San Pedritos Beach

San Pedritos Beach is the official name of the beach we live on (not Pescadero Beach as previously inferred). After the Donkey Quest, we've settled back into our beach routine, extending the number of hours actually spent as sand lizards and sharpening our observation skills. In four more days we leave this paradise, with some sadness in our hearts, yet with happy anticipation of new adventures on the east coast. Friends Bob and Jenny from Colorado join us this afternoon. It will be a treat to share this with good friends.

Down on the beach we will have to introduce Bob and Jenny to Bruce's sand carving craft so they can make their own custom thrones.

And we will have to continue watching the beach dynamics. I like to set up my observation station a few hours before noon. If I lie parallel to the ocean shore, on my belly, I can rest on my elbows and behind my shades pretend I am reading one of Bruce's crime novels. This way people are perjaps fooled into thinking I normal. I like to think no one can see that my eyeballs, actually my whole head, is focused on the surfers perched on their boards just off the "surf break." By now, I can identify the regulars from the seasonals from the short time visitors. I hesitate, out of respect for their privacy to say much about the people I observe. But I can tell you, that the folks who spend several months out of every year here are mostly surfers and that they are simply in love with the ocean and playing in it. Whether their legs carry them and their boards into the breakers with a skip and a run or whether they greet the waves when swimming with arms upraised like someone yelling "hallelujah" at a revival meeting, they rejoice in the fact that they are here and in the ocean.

My very favorite "regular" is a dog I've come to refer to as Vigil Dog.

Vigil Dog belongs to a surfer and when his owner is out surfing, Vigil Dog sits at the highest point on the shore nearest his Favorite Surfer (owner)and holds his nose to the wind anxiously watching and waiting. His only distractions come in two forms: certain two-legged creatures and four-legged souls if (and only if) they have a ball they are willing to share. The two-legged creatures must be friends from another venue, and they must be surfers. Many surfers come out of the water near where Vigil Dog waits, but only certain ones get a greeting. Vigil Dog will even bark and meet them in the surf if they are really special. He seems to ask them if they caught any good waves out there and they seem to thank him for keeping an eye on things. Plenty of dogs cross the shore in front of Vigil Dog, but unless they (not the human with them) offer a ball to Vigil Dog, he is not to be distracted.

At a certain point on the morning, an attentive observer may hear the piercing whistle beyond the crashing of the waves. Vigil Dog always hears the whistle. Even if that observer has not heard the whistle, s/he might soon notice one solitary surfer paddling due south, parallel to shore. Vigil Dog has already begun barking and wagging his way down the shore, keeping pace with his Favorite Surfer. When that surfer cuts toward shore and is within 10-20 feet of sand, Vigil Dog just cannot help himself and swims out into the waves, so happy to see his Favorite Surfer coming in. When the surfer reaches down to pick up his board, Vigil Dog is ready for the greeting and enjoys taking a few licks of salt water off of Favorite Surfer's face. Together the two begin their homeward walk, with Vigil Dog carrying an expression which seems to say "See why I waited for this wonderful person?"

There seems to be a certain hour when all the surfers tire of waiting for waves, and suddenly the surf break is empty and we are alone on the beach. Then I really do have nothing better to do than read my current paperback, whatever I've traded for at the most convenient gringo spot. Bruce and I rejoice on the days the waves are tame enough for us land lubbers that we can actually swim when we get bored with our books. Some days the waves break in close to shore and we can easily swim beyond the breakers and loll in the swells like babies in a cradle. Yesterday the waves broke further out, the depth varying from over our heads to only waist high. We played a game of over/under....alternating going over or going under each broken wave that comes to us. I lost on a rapid double. I went under the first, tried to go over the second, caught a snoot full of water and had to go under the second as well. Ok, so I am easily entertained. But it was fun.

We continue to see whales, although it seems like fewer these last few days. This happened last year about this time and we get the sense that their migratory path along the Baja Pennisula is nearly complete. There continue to be fewer pelicans than last year. My original theory was that they all moved to Cabo San Lucas where every available ponga boat sits waiting in the marina for the next boatload of tourists who have purchased a fishing experience. Each of these pongas has an open bait box in the back, full of live bait fish that are just the right size for a pelican bill. I just like to think that all the pelicans have opted for an easier life style where they can just pick a meal out of the nearest bait box, rather than having to fish the ocean waves every time they get hungry. When I asked a year-round resident what happened to all the pelicans she gave me a sobering answer, "They are all starving to death.". Gosh, I hope she is wrong, but I will not go into Cabo San Lucas just to find out.

