The late afternoon sun still shines with force on the long Northwest summer day, illuminating the sleepy buildings of what was once the center of a bustling neighborhood. The main street was the historical center and the buildings are old for the young city, 1930’s brick storefronts, in a state of disrepair.  A Mexican grocery with a sign reading “Abierto” is positioned hallway down the block, amidst a multitude of abandoned shops with grimy windows and faded lettering.  At the end of the street a tavern stands on the corner. Cantina del Rio has seen better days, the paint peeling from the once vibrant colored sign, the bricks crumbling. On the wall is a pay phone, the receiver dangling off the hook. The door stands ajar, but it is a questionable invitation, making you wonder nervously about what you might find inside.

Turning the corner, you encounter a street lined with plain little box houses and apartment buildings that look as though they were built circa 1978. It is incongruous, the odd mix of architecture.  Care had been taken when the main street was constructed, a sense of pride obvious even in its derelict state. But the buildings on this street were slapped together, only fulfilling the purpose of putting a roof over someone’s head. A dog is barking in the distance. There is an air of desolation. There is no one in sight.

Making a left turn down the street the road comes to a dead-end at a hill. But slowly approaching, you can see that though there is no road, there is a long stairway leading up the hill. The hillside resembles a tiny forest; pines, cedars, firs and other trees growing in abundance.  The stairway is made of stone steps that rise from the street and disappear into the mini forest – one, twenty-two, thirty-one steps. As the stairway continues it seems to grow steeper, taking you deeper into the trees on the hillside. Lost inside the canopy of trees you can imagine a path through the jungle leading to a cenote, clear blue water of startling clarity and beauty. Up ahead, still further, stone steps, the temple’s entrance…

But this is only your vivid imagination pulling you into the unexpected magic of the stairway. Forty-seven, sixty-three, eighty-one – nearly at the top.

Ninety-one. The stairway comes to an abrupt halt and pops out into the bright sunlight again.  You are now on a narrow dirt path where blackberry bushes grow wildly, thorny arms reaching out for you as you pass. A few yards further along, the dirt road turns to gravel that crunches loudly under foot. To the left, stands more shabby small houses in uneven rows, but to the right lies a field, rolling upward. Leaving the gravel road behind you climb the grassy hill, the blades of grass grow long and luxurious, capable of tickling feet that dare to be bare on the ascent to the top.

Perched on the hillside is a scattering of houses, a football field of space between them. Though of poor quality with no aesthetic value, they are not part of a city grid, the placement of bodies in the humming hive. These dwellings resemble reservation houses, sad and neglected, but somehow containing something much more.

            If you look closely you can pick it out, the second house along the row, a poorly constructed one story blue shingled box. This is where everything will transpire – the blinding love, the soul searching comedy, the elation, and the darkness that penetrates you like a virus. This is the one. This is home.