Gotta confess. There was nothing dangerous about it. Mostly, it felt like cheating. We were armchair builders, watching our Mexican house happen in photos, two borders and 5000 kilometres away from us. All summer long, we sat in a double armchair up north, supervising complicated instalments as if they were easy, destroying and reconstructing like we were gods. But let me back up. I was the one who, after a year of looking, found the spot. Stumbling onto it, I felt goose bumps rise on the back of my neck. The house was tall and dilapidated, with a magnificent jungle in the backyard, the kind that holds promise. There was nothing redeemable about the house itself and it didn’t take much persuading to have it torn down. But the land was something else. A double lot
... read more