The arrival of Bob and Jenny marks the beginning of the end of our time at San Pedritos Beach. I am always sad to leave a place. We will miss Fidel and his fresh vegetables, Serita's stellar huevos Mexicanos, Lupe's enthusiastic greetings and we will even miss our long walks yto town past fields of basil, poblano peppers, tomatoes and avacado trees.

And I am already feeling sad for Jenny. She will only have five days here (counting two travel days) before Bob has to take her back to the airport and to her job in Colorado. Bob will stay another week and will get to see a couple of other Baja sites.

At the same time that I am sad to see our time in Pescadero and San Pedrito Beach come to an end, I am looking forward to new adventures. On Tuesday we will ride with Bob in his rental car to the east coast of Baja to La Paz (our first road trip in a private car) where we will enjoy Carnaval, La Paz's Mardi Gras. We will look for the gambling game which took the enchilada money from the cute tequila salesman from Todos Santos and we will see if there is anything to report from that experience. After two days of La Paz we will go with Bob to Cabo Pulmo on the Sea of Cortez where we hope to fish and snorkel. We will share a house with Bob there for three days before Bob has to return home. Bruce and I will then move to a smaller casita and spend another 7 days in Cabo Pulmo. We've wanted to snorkel the living reef in Cabo Pulmo since our first trip to Baja, but since the buses don't go there, we've never been able to arrange that. This will be an adventure as we hear the whole town is "off the grid" and operates on propane and solar power. We also hear there are a couple of small grocery stores and a few restaurants. I don't know if we will have Internet access there or not. I do know I like exploring new places. And this time of year, the wind should be lessening on the east side. With the whale presence decreasing and the advent of a few cloudy, windy, cool days this may be as good a time as any other to be leaving one of our favorite spots. We have heard that the surfing also quiets down in March as the waves typically are not as good in March as they are in February. On the east coast, popular with wind and kite surfers, the wind which has blown at Livingston rates in February usually calms down in March. The calm turquoise waters and white sandy beaches off the Sea of Cortez will be another pleasant adventure in the sun.

The Donkey Quest

Hee-haw, Hee-haw...The Donkey Quest! That is what our son Gabe called it when he heard I was looking for a dentist down here. He explained that it was a reference to the way Mexican dentists are depicted in cartoons, awakening vague and nearly forgotten memories for me and initiating some much needed comic relief! I wouldn't write about all this, except that I feel badly for our friends and family in Montana, with yet more snow! So here is a post to let you know not all is fun and games down here.

Once upon a time.....a couple of years ago my dentists ganged up on me (an intervention, perhaps?) telling me about a big problem I had developing in my mouth. When I learned exactly how imminent and expensive this would be, I took out a supplemental dental insurance policy. The policy, however, included a two year waiting period before they would pay anything toward any major dental work. I gave my dentists no choice but to work with me on this until April of this year. They agreed to continue a temporary fix my original and now retired dentist had started over 10 years ago. Basically, my lower front teeth are glued together in what is called a natural tooth bridge. Mine, however, is very unstable and one tooth in particular is so loose that it occasionally wiggles enough to break its bond with its mate and I have to go in and have another glob of glue added to the now coffee-stained mess of glue blobs on my lower teeth. Past experience with this tenuous bridge has taught me that when one tooth rcomes loose, it is way simpler to get it re-glued right away instead of ignoring it and wishing the whole problem would just go away. I have just written an explanation for you in layman's terms. At the last fix my dentist did, I asked him to put it in dentist language for me so that if I were traveling and this happened I would know what to say to a new dentist. He kindly wrote it out for me, explaining that most any dentist should be able to glue me back together again. I asked him, "What if the dentist were in Mexico?" i wondered if anyone in Mexico would even know who Humpty Dumpty was. My dentist got a little uneasy then and expressed his concerns about the hygiene in Mexico. I left his office hoping like heck the last fix would last until we got home.

And it didn't. Now, we've all heard tales of how much cheaper dental work is down here than in the states, so I started asking around about a dentist and got a couple of recommendations right in Todos Santos (a 10 minute bus ride north of here, once the bus shows up). A friend with a phone tried several times to reach a recommended dentist and set up an appointment, but no one there ever answered the phone. It seemed the only thing to do would be to go there in person. The kink in the plan was the distance of the office from the bus station, especially if we didn't know if anyone would be there. And, as the days rolled along, the situation in my mouth was worsening. I opted to visit the Mexican clinic near the bus station where there was another recommended dentist.

