All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [95]
I finally turn to the Bank of Mom and Dad. I’ve never asked my parents for a loan, partly because, growing up poor in the Depression era, both with single mothers who were teachers, they have a bootstrap mentality about money. But I come up with a plan to pay them the interest they’re making on their other investments, ask a lawyer how to make it all official, and present it to them, explaining how my experience in San Miguel de Allende as a child helped shape who I am, and how I am, in some ways, coming full circle.
To my surprise, they agree to the deal and seem happy about the prospect of my finally having a place of my own. They’re worried about the details of how it will all work out and ask a lot of questions, but I also get the sense that they’re glad, since they’re a little bored in their retirement after extremely busy careers, to have a stake in an interesting project. It makes me feel content to know that though I don’t have a partner to rely on in my life, I have my family. (A year later, when stocks crash, my parents are pleased that they took the money out of the market and are getting reliable interest on a loan.)
Designing the house is much more fun to think about but also a challenge, since I’ve never done anything more imaginative, spacewise, than paint a room yellow or move the piano to the other wall. It stretches unused muscles to visualize building a small house, calling forth spatial relations skills I haven’t used since I packed a carry-on suitcase to spend three weeks during winter in Egypt, London, and Ireland. I buy books on small spaces, sketch a lot of long, wobbly rectangles in my notebook, play with putting the kitchen here or there, and wonder where there will be room for stairs.
However small the house, the project seems huge to do alone. With no experience in the realm of architecture or design, the only thing I have in my corner is a sure sense of taste. Good or bad, whatever anyone else thinks, at forty-six you have developed your style. Architecture and decor have to be a lot like fashion or art: at a certain point you’re confident about what you like and what suits you, and you’re less apt to make mistakes you regret. So I decide to just trust what I like.
I head back to San Miguel in March and start looking around at other houses as models. Unfortunately, the house I like the most, owned by my friend Jody—built around ruins in the centro, modern but using historic materials—is huge and worth millions. It ruins me for other houses. It’s like a painting—you can’t help it, you fall in love. I want a miniature by that same artist. Jody tells me the architect is named Anja, and asking around, I learn that her reputation is that she’s good but expensive.
I try other architects and designers who might be cheaper. In each house, I sense that something’s wrong, unharmonious, too phony colonial. When a young Mexican architect who does modern, minimal houses comes to visit the house and I open the door, I’ve forgotten how really small it is.
“Well, you can do something here,” he says gloomily. “Maybe a spiral staircase.” He isn’t enthusiastic and doesn’t come up with any sketches or plans, as promised, to bid on the job. When we leave the house, I feel uneasy; maybe I’ve made a disastrous decision.
I finally call Anja, introduce myself, and tell her I’ve bought a little house on Calle Loreto.
“The turquoise one?” she asks and says she’s inquired about the house herself (I meet many others in town who tried to buy the house, one woman for five years, with no one answering the calls; I got lucky, or, as they say in San Miguel, it was Meant to Be). “Great location,” Anja says, and we make an appointment to meet.
Given her talent and reputation, I expect someone older than the lively Mexican woman in her early thirties who walks into the café. She kisses the owner, then greets me and sits down with me. She’s warm but all business, describing her process, which involves taking measurements, drawing plans, obtaining permits, and overseeing