Freeway Inn

Ahhh.…aroma de car exhaust, the residue of pulverized tires as dust on furniture….all at no extra charge for the endless supply at the aptly-named Freeway Inn in eastern Albuquerque with the I-40 as its back yard. Local color. A fitting representative of the underbelly of the city, the monthly-rental motel would have been a great setting for a seedy detective novel, but maybe not the best place for me to live. Eyes opening wide, my first clue was seeing “bullet-proof” (maybe not, but probably so!) glass partitions in the lobby separating guests from staff. Hmmmm…….

Why was I there in the first place? Just the former teacher doing her homework – looking at all options. I had scoured the Albuquerque Journal and online resources thoroughly to prepare for my three-day visit to the city to find a place to live. I was open to all possibilities – or so I thought – until I saw the Freeway Inn. My list ranged from apartment complexes, condos, mobile homes, motels and houses for rent to homes for sale. I wanted to see the full range of possibilities and develop a sense of pricing in a market new to me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was approaching my selection the same way I’ve prepared market evaluations as a Realtor for thirty-three years. What’s the most it could be worth? (current, aspirational, listing prices). The least? (distressed short-sale or bank-owned sale prices). Okay….there’s my range, now, let’s narrow in. The Freeway Inn was a “limit setter.” How could I find a more economical rental than this – a $500/month shabby, furnished motel room.

The young man on the other side of the glass partition was pleasant and responsive to my disarming question: “How often do the police come here?” Pause. “Not very often.” “What does that mean? One, two times a week. A couple of times a month?” Hesitation. I discovered the hesitation was not a deliberate concealment when I asked, “How long have you worked here?”
A couple of months. Hmmmm….high staff turnover too. As I joked with him about the “bullet-proof glass,” the words “transient” and “saving up enough to stay” slipped from his lips. Ohhh….. Cars and trucks matching occupants littered the lot as we crossed the asphalt to see a dimly-lit sample room. Two double beds. Worn, dismal spreads. Frayed drapes, formica counters, vinyl bathroom flooring, carpet that looked like it would be sticky – nothing you’d want to touch. No freshly-laundered and pressed white duvet covers or Pottery Barn pillow collections here. Like dog-smelling homes I’d toured as a Realtor, in which I couldn’t breathe, the room compelled me to exit quickly in search of fresh air. Needless to say, it wasn’t a match. I decided I didn’t need to see the other monthly-rental motels or the $395/month furnished studio either. Remarkably, for $105 more, not much in the world, unless you don’t have it, and for the same amount as the Freeway Inn room, I could live in a leafy suburban neighborhood in a single-storey, pueblo-style, adobe home surrounded by resplendent gardens. Worlds apart. It truly was like changing TV channels and tuning in to another reality.

Blurbs from the Burque:
This week's most-read stories in The Albuquerque Journal:

1. Al Unser Jr. Arrested in Albuquerque on DWI, Reckless Driving Charges



2. New-Mexico-born Al-Qaida Cleric Killed Anwar al-Awlaki, the Islamic militant cleric killed this week in Yemen, was born in Las Cruces, NM in 1971 when his father was studying at the University of New Mexico.

Moving Into a House I’ve Never Seen with a Person I’ve Never Met

“You’re what?”
“I’m moving into a house I’ve never seen with a person I’ve never met.”
“How did that happen?”

Synchronicity. That’s the one-word answer. Synchronicity and faith – that’s the three-word answer. Or maybe they’re the same. Migrating from Santa Barbara to Albuquerque, I haven’t always known what would come next, where I would land, how I would get there. But, like Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ “Wild Geese,” I knew when it was time to go.

How do geese know
when to fly to the sun?
Who tells them the seasons?
How do we humans know
when it is time
to move on?

As with the migrant birds,
so surely with us,
there is a voice within,
if only we would listen to it,
that tells us certainly
when to go forth
into the unknown.