What a trip that was! Just inside the front door of the clinic there was a little office with a plexi-glass window separating the folks inside from the general public. There was a little talkie hole about mouth height and a little opening on the bottom big enough to slide a passport or money through. It was similar to what we have in the police dispatcher station in Livingston. Here, the people in the office do not speak any English, nor are they accustomed to explaining things slowly to clueless tourists. They said a lot of things to me very rapidly. The only part I clearly understood was that I was to come back in two hours.

Bruce and I passed the time snooping around the tourist shops of Todos Santos. Bruce kept asking me if I saw any jewelry I liked, which was my clue he wanted to buy me something and make me feel better about our predicament. I couldn't settle my mind enough to look at jewelry. In one shop we met a cute young tequila salesman who taught us some things about tequila. This young man spoke quite a bit of English and apparently wanted to practice as he kept us engaged. Soon he was telling us a funny story about how he became captivated by a game of chance on the malecon of La Paz during Carnaval. He was so sure he had the game figured out, but he lost everything, even the money he had saved to buy an enchilada. He shook his head remembering how foolish he'd felt, saying the only good thing that happened to him that day was a girl he met. They are still friends today, two years later.

When I got back to the clinic they asked for my passport and $10. After much paging through my passport and much frowning and officious stamping of little pieces of paper, they passed back my passport and a little scrap of paper upon which they had written "ficha 1." Then they gave more rapid fire instructions. When they stopped talking and looked expectantly at me I repeated the only thing I could understand, "You want me to go through this door?" They waved and nodded, saying, "Si, Si. Pasale!" After passing through the door I found a couple of nurses behind a counter who ignored me until I flashed my little magical piece of paper. I was clearly the only lost gringo in the place and they immediately began weighing this strange specimen and taking my blood pressure. I was told to go down the hall to the fourth door, and was beginning to understand how Alice felt when she went down that rabbit hole. I opened the fourth door and walked right in on a young Mexican family talking to the dentist! Back out in the hallway I felt a sudden urge to quickly improve my Spanish. I began reading every poster in the place, picking out new vocabulary and using the graphics to help me translate. After studying every poster and coming up with multiple translations for each, I sat down and tried to act like a normal patient. Bruce had not been allowed past the portal of entry. I had told him that at home it was a simple one half hour fix. I'd already been in the rabbit hole a good half hour and other than interrupting the young family, I hadn't even talked to a dentist! When the young family finally finished, I headed toward the door and a Mexican man tried to ace me out, but hey, that magic piece of paper got me in ahead of him.

The young female dentist also spoke no English. I carefully told her the phrases I had translated (using the mysterious google translator) and memorized from my dentist's note. She took a look, then with her index finger wagging from side to side next to her face told me no, no, glue would no longer work, I needed something stronger, I needed porecelain. She could not do it here at the clinic, but could tell me where to go to get it done. This dentist, however was much further away than the one who didn't answer her phone and I would need an appointment, but could get one in the next two days. Ugh.

Bruce meanwhile, had found another dentist on the internet in Todos Santos within walking distance. Off we went. Yes they could do porcelain here, but not until tomorrow. I made an appointment that would accommodate the bus's unpredictable schedule and we headed back to Pescadero. That evening Gabe's e-mail arrived and gave me a much needed hearty laugh! Thank you, Gabe!

The next morning marked our third day in a row of walking to town instead of to the beach. Lessening our pain, a kind neighbor offered us a ride all the way into Todos Santos. We arrived early at the dentist's office, and our luck had changed,he could take me early. After hearing my rehearsed speech and looking in my mouth, he felt the need to take an x-ray before continuing. I was back in 1962 holding the cardboard negative in place with my finger, no lead apron or any of that. He developed it himself and came back looking like the bearer of bad news. He showed me the x-ray and explained that the one tooth would have to come out. My mind was reeling! How could things have deteriorated so quickly? Remembering my dentist's concern about Mexico, I felt like I just couldn't have a tooth extracted down here, no matter what! (Was this where those images of dentists as donkeys came from? I pictured a cartoon donkey placing a kick in the appropriate spot and the offending tooth popping out). Then the light came on in my little culturally bound little pea brain. Both of these professional dentists were diagnosing my Big Problem! They didn't realize I needed/wanted a temporary fix. Once I figured that out, I could adequately explain my situation. Fortunately this dentist spoke a little English, so that made things easier. Once he understood my situation, he took another look and said, "I am just going to clean this up a bit and then I will fix the broken part, ok?"

