The door

We have the nicest house on the block, and although this is because, unlike our neighbors, we are not storing potatos from the last harvest, 50 lb. sacks of rice, massive amounts of corn to feed the chickens and pigs, and guinea pigs to eat on holidays, it makes me feel funny. One of my neighbors works with me in the library, and after not showing up for work for two days, I gave her a little talking to. I am torn between wishing that I hadn't said anything to maintain the pleasant relationship (which isn't so pleasant right now) and lessen this power dynamic between us, and trusting that I can't let someone walk all over me just because i want to be liked, which i do. I want to be liked here, and wish so whole heartedly for a real friendship to emerge out of all these lines we walk. We are fed by the hacienda- sometimes in the home of the cooks, and sometimes on a white linen table cloth in a formal dining room with English speaking guests. We cross the threshold of the door that separates the kitchen from the dining room many times a day, and I sometimes wish we just stayed in the kitchen. Patience, patience. We've only been here two weeks. The kids are our salvation, as they are curious, open, patient with our Spanish and welcome us into their games of futbol any time.