I began packing the last week of December 2010, and moved from Santa Barbara to Tustin February 1, 2011, to stay with a friend for an agreed-upon four months. There, I rested, recovered, studied for the New Mexico broker’s exam. At first, I wasn’t aware of how much I needed the rest and recovery. But I did. My son and I had just spent sixteen months traveling back and forth to the ICU at UCLA’s medical center for his melanoma treatment. He’s fine now – in the 15% of the population who respond to Interleukin2. Only near the end of my stay did I understand my deep need to read, sleep, nap, watch TV. I realized I was recovering from PTSD, post-traumatic stress. When I passed the New Mexico broker’s exam, and the four months were up, it was clearly time to move on. Where? East. That’s all I knew.

Why Albuquerque? I felt a “calling” or spiritual “pull” to go there. The original catalyst was a real estate client with plans to build there. He offered me the listings if I would relocate. I visited twice to look at property and attend a writer’s conference. Life’s complications have made his plans uncertain, but I left Santa Barbara knowing I was to go whether he did or not. Faith. Major faith. I have not lived outside California for 64 years and have never lived so far from my 36-year-old son.

East. Head east – toward the light. About two weeks before leaving Tustin, I learned where I was going. While talking with a friend in Arizona, she said, “Why don’t you stay here? I have an extra room, a freezer full of food, and we’re about 300 miles from Albuquerque. You can use this as a base to find a place to live.” It was such a comfort to have a place to land, a friendly welcome waiting. A Bible verse I learned as a child captures my experience: “Your word is a lamp unto my feet, a light unto my path.” The small, Aladdin-like oil lamps of history cast only enough light to reveal the next step on the path. But that’s all we need when we have faith. We take the step revealed. Then the light shows the next step.

The next step was a trip to Albuquerque to find a place to live. Since going there was a major investment, (a 600-mile round-trip, 10 hours of driving, a hotel stay), I prepared by researching online – everything from monthly motel rentals to apartments for lease and real estate for sale.

Real estate for sale. I met Donna with RE/MAX when I made an appointment to see three of her listings. I prescreened them by driving by the day before. I liked the style, but not the location, of one property which backed to a busy street. I drove around the small neighborhood and wrote down the address of another home in a better location. Donna also had keys to the home of a friend who wanted to rent it. After we looked at the house for sale, she drove directly to her friend’s rental. It was the same house whose address I’d written down the day before! This began a cascade of synchronicities. We sat down to talk at her Open House. We discovered shared metaphysical beliefs. We had both completed the same personal growth programs. We had similar goals. When she asked what brought me to New Mexico, I described the spiritual pull in greater detail, “Some kind of healing work, perhaps connected with Dying Consciously, possibly taking a course on the energy medicine of the shaman of the Americas with Alberto Villoldo - ‘Healing the Light Body.’ ” “I’ve done that,” Donna said.

A week later, Donna called to say she woke up that morning with an idea about where I could live. A friend who owned a single-storey, Pueblo-style, adobe home with a secret garden sometimes rented out a room. She described the home I want to own. Would I consider that? Yes. Then she would talk with her at dinner that night and let me know the next day. Donna thought it would be a good match since we were the same age, both “interesting,” both metaphysical thinkers. The owner was from England, where I had visited several times, an artist who made jewelry. The intention I set for my New Mexico life, while still in California, was that it would be filled with culture – art, music, theater, writing. The owner didn’t hesitate. Neither did I. We both trusted Donna’s intuition enough to move forward. “There’s one thing I didn’t tell you,” Donna said. “She bought the house with an inheritance from her aunt.” I will be buying a home with an inheritance from my aunt. I met Claire (“Light”) when I moved in and have now been here three months, eating breakfast on the garden patio beneath towering ash trees, watching hummingbirds and bees buzz the sunflowers, hollyhocks, and wisteria-draped gate next to the coyote fencing. When I lie in bed, I look up at open, wood-beam ceilings (vigas and latillas), imagining myself in my own pueblo-style New Mexico home. Head east. Toward the light.