He worked a good long while on my teeth and I was beginning to wonder exactly what was he was doing when I'd been in the chair over an hour. Finally he handed me a mirror and ...... I couldn't believe what I saw. All the ugly coffee-stained globs of glue had been scrubbed clean and white, filed down and new glue applied over the top. Then he had shaped the glue to look exactly like my teeth. I could barely see that they had been glued. "It is beautiful!" I couldn't help exclaiming out loud. "Yes," he said, "In Mexico we do beautiful work." I felt like my donkey had just turned into my fairy godfather!

And then his assistant gave me the bill. At $200 it wasn't any cheaper than it would have been stateside. Maybe I got "the gringo price," or maybe as Bruce said, "They saw me coming." I prefer my friend's explanation that the price of dental work down here has recently gone up. At any rate, if it lasts until April I will be a very happy camper. I had to tell Bruce that the jewelry he had wanted to buy me in Todos Santos had turned into the beautiful pearls now in my lower jaw. And my donkey quest is now complete (I hope). And aren't you glad to be skiing or shoveling a walk rather than going on a donkey quest?

Food: Fresh and Local!

So far I've only hinted at the yummy food down here, so maybe now is a good time to go into more detail.  Because we are staying in one place this first month, we are able to do much of our own cooking.  Being without a car and off the highway means we do have to carry everything from town down a quiet mile and a half of dirt road.  We split the load between our two backpacks and we go in every third or fourth day, so it really is manageable.  This does mean that our diet is limited to what we can buy locally.  The good news is that we are surrounded by growing fields.  Along our walk to town we pass fields full of tomatoes, peppers, basil, squash, and avocado trees.

While it is tempting to step through the gates at one of these fields and "liberate" the ripest of those cherry tomatoes, we do respect the farmers' work, complete the walk to town and wait to see what is available at the roadside vegetable stand.  Fidel tells us nearly everything we've selected and placed in our tub for purchase comes from Pesacdero. It is not refrigerated, so you know it has to be freshly packed, and picked ripe, none of this picking green business for easier shipping to far off places like Montana. We regularly buy bananas, tangerines, avocados, poblano peppers, red peppers, young zucchini, young white potatoes, jalepenos, and other spicy hot chilis which we can't name, but which Fidel has recommended. We also get yellow, purple and white onions, garlic, tomatoes, cilantro and broccoli. Sometimes we can get cantelope, peanuts, sweet potato and dried chilis.  We always buy enough grapefruit to squeeze for our "Poor Man Margaritas.". (Glenn, our favorite bartender calls them that even when we use the better Jimador tequila mixed with grapefruit juice).

Our second usual stop in town is the small local grocery store.  Here we get fabulously fresh, locally made flour tortillas, locally made quesadilla cheese, yogurt, a local brand of processed cheese which resembles jack cheese, eggs, butter, corn tortilla chips, rice, pasta, canned refritos, a bag of cookies, and Jimador.
To mix things up a it we sometimes stop for a beer while the guy at a roadside stand across the street roasts a whole chicken for us on his outdoor grill fired by mesquite charcoal. This we take home and it becomes three meals!




In the afternoons a woman stands outside the Oxxo store (Mexico's 7/11 store) and sells pork, beef or chicken tamales for 10 pesos each (a little less than one US dollar). They were steamed in the morning and are kept warm in a cooler and they are delicious. The first time I bought them, intending to eat them for dinner, I had to snarf down two right on the spot!

What do we make with all this fresh stuff? We've discovered that with things this fresh, every combination is delicious. Breakfast is usually yogurt/banana, coffee, sometimes eggs, veggies and tortillas. Lunch varies. Bruce likes cheese and tomatoes grilled between two sides of a sweet white bun. My favorite is a quesadilla with that creamy smooth local cheese and some veggies. Some days we just eat peanuts and tangerines on the beach. Happy hour usually includes my own homemade guacamole on chips. After happy hour there's time for a trip back to the beach or to the palapa for sunset watching before eating again. Dinner usually consists of rice or pasta or potatoes topped with sautéed veggies (various combinations of what we haven't eaten up yet). We like to top the spud dish with grated jack cheese, the rice dish with tasty red tomatoes (yes, the ones down here taste like they came out of your garden) and the pasta dish with whichever. We have bean burritos one or two nights a week, and sometimes we might have eggs in tortillas for dinner.

