutes; and “The Battle of Algiers,” about Algeria’s bloody fight for independence in 1957.   When I governed the choices, I tended to ignore chick flicks.   

About two weeks later, I figured out how to connect the roof antenna to the TV set.  That gave us five commercial, educational and religious channels not to watch.   Soon: the quest for television and Internet continues with the visit of Michael, the Comcast Tech.

Getting the Internet in #Santa Fe, long-term project

CHAPTER TWO:

Madness Before Internet

    If those far-sighted drafters of the Declaration of Independence were working on that brilliant and angry document today, they might well declare for “life, liberty and Internet access” as inalienable rights for all Americans. 

It took us nearly six weeks to get Internet access in Santa Fe.  I had to deal with three different corporations and many, many so-called “telephone trees” which always warned me that “the menu has changed” before letting me listen to music likely to accompany a long, deep tooth cleaning.

(Our outgoing phone message now warn callers before recording their messages that “Our menu has changed and we are substituting French fries for baked potatoes…”)

The people working for the companies I called fully understood that I wanted/needed to roam the Internet, to submit stories, wine columns and movie reviews on deadline, to send disgusting jokes at nearly the speed of light to my friends (that being a most highly valued quality of the Internet) and to enjoy the constant reminders that my penis needed enhancing.  (Come to think of it, perhaps access to the Internet is overrated.)

I began my campaign for Internet access by calling a Santa Fe phone company a week before arriving in Santa Fe.  I was referred to a company called “All Connect” which promised to visit our home and, by putting us on the Internet, allow the possibility that someone in Nigeria would choose us to share in the $20 million held hostage in his home country.  (OK, maybe Internet access is very overrated.)

On the appointed day at the appointed time for The Grand Installation, no one showed up. 

No one called us to say that there was some difficulty about keeping the appointment.  

There was no communication whatsoever from “All Connect,” a company which, despite its title, had some difficulty connecting with us. 

It is interesting that the company is called “All Connect” and not “All Connect Except You.”  

We’re not particularly difficult with which to connect.  People selling us a better telephone plan, extended automobile warranties or looking for contributions to phony charities constantly find it easy enough to telephone us during dinner or the fourth quarter of game six of the Celtics vs. the Lakers.

 We were quickly to learn that local custom dictates that, upon missing any appointment, the company or service personnel make no effort to call, explain, or even politely demur.  In fact, to paraphrase the infamous quote from the film “Love Story” (1970), a missed appointment in Santa Fe means never having to say you’re sorry.

What to do when the heater breaks down in #Santa #Fe?

When our nights of no heat during freezing February came to a shivery end, we stood at our bedroom windows watching snow flakes lazily tumble down, building white cocoons on the branches of our juniper and other evergreen trees, and creating a heavenly white landscape.  We admired the beauty before us and hugged each other as best we could while we were bundled in every sweater we brought with us plus a down comforter each. 

I knew Grace was somewhere under those multiple layers and, when she moved, there was a slight tremor from within her teepee of warmth.  It was a tender moment and as romantic as it could be (having gone four days without a shower because of the total lack of hot water).

About a week and a half after we returned to the warmer desert of Southern California, Steve, who originally installed the heater, called to give us some possibly bad news: There might be a leak was somewhere in the pipes that carried the hot water through the floors to heat the house.  Those pipes were embedded in the concrete.  Fixing them would involve jack hammering the floor.

Bad news?  This was beyond terrible.  It was exactly like learning that the home was in fine shape, but the foundation might have to be replaced.   Or discovering that your new automobile had a beautiful body, but the engine was no good.  Or, as some of us have learned, that your new wife was lovely to look at, but inside was an evil harpy who tortured dogs, noshed on children and preferred murder to sleeping with you. 

While we waited for Steve to pinpoint the problem, we remembered that, as part of the deal, the previous owner had taken out insurance for one year on the Santa Fe home.  We called the insurance company to find out how much they might cover if a home heater wasn’t working.

 In a few minutes, a fax arrived.   The insurance company would pay $1500.  Period.

But what if the heater needed to be replaced and a new one cost $15,000?

Answer: $1,500.