Wassup! (Real Estate Instructor from East L.A.)

“Wassup!” the real estate instructor from East L. A. greeted our Albuquerque, NM class of thirty would-be broker/owners. We were his for four days, 8-5, if we wanted a certificate of completion for the 30-unit “Brokerage Office Administration” course required for licensing. Jack’s “Wassup!” accompanied his exaggerated ghetto swagger right down the classroom’s center aisle. He was the only one dressed in a suit, tie and dazzling white shirt in the summer heat. On day three, he revealed his attire was out of respect for us. On day four, he wore a sport shirt – we became equals.

Marking his territory right away, the former Army Ranger laid down the rules. “You will be on time. Every morning. After every break. You play as a team. That means each one of you. You will have one-and-a-half hours for lunch to start with. For each person who’s late, I subtract fifteen minutes. When you’re not on time, you’re saying, F ___ Jack. Am I right?” Jack even fired his own brother, until his mother later intervened and asked him to reconsider.

In its recent “2011 Survival Guide,” Albuquerque’s free weekly newspaper, the Alibi, stated: “Albuquerque is a tough little piñon. Mastering Albuquerque takes street smarts. If you want to thrive, first you have to survive.” Jack was the perfect person to teach us how to survive as broker/owners of our own offices. He has real estate “street smarts.” Not only did he survive East L. A. and make it out of the ‘hood, he has also thrived.

Jack is an amazing amalgamation of contradictions. He could quote the entire 83-page New Mexico Real Estate Commission’s Rules and Regulations manual and real estate law by code number, paragraph and sub-paragraph (61.29-17.2), yet tell us how to watch the bottom line so agents working for us wouldn’t abuse the Pitney Bowes (postage machine) after hours. One culprit received a printout of guilt, plus an invoice, from Jack. Were his comments on “Clandestine Drug Labs” grounded in reality? Kaplan Professional Schools offers an entire class on the topic. I plan to take it. Thanks to Jack, I now know the town of Chimayó, just north of Santa Fe, is the heroin capital of New Mexico. It is better known internationally as the “Lourdes of America,” attracting close to 300,000 visitors a year. Believers claim dirt from the chapel in El Santuario de Chimayó can heal physical and spiritual ills.

Jack not only had us review current cases before the New Mexico Real Estate Commission for homework each night to identify the regulation violations and penalties, he also had a member of the commission come speak to the class in person. He made sure we knew the potential consequences for violating real estate law. On several occasions he mentioned what keeping company in jail with “Bubba” and “Bubbette” (a former Bubba) could do for us.

In some respects, practicing real estate in New Mexico is like working in the wild Wild West. Unlike California, where, in most transactions, the Realtor has an agency, or fiduciary, relationship of highest financial trust with clients, in New Mexico, the default relationship between 95% of clients and agents is “transaction broker” with the agent acting as facilitator only. In 1991, the New Mexico legislature passed the Real Estate (Non-?) Disclosure Act stating there is no duty to disclose the site of a natural death, the site of a homicide, suicide, assault, sexual assault, any other felony or if the owner/occupant had HIV/AIDS.

All the practical details of setting up a real estate office were covered. New Mexico has a gross receipts tax. Not only are goods taxed on sale in New Mexico, services, like real estate transactions, are also. You better know when, where, how to sign up for the program and comply with requirements. Jack saved us $3,000 by explaining the ins and outs of Errors and Omissions insurance. That tip alone was worth more than the cost of the course - $219. Street smarts.

Jack eased up on us as we approached the finish line, revealing his inner marshmallow by modifying the final exam to a student-generated discussion of what we learned, not demanding we show him our Policies and Procedures manual homework (he was happy to review it and provide feedback if submitted online) and giving us time off for good behavior. When it was time to fill out the course evaluation form, Jack reminded us the Realtors’ Code of Ethics contains a provision that we are not “to dis’ another Realtor.” I’d take a class taught by Jack any time. You don’t know Jack until you know Jack.

