Photo by Carlos Aristizabal
I drew the curtains, hunkered down in my daughter’s room and peeked out the window onto my suburban street waiting for chaos to commence.
The year was 2002 and I had made a terrible mistake.
It was my fault, really. As a writer, I should have known better than to be swept up by pastoral paint names like “Inner Sunshine,” “Floral Dazzle” and “Tuscan Sunrise” (who gets the cool job of thinking those up, anyway?). I mean, each one promises a happy ending, right?
That’s what I thought when I chose “Rayo de Sol” (ray of sun) and confidently commanded the painter to apply it to the exterior of my house.
“This?” the painter (a man of few words) grumbled with a hint of suspicion.
“Yes, this!” I replied forcefully, slightly irked by what I perceived to be confusion on his part. Had I stopped and paid closer attention, I may have noticed the undertone in the inquiry said, “Lady, you really don’t want to cover the outside of your house in that color.”
The painter shrugged and together with his team, began prepping the walls. The day they were ready to paint, I kept myself occupied inside, having vowed not to look until the entire process was done.
As the sun began to bid farewell, the painter reappeared.
“We’re done,” he offered flatly. I waited until the crew had left, wanting to take in my beautiful, transformed home alone. By the time I stepped outside, dusk had given way to darkness, and yet, there was a glow outside.
Quite a potent glow.
I looked up and discovered how shockingly loud “Rayo de Sol” could be — and that was without a smidgeon of actual sunshine. A deep sense of regret blossomed in my gut as I cursed myself for not testing the color on a larger patch of wall, or better yet, not choosing a safe, restrained cream hue like the one I’d just paid the painter to hide. I decided to wait until morning to fully determine where the house’s new look stood.
Morning came and I got my answer. It stood visible from the Moon. No, from Mars. “Rayo de Sol” took on a whole new level when merged with South Florida sunshine. My house now buzzed, throbbed and sizzled in such an electric way that the only thing I could do was run back into the house and hide. If the HOA wasn’t going to come knocking on my door any minute to complain about this yellow eyesore, surely the neighbors would. Still, I allowed myself a quick escape to soak in my feelings, which evolved from shock to mortification and ultimately — thankfully — to a bout of unbridled laughter (because that is the best medicine, after all).
Luckily, the solution was a phone call away.
The painter picked up after the first ring, and without any prompting asked, “You want us to come back, right?”
To which I replied, “How soon can you be here?” vowing to leave the powerful rays to the sun.
Happy Reading,
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com