But what if just examining the heater to determine what was wrong would cost more than $1,500 without concern about parts, replacing anything that’s broken and so on?

$1,500.

The heater that cannot be #fixed: #Santa #Fe #Diary

Santa Fe at Christmas, Bob Benedetti Photo

FREEZING IN SANTA FE, PART 3

The first thing Arturo noticed – and he lost no time showing this to us – were the copper pipes towards the back of the enclosure, which also held the hot water heater.  More than half of these pipes were corroded, with yellow streaks running down their sides and a build-up of evil-looking yellow, brown and gray gunk towards the tops of the pipes.  They looked like they were developing stalactites (or stalagmites, whichever grows from the top) and only needed a nice cave to feel comfortably at home.

As a total amateur when it came to heaters, I could easily understand that this gunk did not belong where it was.  Furthermore, when the door to the heater cabinet was open, it was easy to spot the offending yellow gunk on copper pipes from across the nearly empty garage.  In other words, the corrosion was bad enough that it could be seen from more than 25 feet away.  It was not something that demanded close inspection.

This was the first hint that either the previous owner knew something was wrong and hid it from us or that our home inspection was less than perfect.  But more about that later.

Arturo cut out the dingy pipes and replaced them with clean, perfect copper pipes.  Still, there was no heat.  Arturo then replaced an overflow gizmo.  Still no heat.  More problems were discovered and corrected.  Still no heat.

Arturo showed me an area on the edge of the starter mechanism that was blackened.  He explained that an unknown something was affecting the gas pressure inside the unit.  It would start to deliver heat and then, only a few minutes later, the pressure would drop and the pilot light would blow out, causing a small explosion when soot built up inside and outside the starter.

My natural question: is this dangerous?  Could the entire building blow up? 

No, no, no, Arturo guaranteed.  The pilot light goes out to prevent anything from becoming dangerous.

 I could accept that intellectually, but until the problem was fixed, from that time on, I tended to stay about ten feet from the heater enclosure, especially when the door was open.   I then asked Arturo if he needed coffee, tea, water or a bombproof suit?

FREEZING IN #SANTA #FE, PART 2

Freezing in Santa Fe,

House without heat

when we deliver futniture

Grace, trying to put a loving, happy face on a difficult, shivering situation, suggested that this evening could be very enjoyable, if we only worked a little at imagining that it was fun, fun, fun. 

Seeing the doubt in my face, she quickly said that this could be like camping out.  I started to remind her that, I’ve hated camping ever since my experiences bivouacking for six summers in the Illinois National Guard, when I slept outside in half a pup tent and stayed awake swatting mosquitoes for most of the night.

But she was not to be deterred.  She volunteered to sleep on the love seat, less than half the length of the couch, which would barely accommodate her nearly six-foot frame.  She gave me the ratty, brownish couch, which forced me to either hang my legs over one end or sleep with one foot on the ground as if I were preparing to make a getaway at any moment.

We could get some comforters out of the truck because they were the packing materials we had put in last.  We kept our clothes on, adding another two layers from the suitcases I was able to dig out of the truck.  At that point, we looked like refugees from a Michelin tire commercial. 

We tried to go to sleep, although every half hour one of us would whisper, “Are you awake?  How are you doing?”  This would generally be followed by an exact description of what pains were being experienced in our backs, knees, legs and necks.

Finally, around 6:00 am, with the first, brain-piercing light coming through the nude, shadeless, curtainless windows (memo: buy and install blinds, shades or curtains if we want to sleep past, oh say, 6 am), we gave up any pretence of sleeping.  We huddled in our comforters and looked out the window at our still-beautiful, mountain-rimmed, now grayish and snow-flecked view.   We held each other, both for warmth and out of love, and counted ourselves somewhat lucky to have bought this wonderful home.

While we waited for it to be late enough in the morning to call the heating expert and the furniture rental company to find out when our mattress would be delivered, we went to Harry’s Roadhouse, about 15 minutes away, for breakfast.  Our friends, Beryl and Sue, introduced us to Harry’s the previous summer.  It should be called Harry’s Gourmet Roadhouse because it raises roadhouse cooking to new heights.  Eating there might help to overcome the problems of the previous night.  The first order of business was to get a fine cup of coffee and warm up.