Four Addresses in Six Months: A Crash Course in Relationships

It takes time to turn an aircraft carrier around when it’s been steaming straight ahead. It’s taken a long time, six months, for me to migrate from Santa Barbara, CA to Albuquerque, NM, and I’m still not in a home of my own. Steaming ahead for 64 years in California, I’ve never lived this far away from my 36-year-old son. Changing direction takes time.

I’ve stayed with six different friends along the way – with some a few days or weeks; with others, one to four months. I’m really grateful for their generosity, love and support. I’m really grateful to have six friends who would take me in! I feel like I’ve had a crash course in relationships. Tom Hopkins, real estate trainer extraordinaire, says, “There are only two times you ever really know someone - when you marry them, or you rent to them.” Although I’ve known some of the friends for 25-30 years, I was shocked to learn how little I really knew about them. Only when I lived with them did I really experience what it was like to be in their world. Only when I lived with them could I look into the mirror they held up for me to see new things about myself.

For many years, as a real estate broker, I would preview new properties on the market mid-week when Realtors promote their listings to other Realtors. My colleagues and I would see up to 21 homes in three hours. I was a lot younger then! Afterward, I would feel really tired and need a nap. It was hard for me to understand why I would be so tired after just “looking at houses.” A number of years into my career, another Realtor gave me the best explanation for the phenomenon I had ever heard. “Terranda, every time you go into someone’s home, you are entering their consciousness (state of mind and emotions). On caravan, you are doing that 21 times in three hours. No wonder you’re tired.” A spiritual teacher later confirmed this for me when she said, “House is consciousness.”

What my house says about me has changed over the years as I have changed. Now, a heart-shaped, hemp doormat welcomes guests to my home. I want them to feel loved when they visit me. This is such a clear, strong intention, when the mat wore out, I requested a replacement as a Christmas gift. One friend looked on the internet to find the mat; another purchased it from a store in Wisconsin. My conscious choice is to have my home be a warm, welcoming, nurturing, beautiful, peaceful sanctuary surrounded by gardens. It hasn’t always been that way. Once, when I was depressed for several months, it was dark, dirty, closed and in a state of disarray. I had no energy to take care of it or myself.

My Albuquerque journey has placed me in an old adobe home, new condo, single-family residence, manufactured home, Mediterranean and contemporary homes, single and two-storey homes, with and without cats and a dog. Each one tells a different story. If your home were writing this post, what would it say about itself?

Living in close contact with another person brings stuff up – both mine and theirs. I’m learning so much about myself. What do I really value? People or things? How attached am I to having or doing things my way? Foil or no foil on that baked potato? What’s negotiable with me? Which values? What’s not? What am I attached to? Where can I let go? Am I in touch with my needs? What about theirs? Can I speak up in a loving way when there is confrontation without making the other person wrong?

I’m practicing. Sometimes I’m more adept at it than others. Paying attention, having a clear, conscious intention, and being willing to take responsibility guide me through. My values are my touchstones. Is my heart open? Do I have an agenda? If so, can I get off it? When I go to bed at night and ask myself, “Is there anyone I’ve left out of my heart today?” is the answer “yes,” or “no?”

Blurbs from the Burque:

• Regularly-recurring freeway signs: “Move crash vehicles from travel lanes.”




• Upkeep costs: Woman’s haircut, color, highlights: Albuquerque - $85; Montecito - $185.

“Rubber Ducky, You’re the One”

“Rubber Ducky, you’re the one. You make bath time so much fun. Rubber Ducky, you’re the one for me, dee dee dee dee…” Grinning from ear to ear, I spontaneously burst into song one morning in the Rubber-Ducky-themed bathroom at the home of my friends, Mark and Pamela. They were going out of town for a week, knew I was in transition, and offered me the keys to their beautiful Ventura condo. “Come. Stay. Make yourself at home. Eat anything you want. Here’s the parking pass. Please bring the newspaper in and put the trash out. Good bye.”

