Who Are These People?

Whenever I’m in an upscale community (not a common occurrence), walking around looking at million dollar houses, I find myself asking, “Who are these people and where does all this money come from?” Right now I’m in Del Mar, California, in a house loaned to me by some homies from New Mexico who inherited it from their family. But who are all these other people, in their glass houses with ocean views, manicured landscapes, and shiny BMWs (I swear to God I haven’t seen one dirty car since I’ve been here)?

Who I actually see are the workers: gardeners, plumbers, plasterers, painters, general contractors, and dog walkers, busily keeping all this luxury afloat. The gardeners are all Mexicanos, pruning, planting, and watering all the lush vegetation that has turned these once barren hills (that’s when the homies’ family bought in) into paradise. In the mornings, as I walk along the windy streets in a circuitous path to the ocean I see some Anglo runners and dog walkers, most of them my age or older. Is this a community of retirees who bought in before the property taxes skyrocketed and who now benefit from Prop 13? Are they second home owners, so wealthy they can afford to hire all these people to maintain their houses for their two or three months’ winter stay?

Whoever they are, and whether their money is old money or nouveau riche money, I feel like an alien. Not only am I an alien in Del Mar particularly, but in California generally. Take today for example. I needed to put gas in my hosts’ car after driving it down the coast the other day to grocery shop. So I find out where the nearest gas station is and proceed apace. I make sure I know which side of the car the gas tank is on, and whether it has to be popped open from a release inside, and then I venture out. I pull into the gas station and there are all these instructions on the pumps about using your debit card or cash, which I intend to use instead of my credit card, but I’m already envisioning putting the money into the slot and seeing it disappear forever while I try to figure out how it actually connects to gas for the car. Fortunately, it also says I can pay inside, which I do. Then I go back to the car and pull the Regular Unleaded hose out and attempt to put it into my gas tank. But it has this weird accordion end on it, and try as I might I can’t get it to stay in the gas tank opening. Whenever I depress the delivery handle it just pops back up. I’m looking around in a panic thinking, maybe I’m trying to put the wrong gas in the tank because the pump says EC Regular Unleaded, whatever that is, but I see that all the pumps say that. So then I start looking around for someone to help me, embarrassing as that’s going to be, but remembering that I’ll never have to see this person again. But everyone who is working a pump is also working a cell phone and can’t hear me. Finally, I see a Mexicano worker put his phone away and I approach: “Habla Ingles?” I ask, and he answers, “ Poquito,” and I know I’m not going to be able to explain my predicament in Spanish. So then I find another guy, an Anglo this time, and I say, “I’m from New Mexico and I’ve never seen a pump hose like this and I can’t make it work in my gas tank.” Now I know I’m perpetuating a stereotype about New Mexicans, who already have enough trouble convincing everyone that we’re actually part of the U.S., but I’m desperate here. So he graciously comes over and shows me that you have to shove the hose into the tank until it locks and then dispense your gas. I keep apologizing and he keeps saying don’t worry about it but by then I’m completely frazzled and when I get back into my (their) car I pull out into the wrong lane and am forced onto I-5 going south when all I wanted to do was go to a gas station and fill the gas tank. I’m a perfectly competent driver under normal circumstances but now I’m a wailing banshee praying that there is am exit before San Diego where I can get off and find my way home without using up all the gas I just put back into the tank. And there is: Del Mar Heights, which brings me back to Camino Del Mar and the familiar streets leading up to the lovely bungalow that has been so graciously loaned to me by my New Mexico homies. As I’ve said before, maybe it’s best that I don’t leave home.