By that afternoon, the rental furniture had been picked up and returned to the warehouse, our mattress was delivered (meaning we could sleep in an actual bed that night), the truck was unloaded and Steve, owner of The Plumbing Company and the heating expert who installed the system in this house, said that his technician, Arturo, would arrive early the next day to “solve” the problems.

Not quite. 

Arturo lived with us for the next four days.  More in the next installment of FREEZING IN SANTA FE.

Freezing home in freezing #Santa Fe.

photo by Bob Benedetti

We let ourselves into our chilly home, which I expected to warm up rather quickly with our radiant heating system embedded in the floors. 

A quick search of the bedroom revealed that the rental company had neglected to deliver the mattress we ordered from them.  Because we were planning on using that as our bed, we had no place to sleep.

The home seemed large, empty, beautiful and freezing.  I played with the heating system for a couple of minutes, but I could not get the pilot light to stay lit.  It would go on with a “whooomp” and then, almost as quickly, go out. 

Since I only knew about the heating system because of a rapid, rudimentary run-through given me by the former owner the day before he left this house forever (I’m not sure, but I believe he was happily giggling as he departed), I knew I was dealing with some sort of gas heating system that needed a pilot light.  If the pilot light went off, but the gas continued to flow, we could be on the verge of blowing ourselves up.   

Because of the fear of an explosion, which would certainly put a damper on the visit, I proceeded cautiously.  Normally, when faced with a technical problem of this magnitude, I would do what males have done for generations: push every button, twist every knob, flip every switch up and down until something happens.

My wife – and most women – see this as a distinctly male form of madness.  My worst example of this kind of behavior occurred a few years before on Lake Chapin, which empties into Lake Michigan.  We had bought a pontoon boat and, at the end of our first jaunt in it, I ran it aground on a sand bar.  I successfully backed it out of trouble, but that sand bar was between our dock and us. 

I turned to Grace and suggested, “Well, the only thing to do is rev this sucker up as high as it will go, ram the sand bar at pontoon-boat warp speed, and attempt to skip over it.”  Please note that pontoon boats are not known for their speed and have been left in the wake of ore-laden barges.

Grace, whose eyes had widened to the size of coffee cup saucers, responded to the idea that, at the end of its maiden voyage, we turn our pontoon boat into the equivalent of skipping rocks on the water with as much equanimity as she could muster under the circumstances, “ARE YOU INSANE?”

Her best friend, Sandi, who was with us in the boat, later whispered to her, “I don’t know how you kept that much control.  I’d have taken off the outboard motor and brained him with it.”  But then Sandi had a lifelong problem continuing long-term relationships with men.

We got out of the boat, lightened its load enough so that it floated higher in the water and walked it to our dock.  I will never know if skipping a pontoon boat over a sand bar would work.

After struggling for more two hours to figure out what was wrong with the heating system and feeling the cold in the marrow of my bones, I saw a tag on the heater that proudly carried the name of the person who installed this instrument of cold torture.  Defeated, I promised myself to call the guy in the morning.  

Loading furniture in #Santa Fe: not romantic

Photo by Bob Benedetti

Grace and I fell in love with this dream home in a wonderful location.   As it must be with any home, there was much to discover after we took possession.  Our dreams of ease and relaxation were soon replaced by frustration when we encountered the New Mexican way of doing business and dealing with customers.  Basically, almost all local repair personnel took pride in never showing up for appointments (but more about that later) while interpreting all agreements exactly the opposite of what I intended them to do.

         In February, we rented a 14-foot truck and hauled a load of our furniture from Palm Desert, CA, to Santa Fe.   We had been forced to rent some furniture so the home in Santa Fe would look as if people were living there.  Our homeowners’ insurance agent insisted that be done because the price of having insurance for a home that was unoccupied was “exorbitant.”  That was why the home currently displayed a sad, sagging couch and a love seat that took the phrase “moth eaten” to new heights, and some chairs and a table that were survivors of many failed dinners. 

Our instructions to the rental company that delivered the furniture in our absence: put everything near a window so that if anyone looked in the place, it would seem occupied.  Actually, because of the rather low quality of the tacky furniture, our home looked like crack dealers were in residence, which might not have exactly satisfied our home insurance occupancy requirements.

