The road is choked with cars on both sides of the street, and our driver carefully inches forward. The facade of the houses that line this street look aged and weathered and just a wee bit tired.  Our driver pulls up to numero cinco and stops. If I had not walked this way before, I might worry about my choice of rentals.  But I have faith, and I have learned you can’t judge a book by its cover. The door opens before we can knock, and the owners of Casa Jacaranda welcome us warmly.

Numero Cinco

Walking through a small portico—with screened doors on each side, one leading to the master suite, one to the living room—we enter a beautiful, flower-filled, enclosed courtyard.  Giant ferns—I count five of them—spill from footed containers.  A bitter orange tree— from Seville, which I am told Spaniards planted centuries ago— reaches for the sky; two orange orbs lie on the rough-hewn stones beneath. Water flows from a large fountain into a larger stone pool; soothing sounds of drips and drops and splashes dance to their own music.  This might be paradise.

Kathy and I sit and talk while Steve shows Michael all of the ins and outs of living here.  This is my dream house, one built around a courtyard with a splashing fountain and an abundance of flowering plants.  It is what I looked for years ago when we decided to leave the city and move to the country. This is what I didn’t find.  It will be nice to call this place home for at least two weeks.

Living in Casa Jacaranda

Left to ourselves, I take time to unpack and hang up the too-cool clothes I brought.  I thought this was summer, but it is the temperature of early spring or California in winter.  Luckily I packed three long-sleeved blouses and three sweaters.  This may be my wardrobe for the duration.

Everything is handmade, hand-shaped, hand embroidered, and hand-carved. I am surrounded by art. We sit on it. Look at it. Sleep under it.

Sitting in the outdoor living area with Michael, I open a book, a real book, not my Nook—one purchased at the airport by Ian McEwan—and begin to read. Several pages in, we hear thunder; thunder so loud and so deep it is a sound I have never heard before.  Suddenly the skies open, and it pours buckets; no wonder Kathy told me I didn’t need to worry about watering the plants.  However, we are trapped.  The open doors (always left open—no screens) into the dining room, kitchen, and pantry are across the courtyard, and I have no raincoat or umbrella.  I picture myself soaked as I run to the other side.  The guest bedroom to my left and the master suite to my right are equally inaccessible.  I settle in for the duration, wondering what this inside-out/outside-in way of life will be like.

Hours later, the rain abates, blue peaks through the clouds, and we take advantage of the lull to walk two minutes to a favorite Italian restaurant of trips past.  We are not disappointed.  It is still charming.  Still good.