That's about it for our home cooked meals. Later I'll write more about the meals we eat in town. We will have to gather a few more experiences for a full report on that, though. Tough assignment, eh?

Day Trip to Cerritos Beach

A few days ago we decided to break up our routine and make the hike to a beach south of us. Locals know it as Cerritos Beach, but it doesn't show up as such unless you have a very, very detailed map.  It is about 3 - 4 miles south of us, accessible by beach, dirt road parallelling the beach or by a mile and a half long turn-off from the Trans-Pennisular Highway about three miles south of Pescadero.  We decided to explore the road that parallels the beach, saving the additional three miles we would walk trying to get to the Trans-Pennisular.  That was easy enough until you get to the rocky point which separates the Pescadero Beach from Cerritos. N As we topped the rocky point the view that broke the horizon was what appeared to be the bell tower of a mission.  It doesn't actually have any bells within, but is a tasteful nod to mission architecture on the part of the resort.  Soon the entire Cerritos Beach came into view.  What a difference from our nearly deserted beach at Peacadero!  After the "bell tower" and the resort, our eyes were drawn to the rows of beach chairs and umbrellas lining the beach.  It was still before noon, so the beach wasn't crowded at all.

 

 At that point, I became aware of how ill-suited we were for this new beach.  We trudged over the final hill wearing the zip-away shorts more "fashionable"on the Missouri or Marias Rivers than on this tourist-laden beach setup.  Our sweaty garb didn't quite fit in with the gauzy cover-up style prevalent down below. Oh well,we had arrived and those lounge chairs beckoned.

It seemed the only way down to them from the rocky point was through the picturesque resort.  So I squared my shoulders and tried to pretend we were of the "resort set."  Soon we found a beautiful outdoor circular staircase made of stone .  The staircase led us down off the rocky point and deposited us on the beach.  But before we could get to the lounge chairs we'd seen from above, we had to walk through the section of beach reserved for the surf school.  The atmosphere there was not unlike a dropzone with a handful of tandem students.  The confident instructors know that a few of their students will be "bit by the bug" while most will simply have accomplished something to cross off of their lists of "things to do in Mexico."  Next along the beach was a spot where someone was doing a booming business renting boogie boards, then we passed a lifeguard station which seemed to be unmanned, though I'd noticed a yellow warning flag along the water's edge. Finally we arrived at the lounge chairs and we each claimed one of the more comfortable ones. Soon a young Mexican man was by our sides asking if we wanted shade or sun and adjusting the umbrella for us! After our long hot hike a cold (though sure-to-be-expensive) beer sounded great.We ordered one to split and it was heavenly!  As we settled in we took note of our surroundings. Stripped to our swimsuits we seemed to fit in a little better, somewhere in between the weakly tanned white skins of the poor folks who only have a week to spend down here and the deep Baja Brown of the "we live in Cabo" set. Our skin is comfortably in between those two ranges by now. Amongst the weeklies I spotted a large family (must have been seven of them) trailing onto the beach.  They were followed by a muscular young Mexican in surfer jams, carrying some of their stuff.  Once they chose their spot and he had adjusted the umbrellas for them, they ordered up boogie boards for all.  Off the man in jams went to come back with arms laden.  "Are these all right?" he asked.  "Anything else you need?"  "Well," said the mom eyeing the boogie boards, "Other than surf lessons for the oldest three in a couple of hours, that's it."  Wait a minute.  How can this be?  I noticed one of the girls sporting a Butte Central t-shirt!  And off they ran into the water, shirts and all.

Wandering among the beach goers were solitary Mexican men.  Some carried briefcases full of silver jewelry.  They know exactly how to sell, "Have a look.  It doesn't cost anything to look."  Then once they open their cases, they watch which piece catches your eye and offer to let you try it on.  Oh man.  If you do that, you will want to own it!  I, uncharacteristically and strongly refuse.  Other men carried three foot stacks of straw hats.  One fellow had a series of baskets strung across his arms that would make perfect beach bags.

Although I finally convinced him I couldn't carry anything that big back with me and I really wasn't going to buy anything, we settled into a conversation.  We talked about languages.  He appeared to be 30 or 40 years old and told me that when he was a child he spoke only his Indian language.  It wasn't until he started going to school that he learned Spanish.  Now he speaks both fluently.  He drove from the Mexican state of Guerrero (in central mainland Mexico) to Baja California Sur in January.  He plans on staying down here for three months to sell his wares.  I hadn't realized that as recently as maybe 40 years ago there were still little pueblos tucked away in Mexico where the dominant language was the Indian language.  The Spaniards have been in Mexico since the 1500's, colonizing away, so that feat of hanging on to native languages is really something.