With help, we loaded the truck nearly to the ceiling and set off for Santa Fe.  We stopped just beyond Phoenix, made sure everything was locked and snuck Beowulf, our aging Shih Tzu, inside a black bag into the motel.  Beowulf enjoyed being temporarily in a black bag, which I leave to a doggie therapist to learn why.  His sometime nickname was Stealth Dog.

Just as we were going to sleep, the sounds of railroad cars slamming into each other and of trains stopping, starting and clanging alerted us to the fact that the motel was less than 100 yards from an energetic switching facility, which played host to trains throughout the night.   This was not mentioned on the motel’s Internet page.

Only Beowulf slept well that night.  We got up early and continued the trip.   Because the fully loaded truck was less than the speediest vehicle on the road and because I was afraid of going too fast and tipping the thing over.  So we plodded along, arriving in Santa Fe around 9 pm at night. 

When #radiant #heating fails: Freezing in #Santa #Fe

Photo by Bob Benedetti

We let ourselves into our chilly home, which I expected to warm up rather quickly with our radiant heating system embedded in the floors. 

A quick search of the bedroom revealed that the rental company had neglected to deliver the mattress we ordered from them.  Because we were planning on using that as our bed, we had no place to sleep.

The home seemed large, empty, beautiful and freezing.  I played with the heating system for a couple of minutes, but I could not get the pilot light to stay lit.  It would go on with a “whooomp” and then, almost as quickly, go out. 

Since I only knew about the heating system because of a rapid, rudimentary run-through given me by the former owner the day before he left this house forever (I’m not sure, but I believe he was happily giggling as he departed), I knew I was dealing with some sort of gas heating system that needed a pilot light.  If the pilot light went off, but the gas continued to flow, we could be on the verge of blowing ourselves up.   

Because of the fear of an explosion, which would certainly put a damper on the visit, I proceeded cautiously.  Normally, when faced with a technical problem of this magnitude, I would do what males have done for generations: push every button, twist every knob, flip every switch up and down until something happens.

My wife – and most women – see this as a distinctly male form of madness.  My worst example of this kind of behavior occurred a few years before on Lake Chapin, which empties into Lake Michigan.  We had bought a pontoon boat and, at the end of our first jaunt in it, I ran it aground on a sand bar.  I successfully backed it out of trouble, but that sand bar was between our dock and us. 

I turned to Grace and suggested, “Well, the only thing to do is rev this sucker up as high as it will go, ram the sand bar at pontoon-boat warp speed, and attempt to skip over it.”  Please note that pontoon boats are not known for their speed and have been left in the wake of ore-laden barges.

Grace, whose eyes had widened to the size of coffee cup saucers, responded to the idea that, at the end of its maiden voyage, we turn our pontoon boat into the equivalent of skipping rocks on the water with as much equanimity as she could muster under the circumstances, “ARE YOU INSANE?”

Her best friend, Sandi, who was with us in the boat, later whispered to her, “I don’t know how you kept that much control.  I’d have taken off the outboard motor and brained him with it.”  But then Sandi had a lifelong problem continuing long-term relationships with men.

We got out of the boat, lightened its load enough so that it floated higher in the water and walked it to our dock.  I will never know if skipping a pontoon boat over a sand bar would work.

After struggling for more two hours to figure out what was wrong with the heating system and feeling the cold in the marrow of my bones, I saw a tag on the heater that proudly carried the name of the person who installed this instrument of cold torture.  Defeated, I promised myself to call the guy in the morning.  

#Comcast arrives and leaves: no #Internet in #Santa #Fe

Photo by Bob Benedetti

Michael, the Comcast tech, arrived at the correct day and time, a rarity in Santa Fe.  In less than 15 minutes, he announced that this home never had Internet or cable.

Michael said that a trench would have to be dug so the cable could come from the street to our home.  After stabbing a half a dozen white flags in the ground, he left guaranteeing me that everything would be “okee dokee” in a few days.  I now believe that okee dokee was originally a Native American phrase meaning, “Screw you, you’ll never see me again.”

