"I can do not-beige," she says.

Day 5 in Albuquerque:  I spend most of it trying to tie up loose ends, here and there.  Unpaid bills, two sets of house utilities to manage, two cars to register, all types of insurance to adjust, a recalcitrant renter to deal with, a broken ice maker here, a leaking washing machine there. I can't handle all these niggly things long distance and simultaneously learn my new city, set up my new home, and commence my new job.  I can feel a property manager in my future.  Maybe D, maybe someone in Portland.

D is totally excited to be here.  The first night he establishes a relationship with the manager of the local Smith's and gets a take-out Menu from Dion's Pizza.  The next day is spent unpacking the truck and getting a day-bed/sofa for the living room (courtesy of a Craigslist perusal.)  Wednesday has escaped my memory, but I know D and M go to the Dollar Store for things like brooms and laundry detergent.  (They spend $43, which means they buy 43 items.)

Some money finds its way into our sadly depleted accounts so we are able to go out to 5 Star Burgers for M's last night in New Mexico.  Thursday we tour down Central (the old Route 66) before taking him to the plane.  A gent gives us his used parking ticket:  it has 50 minutes left on it.  He lets us know that the Nob Hill parking patrols are brutal.

We are there to check out Masks Y Mas, per my old friend J's recommendation.  Central feels like a midwestern main street, ghost town variety:  wide lanes, lots of empty parking places, lots of cement and barred, closed storefronts.  No charming trees.  No window-shopping pedestrians.  No coffee shops with wi-fi.  I am no longer in the green, hip, and trendy Northwest.  This is a grittier, harsher place. The sun glares down on the dust and desolation.  When we pass two men on the street and they turn back and follow us into the hat shop, I am wary.

None of this bothers D and M.  We are early for the Masks shop, which doesn't open until 11, but D finds a boot shop and a hat shop and he happily chats with the owners and tries on their wares. The Buffalo Exchange is open, and M's new best friend Craig cuts out the middle man and sells him some Wrangler shoes from a bag of potential consignments.

I don't want to window shop.  We need everything, but can't afford anything.  I find contemplating these contradictions exhausting.  Still, I am looking for something to screen the view of the parking lot from our patio and apartment windows.   Curtains?  Shoji screens?  It needs to be something that leaves the sky and treetops visible.

We both want art for the bare walls, and something to sit on, but we know that next week a lot of things will arrive from Portland, and that we can and should live simply for the next 6 months.  It's difficult to internalize that reality, partly because  D is a bargain hunter and partly because I really miss our crowded funky 1892 farmhouse, all wood and craftsman touches,  surrounded by raspberry canes and jungle.  This apartment complex has modern lines and pseudo stucco walls.  The rooms have white walls,  thick beige carpets on the floors and white metal blinds on the windows.  Counters are a light brown formica.  The 9-foot ceilings and molding add a little style, and there are some funky angles, there's a lot of comfort, but there's not much soul.  Hence, our dilemma.  We want to do enliven our surroundings.  When we finally make our way into Masks Y Mas, I focus on the distressed-wood furniture, and D focuses on the Che Guevara hats and Day of the Dead wall hangings.

We don't buy anything.

Today, A's friend H finally calls me.  She had meant to be a welcoming committee of one, but she is exhausted by the end of the school year, and her mother-in-law recently passed.  She is in hunker-down mode, which I can totally appreciate.  That's where I'd like to be too.

We talk about getting together soon, and I say we can wait until later to discuss her favorite places to go and things to do.  And then somehow I start talking about how beige this apartment is, both figuratively and metaphorically.  This galvanizes her;  next thing I know, she is planning to eat some breakfast and then dig up some plants for our patio.  "I can do not-beige," she says.

5 hours later, I have a large plastic chartreuse pot on the patio, filled with tall purple hollyhocks, fuzzy yellow yarrow, and anti-bunny garlic.  A rectangular stucco-orange planter is filled with succulents.  Inside, the high wall opening above the breakfast bar hosts a hanging ivy plant, and a large multi-colored striped cup holds an aloe.

Tonight we go out to swim in the lighted pool.  On the walk there, the air is stuffy and warm, but after a dip in the blue chlorinated water, the breeze feels like it emanates directly from the deep blue sky and gibbous moon, cool and invigorating.  I walk home in my wet suit, dripping water into my shoes.  As I change into a long T-shirt, I notice tan lines on my shoulders.

Now that my apartment is less beige, I could get used to this.