The upstairs hall bathroom has a Rubber Ducky shower curtain, two duck-shaped bathmats, Rubber-Ducky-bordered towels, and a collection of ten Rubber Duckies in a variety of colors on the bathroom counter including a boat-rowing ducky, a mother ducky with three ducklings on her back, a blue one and a black one. Pamela is African-American and her husband Mark an artist from Switzerland. “Where’d you find the black one?” I asked, only to learn there is a Rubber Ducky store. The Rubber Ducky soap dispenser, twice the size of a normal one, emits a loud QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! while dispensing soap. There’s a framed Duck family portrait on the wall above the towel bar; one member irresistibly looks you in the eye. This is the way to start a day. With joy. With laughter. Having fun. Bursting into song.

The guest bedroom has two deep, rose pink walls and a Holstein-cow-patterned duvet cover bordered in red. The two oversized bed pillows feature Swiss cows (you know they are Swiss from the white cross on the red background. Also, they say “Swiss love.”) Black-and-white ceramic cow lamps grace both nightstands, and a beanie-baby-like Holstein cow sprawls on one, leaning its chin on big red lips that say “Let’s smooch.”

A triangular Toblerone chocolate bar awaited me on the pillow at bedtime. Hanging in the walk-in closet opposite the bed was a ghost with a gauze body, skeleton head and bony fingers reaching out to me. I texted Pamela: “Thank you for the skeleton greeting! Please thank Mark for the candy bar,” knowing full well the reverse was true. At week’s end I hung the ghost from their garage door opener to welcome them home when they parked their car. A replacement Toblerone bar was rubber banded to the skeleton’s bony, beckoning hand. The skeleton was still there a month later when I visited again. They let it scare them periodically just for fun. On my second visit, they were in a hurry leaving, so I had to make my bed. When I picked up the duvet cover, a rubber spider the size of my hand dropped to the floor….and, a candy bar. “Eeeek! A spider! Lol…” my next text read. Needless to say, the spider is now hanging from the garage door opener, and the ghost returned to the closet. Mark has a new name. Whenever I talk with Pamela I tell her, “Say hello to Spiderman.”

Amid the art on the cow-guest-bedroom wall are three-dimensional, silver-glittered letters that spell “enjoy.” How could you not? There is such a sense of playful abandon in these rooms, it’s impossible not to enjoy. I think Mark and Pamela need to give decorating lessons to mental health care facilities. Pamela is a nurse. Patients and colleagues who encounter her are lucky to experience the joy-filled love she emanates from her being.

One of my spiritual teachers said, “House is consciousness,” a reflection of our state of mind and emotions. Mark and Pamela embody the lighthearted playfulness, joy and love their home reflects. It was a delight to be there. As delightful as it is to know them and be with them.

“You Don’t Own a TV?!!” (From TV-free to “Bachelorette" Addict)

“You don’t own a TV?”
“No, I haven’t had one for over twenty years.”
Incredulous silence.

It is by conscious choice I don’t own a TV. Tom Hopkins, real estate trainer extraordinaire, “sold” me on the idea at a seminar in the 1980s. He made a visceral point about “Garbage in, garbage out.” What we put into our minds and hearts is vitally important, not only in sales, where enthusiasm and a positive attitude are essential, but also in our lives. He accomplished this by manipulating our emotions. First, he presented a colorful multimedia slide show featuring beautiful nature scenes accompanied by uplifting music which elevated us into a state of joy and euphoric contentment. Then he held up a small cassette player blaring a “newscast” report about a stepfather beating his little boy for calling him “daddy” while excitedly reporting a success at school. “Don't call me daddy. I’m not your daddy,” he declared. Tom slammed the cassette player down on the stage floor, smashing it into pieces. Horrified, the room of 500 Realtors fell silent. We crashed emotionally. Then he asked us how those two experiences made us feel. In the discussion that followed, Tom asked us if we really wanted to start each day and go to bed each night with daily doses of negativity – murder, mayhem, car wrecks, arson, natural disasters. I did not.