More than a week went by and there was no call from Comcast or Michael, despite the clear directions on the receipt saying “Call B 4” visiting.  My wife suggested that I contact Comcast probably because she believed that we had been seduced and abandoned (women can be more aware of that than men, who, once they are seduced, might not know they had been abandoned for months or even decades).

When I called Comcast to learn “what’s what,” I was told that they had visited my property and were informed that we didn’t want cable or Internet service.

“WHAT?!”

A calm female voice continued, “Apparently we spoke to the woman of the home and were told that we weren’t needed.”

“Where did you go, because you certainly weren’t here?”

“We went to 6 Estambre Road.”

“But I live at 6 Estambre PLACE.” 

“The order that I have in front of me clearly states that we were to go to Estambre Road.” 

This screw-up is partially the fault of the people who ran short of names for streets in the El Dorado development.  In our immediate area we have Estambre Road, Place and Court. We might be lucky that there isn’t also Estambre Cul de sac, Estambre Alley, Estambre Culvert or Estambre Pothole.   Perhaps everything would have worked out better if they merely called all the streets the Estambre Confusion.

When I heard the woman justify and defend the phone company’s error, I suddenly understood why most companies offer pre-recorded warnings that the call may be recorded for “training” purposes.   I could feel invectives and a plethora of four letter words rising in my gorge (wherever that may be).  I was very close to taking the name of Comcast in vane. 

I said as calmly as I could, “I have in my hand a receipt left by your representative which plainly states that you were to service 6 Estambre PLACE.”

Without raising her voice, she informed me, “I do not have the benefit of that.  All I have is what is in front of me and what I see is 6 Estambre Road.”

“Who is responsible for that error?”  I figured the company might enact some punishment on that person.  Dare I hope that, after driving a spike through the frontal lobes of the error-prone computer form filler, that there might be a transplant of the lobes of a better, smarter typist?

“I am not allowed to reveal that, even if I knew who it was.”  The identity of the person who typed “Road” instead of “Place” is a secret held so tightly that I might learn the name of Guantanamo torturers before that person was revealed.

Then the woman, who probably spent her days fielding complaints of angry Comcast customers, added, “I could set up another appointment.”

“Terrific.  Could that happen sometime before I’m in my grave or will Comcast have difficulty finding even that?”

“Comcast will do everything in its power to satisfy its customers.  However, because of our heavy volume of installations, we couldn’t possibly schedule an appointment with you for at least two weeks.”

She sounded so bland, so assured.  She had the kind of voice that could say with little inflection, “You have been sentenced to water boarding followed by death by firing squad.  Have a nice day.”

At this point, my gorge was a busy place, with choice angry words rising up and needing to be heard.  Instead I said, “Let me talk to your supervisor.”

A long 10 minutes later, another woman with a bland voice that was only slightly perkier than the first got on the line.  Marianne, the supervisor, apologized for the mix up, for the delay, for leaving me (the valued customer) frustrated, for the last five centuries of heartless governance, for droughts, wars, hatred, prejudice, duct tape that re-pastes itself to the roll and elevator music. 

Her apologies were so heart-felt and fulsome that I began apologizing to her for being upset, for the sarcasm that must have tinged my voice and even for the unspoken rage that I felt.

 Oh, no, she apologized to me again, after which I apologized to her and so it went until each of us was somewhat satisfied and exhausted.  

Then Marianne said she was even sorrier because the earliest that a technician could be at my home was Thursday, 10 days from the present moment.  Engulfed in a cloud of mutual apologies and good will, I thanked her for her efforts and accepted the appointment.

Less than an hour later, another woman called us.  Susie B. said that she lived at 6 Estambre ROAD.  Although at times she was laughing, there was an edge to her voice when she informed us that, during the previous three weeks, people had frequently painting orange lines on her driveway and vegetation.  Once when she was on the property and actually confronted the almost-phantom line painters, she learned that they were from Comcast.  Sue B. informed them in no uncertain terms that they are in the wrong place.

   “They told me that they couldn’t be in error because that’s the address written on the forms that they carried.  They had near-mystical confidence that addresses on Comcast forms were never wrong.”     

