Sorry, can’t seem to write a short post to save my life. 
Was going to write this Thursday night, but then remembered I won’t have time since the 11th is our 21st wedding anniversary. Doesn’t seem possible that Mike robbed me from the cradle that long ago. 
Last month my husband and I took off on a nine-day road trip to visit my dad in Mexico. Why did we drive instead of fly, as we did when visiting him four years ago? Because I had a December book out to promote (Confessions of A Viscount, still available!) and stopped by 26 bookstores on the way there and back, to sign stock and meet fabulous booksellers.
Getting there was pretty straightforward. It rained all the way from Portland until south of Redding, but no snow or ice. In Sacramento we visited with my favorite aunt (the one with a different colored wig for each day of the month), hit a few stores in the Bay area, then headed south on I-5 until we skirted north LA and turned east. Last time, Dad picked us up at the airport in El Centro (so small, you walk out onto the tarmac to get on and off the plane) and drove us south of the border to his home in San Felipe. The town is a picturesque coastal fishing village whose economy relies heavily on the retirees from around the world who call it home. You can live there comfortably on just Social Security.
I remember a great number of turns getting through the border town of Mexicali last time, and had some trepidation about being able to find our way. Don’t worry, Dad assured me, the construction is done and there are no more detours. It’s a straight shot from the border.
Yeah, right.
Driving through the border itself was as easy as passing through a stoplight. After that… I was at the wheel, for reasons we won’t get into that involve Mexican auto insurance and a clerk who apparently spoke neither English nor Mexican. 50 feet from the border is an intersection, and I quickly learned the rules of driving in Mexico are quite different than what I was used to, even though we had been driving in California for two days. That bit about leaving stopping distance between vehicles? Forget it. If there’s room to nudge in, they nudge, and expect you to do the same or they honk. Speed signs and lane markers are mere suggestions, as we soon found ourselves one of three vehicles abreast in two lanes doing at least 20 kph over the posted limit just to keep up with traffic.
Did I mention it was Friday, during rush hour, after dark, just before Christmas? And that most of the detour signs had been taken down, but not all?
I was a bit worried — I really like our truck just the way it is — but soon got into the spirit of adventure. Driving somewhere so unfamiliar, where I couldn’t understand most of the street signs, got me thinking about the heroine in my current wip. This is what it would be like for her, an English lass, if she had to drive a gig in, say, Lisbon Portugal. My husband, on the other hand… let’s just say I wished I’d had a Valium or two to spike his soda.
It took two hours longer than we planned to get going down Highway 5 to San Felipe, which has not a single lamp post, btw, but two hours later I pulled up at my dad’s without making a single wrong turn, even though I’d forgotten to confirm the name of the campground in which he lives (Playas del Sol).
Years ago they were campgrounds in the sense that we know them, but the Mexican laws have since changed and most of the foreigners living there can now build on the sites. You see everything from fifth-wheel trailers and mobile homes to brick houses on the lots. My dad’s is a combination, with a trailer and a brick room with indoor plumbing. His winter and summer homes, side by side. It’s on a bluff overlooking the Sea of Cortez. Farther south it’s the Gulf of California; farther north, the Colorado River flows into it. Here’s a shot from the beach, looking up at his place:
Up on the left, just beyond the fence, is the corner of his summer home.
Saturday, we ate and shopped our way through town. Vanilla and handwoven blankets are great buys down there, as well as the usual array of touristy tchotchkes. We ate in the outdoor foodcourt on the street facing the Sea. Here’s my dad, the last to leave after flirting with the waitress who served us.
Having lived there full time for so many years, my dad knows where the locals eat, too. Taco Bell is not Mexican food. Trust me. The three of us had a late night snack of tacos, served with soup and all the fixings (not the same taco fixings we usually get in the states) plus a soda each, for less than $10, at an outdoor family-run asaderia (grill) that doesn’t open until after 7 pm. My kind of hours! Dad still doesn’t speak much Spanish, but he does speak food, so the fact that the cook/server spoke no English was not a problem.
Early Sunday morning, we got hit with the leftovers of the storm that had struck the California coast with high wind gusts. The day stayed overcast and chilly — barely got above 63 degrees. It was too windy to do what I really wanted, so we settled for riding quads borrowed from Dad and one of his friends, and explored some of the trails around and between the camps. Here’s a common sight:
It’s an ocatillo, a stick-like bush with wicked sharp stickers/thorns. The branches are often cut off and stuck in a straight row to form a fence. The branches will grow again, and nothing’s getting through that fence. After rain falls (or someone dumps their ice chest), the ocatillo will blossom. We saw signs pointing to the Ocatillo Forest near the base of the nearby mountains, and pondered what that would look like for a bit since to me, being from the Pacific Northwest, a forest requires, y’know, trees.
I’d really hoped there’d be a chance to go flying, but the winds grounded us. When we were there four years ago, one afternoon as I was walking along the beach, digging my bare toes into the warm sand (even though it was a week before Halloween), an ultralight aircraft flew overhead then landed a few feet away. The pilot was Ralph, a local my Dad had told us about. Remembering Billy Crystal’s line from City Slickers (“I’m on vacation!”) I handed over the fee and eagerly climbed aboard. I had my camera in hand, but Ralph also has a camera mounted on the wing. He and the passenger are in the center of every shot, though the background changes constantly.
(No, Ralph’s legs are not in shadow. His really are that dark, and mine are that blinding white.) We flew down the coast five miles toward the village, then banked and headed back, over the open sea. This is when Ralph shut off the engine for several minutes and we coasted. Absolutely incredible experience.
Can’t wait to do it all again. Except for the rush-hour after-dark part.
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