As a metaphysical thinker, I believe I will know whatever I need to know whenever I need to know it, so it has proved to be true for me. Information I need comes to me in different ways – through people, magazines, overheard conversations at the right place, right time. There is no limit to the number of ways by which information can reach me. I read a national news magazine once a week to stay current on world events. I am quiet and contemplative by nature, so the peaceful solitude of a TV-free home has balanced my people-oriented careers. I don’t need the companionship of noise or distraction. I read.

My first alarming interaction with the hypnotic, mesmerizing power of TV occurred in 1975 when my son was a few months old. Placed on the living room floor in his Infaseat while I worked in the kitchen, he changed from gurgling baby actively playing with his hands and feet into a motionless zombie within moments of my turning the TV on. I was shocked. What was that about??

Now I am ready to own a TV again. What heralded this great transformation? Friends. Connection. Cultural context. It started with three dear friends addicted to “DWTS” (“Dancing with the Stars,” for the uninitiated) who wanted to interact with me about the show. I was clueless. Like crack dealers on ghetto corners, each one offered a free “hit” to get me started. “Come over for dinner, and we’ll watch it together.” Then I got involved with the performers, their lives, their stories, their challenges, their growth and sharing the experience with friends. Connection. Cultural context. It spread. Soon I was sampling "Ecstasy," "PCP," " 'Ludes," "H," hopelessly hooked on "The Bachelorette," "Bones," "Castle." Then there was Oprah's 25th and final season....you get the picture.

During my six-month migration from Santa Barbara to Albuquerque, I’ve had four different addresses, living with friends along the way. Each friend introduced me to a new substance of choice: “NCIS,” the Food Channel’s “Top/Master/Iron Chefs,” “PBS’s Masterpiece Theatre.” I have always managed to participate in world events through TV: Princess Diana’s wedding, then her funeral, Obama’s election and inauguration, the Japanese earthquake and tsunami, Osama bin Laden’s assassination. This connects me into the grid as a world citizen. I’m ready now, when I buy a home in New Mexico, to own a TV again. I’m aware of its impacts and willing to be responsible for its gifts and detractions.

Blurbs from the Burque

• Last week, the Alibi, (for what, I don’t know yet), the Burque’s free, weekly, local Arts & Entertainment newspaper, featured “Survival Guide 2011: ABQ Danger Map” for living here.

"Albuquerque is a tough little piñon. Mastering Albuquerque takes street
smarts. If you want to thrive, first you have to survive."

A two-page map was ever-so-helpfully coded to show the neighborhoods with the highest number of registered sex offenders, most arsenic in the drinking water, greatest concentration of dangerous dogs, most homicides, property crimes, violent crimes, worst intersections, bicycle deaths, red light cameras. Superfund sites are marked in red. There is an icon for “Corporate Coffee”(see next entry).

• Corporate Coffee: “Beware the coffee! This is the very McDonald’s where, in 1992, Stella Liebeck ordered a 49-cent cup of joe and then spilled it on her lap, resulting in burns, a successful $2.8 million lawsuit and a flood of hacky jokes from every two-bit comic in the country. Although most people have heard of the case, many don’t realize that the coffee was so hot (180 -190 degrees) that Liebeck suffered third-degree burns requiring a skin graft, or that McDonald’s had refused to grant Liebeck’s initial request for just enough money to cover her medical expenses. Regardless of your take on the lawsuit, we recommend that if you buy coffee anywhere, you avoid holding the cup between your legs while driving.”