The woman admitted to becoming slightly paranoid the next day when she saw new orange lines indicated that the trench would go right through a water line to her guest casita.  Her feelings of incipient persecution were heightened when she woke up one morning and discovered a Comcast-contract employee parking a backhoe in her front yard.

“What if they decide to put in the trench at midnight?  My partner and I believe we have to be alert round the clock,” Sue said.  “We seriously considered either camping on our driveway or sleeping in alternate four-hour stretches so one of us would be awake at all times.”

She finally spoke to the foreman apparently in charge of scheduling for the trenching company that was a subcontractor hired by Comcast.  He indicated that any change of address or cancellation of the job would have to come from the person who originally ordered it.  In other words, unless I said stop, the orange-stripe painters and backhoe-ers might continue until a trench was put in the wrong place whether my neighbor wanted it or not.

Then, in another, even odder turn of events, the next day, when my wife Grace and I were visiting local garage sales looking for almost everything that a new home might need (toilet plungers, salt shakers that look like tiny red and yellow peppers, etc.), we saw a scrawled sign indicating that there was a garage sale at “6 Estambre Road.”  We followed the signs to the correct home for the garage sale, and the wrong home for our Comcast trenching.  

Sue and her partner greeted us as if we were all veterans of the same mysterious war.   

Everyone re-told their Comcast tales, agreed to do everything possible to correct the situation and shook hands.  We also bought half a dozen CDs and some wine glasses. 

How our #dog became Stealth Dog

Beowulf, age 19, RIP

         Grace and I fell in love with this dream home in a wonderful location.   As it must be with any home, there was much to discover after we took possession.  Our dreams of ease and relaxation were soon replaced by frustration when we encountered the New Mexican way of doing business and dealing with customers.  Basically, almost all local repair personnel took pride in never showing up for appointments (but more about that later) while interpreting all agreements exactly the opposite of what I intended them to do.

         In February, we rented a 14-foot truck and hauled a load of our furniture from Palm Desert, CA, to Santa Fe.   We had been forced to rent some furniture so the home in Santa Fe would look as if people were living there.  Our homeowners’ insurance agent insisted that be done because the price of having insurance for a home that was unoccupied was “exorbitant.”  That was why the home currently displayed a sad, sagging couch and a love seat that took the phrase “moth eaten” to new heights, and some chairs and a table that were survivors of many failed dinners. 

Our instructions to the rental company that delivered the furniture in our absence: put everything near a window so that if anyone looked in the place, it would seem occupied.  Actually, because of the rather low quality of the tacky furniture, our home looked like crack dealers were in residence, which might not have exactly satisfied our home insurance occupancy requirements.

With help, we loaded the truck nearly to the ceiling and set off for Santa Fe.  We stopped just beyond Phoenix, made sure everything was locked and snuck Beowulf, our aging Shih Tzu, inside a black bag into the motel.  Beowulf enjoyed being temporarily in a black bag, which I leave to a doggie therapist to learn why.  His sometime nickname was Stealth Dog.

Just as we were going to sleep, the sounds of railroad cars slamming into each other and of trains stopping, starting and clanging alerted us to the fact that the motel was less than 100 yards from an energetic switching facility, which played host to trains throughout the night.   This was not mentioned on the motel’s Internet page.

Only Beowulf slept well that night.  We got up early and continued the trip.   Because the fully loaded truck was less than the speediest vehicle on the road and because I was afraid of going too fast and tipping the thing over.  So we plodded along, arriving in Santa Fe around 9 pm at night.  

My #Santa Fe No Saints Rule

Albuquerque Balloon Fest launch

Shortly after visiting this home in El Dorado (which we subsequently bought), I announced a rule, “We will have no saints.”  My reasoning: my Jewish ancestors would haunt me if I began putting up wooden carvings of saints.  After I did something like that, if anyone walked by the graves of my parents, the ground would be in upheaval from their turnings.  I could hear my mother complaining, “Better he should marry a shiksa (a non-Jewish woman) than have saints.  Come to think of it, he did.”

 Grace agreed with the “no saints” rule, although she pointed out that we had a carving of a saint in our home in Palm Desert.  I thought it was just an old hunk of wood, but I quickly amended my rule: no saints, except the one we already have.

  Just to show how firm and masterful I can be, once we moved in to the El Dorado home, my no-saints rule lasted exactly one week, when we bought a funny little saint with a wry smile.  I guess in New Mexico there is a limit as to how long anyone can keep any home saint-free.

  When told of my “no saints” rule, several friends gave me knowing smiles.  Some actually offered a tender, almost parental pat on the back before saying, “There, there.  It’s impossible to move to Santa Fe and not have wooden carvings of saints.”

  Hearing that there were two other offers due to come in on the home, we make an above-asking price bid despite my misgivings.  Basically, I was figuring that the real estate market was collapsing (it was) and if we held off a few years, we could buy this or any other home in the area at a much cheaper price. 

But Grace wanted to buy THIS house, which might not be available in a few years.   She was right.  And so was I, but she was more right.

  What convinced me ultimately to go along with Grace’s considerable enthusiasm was the fact that before each of our other home buys I had predicted gloom, doom and penury.  I did that before we bought our Chicago condominium, which we later sold for nearly three times what we bought it for.  And I was worried about buying our weekend home in Berrien Springs, Michigan, where we doubled our money. 

Based on my sorry track record of predicting real estate declines that happened but not for us, I went along with Grace’s lust for 6 Estambre Place.   

Finding our #Santa #Fe #dream #home

One day shortly after we arrived in Santa Fe, Grace announced that she had set up a tour of available homes with “our” realtor. 

Feeling a bit steamrollered, I protested, “OUR realtor?”

“Yes, it was what you wanted to do,” she said.  “As I remember you mentioned it 10 minutes and 14 seconds into our conversation three weeks ago.   The talk began with you complimenting my legs, hips and breasts as we got dressed for that dreadful movie you had to see.”

I was lost.  If my mind was on her legs, hips or chest, my thought processes were at their most primitive and I might have agreed to anything, including donating a kidney to Rush Limbaugh. As far as remembering a bad movie we saw, I review films and see many, many awful ones.  She would just have to be more specific than that.

Our realtor, Jonathan Carlton, a gentle, dapper man, took us to eight homes on the first day of searching, but he could have stopped after we saw the second house. 

It was in a huge development called El Dorado, a former ranch where each home sat on its own two- or three-acre plot, but the houses could only occupy a small portion of its land.  This meant, with hundreds of homes, each one was far from its neighbors.  El Dorado combined a sense of community with privacy.  

The two-bedroom adobe home had a large, presentational living room topped by a beamed ceiling.   The ceiling was so high and the beams so sturdy that we could hold lynchings in our living room.  Not that we would want to do that.

   The 4,000 square foot, mature garden, which was a riot of purple flowers, could be seen from the windows in the master bedroom and living room.  The garden was surrounded by a coyote fence of juniper poles lashed together with wire and attached to large adobe posts. 

Seeing that, led to the question: just how many coyotes do you have around here?

  Jonathan’s answer: “Not that many, but you don’t want them in the garden.”   Or the living room!

  Beyond the fence, we could see a rolling line of mountains extending to the horizon in all directions, amazing and beautiful to a guy who grew up around flat (except for skyscrapers) Chicago.

In one corner of the living room, there was a kiva fireplace, a version of a pioneer fireplace that was a semi-circle of adobe extending out from one corner.  The opening was rather small and was hooded by adobe that narrowed as it neared the ceiling.   It looked like a dwelling for a height-challenged (and quite sooty) garden gnome.

  The bedroom, with its own kiva fireplace, looked out on a hot tub, its deck and beyond to the wood-branch coyote fence which surrounded the garden.

  The guest bedroom or office was at the end of an “L”-shaped hallway at the far end of the home away from the master bedroom.  This hallway had half a dozen semi-circular niches suitable for pottery, knick- knacks or the saints which local artisans enjoy carving.  It was a wonderful home that fit our needs, except that real estate prices were beginning to dive.  Couldn’t we save a lot of money if we bought the home in a few years when the market hit bottom?

  No, replied Grace, because then this home would not be for sale.  Alas, on a certain level (not the level involved in saving a lot of money) her logic was unassailable.