After we finished our beer, Bruce decided to try the water while I stayed with our stuff.  On his way to the water he stopped to talk to the dad of the boogie-boarding family.  They are from Billings, the t-shirt a memoir from a basketball tournament.  Meanwhile, I had spotted a life quard and asked him about the flag. It is nothing to worry about and  Bruce was headed in the safe direction. Bruce waded out a good 50 yards and was still only in up to his waist!  At our beach, he would have been in over his head in about half that distance from the shore.  When he returned,I went out.  I got as as far as the "surfers" and was still touching bottom!  Wow!  The waves were nice and gentle, so it was easy swimming.

By the time I got back, it was time to eat lunch,.   We knew it would be beyond our budget but, we asked for menus anyway and decided to go for it. We each ordered tacos, expecting one taco apiece and maybe some beans and rice.  While we waited for our food, I was entertained by our beachmates.  After a sweet Mexican woman stopped by to ask if we'd like a massage and quoted her rates, I noticed the other weekly whites closest to us.  This bunch was a group of couples.  The boys ordered a bucket of ($5.00 USD each) Pacificos and one of the ladies had a fancy drink.  Soon she began glancing around and a waiter appeared by her side. "No, no, I want Lala," she said.  The waiter called for Laul (it is a difficult name and I'm not sure I have it right here)and he came to her side.  Apparently her drink didn't have enough liquor in it.  It took two men to remedy the  situation, one brought a healthy amount of booze in a big shot class and began to pour it into her drink.  "No, no,!"she cried, she may not want that much and prefered to do it herself! Meanwhile, Laul, the second waiter brought a fancy bottle to her side, I supposed he hoped to interest her in buying the whole bottle.  No sale.  When the overweight husbands went into the water and left Miss Fancy Drinks alone in the lounge chairs she again looked around anxiously.  Laul faithfully appeared, but no, she wanted Eduardo this time. Eduardo showed up and she motioned him to take her husband's chair.  He entertained her with small talk until her party returned from the sea (talk about "all -inclusive!") and then Eduardo quietly took his leave. The conversation that ensued amongst the "boys" of the group had me thankful that I was not trapped inside a bar with them, especially during one of their drunken bar adventures which they now described loudly enough for everyone near them to hear.
Thankfully,I saw food arriving and that got my attention away from the big loud boys. And it looked delicious.  We each got three tacos folded into handmade tortillas, a side of beans and a side of quacamole.  The waiter also brought us a large plate holding pico de gallo, two types of salsa and a couple of handfuls of chips.  Have I mentioned all the hand made tortillas down here?  Well, these taco chips were made of those.  I had ordered fish tacos and they were a far cry from the frozen, breaded, Sysco-delivered fish we get in Montana.  Yep, this was fresh fish, nicely grilled.  And although we were expecting/wanting a little lunch, we ate every last bean.  It was just so good, we couldn't leave any of it on our plates! Too soon it was time to begin our long walk home. I hesitated to give up the luxuries of ice cold beer, lounge chairs, good food and easy swimming. At the same time I was relieved to leave the weekly whities and the snooty brown Cabo dwellers. There's something about the way they so readily accept the patronizing graciousness of our Mexican hosts that embarrassed me and made me uncomfortable. I was glad we are in between, not full-timers and not week long all-inclusive resort types either. After that taste of luxury, I still prefer our quiet little Pescadero Beach.

 We took the beach route home and along the way Bruce hopped into the rougher water for a cooling salt water wash. On the way home we encountered Joyce, the new owner of Gary's place. She re-iterated her standing offer to come join them for an afternoon beer. I love this place!

At Home on the Beach

Our new casita is aptly named Casita Oleander. It is a small 2 room house, the main room functioning as bedroom/kitchen/sitting room, though we rarely sit in there. Because....we have a nice porch that goes across the front and down half one of the sides. The porch faces south, has a three foot cement/stucco wall, There are a plastic table and two chairs on the patio and a hedge of oleanders around the low cement wall. The oleanders are in bloom: white and pink. In the morning we get the welcome warmth of the sun. By late afternoon, when we are done at the beach, we move the table to the west side where the lowering sun and the tall oleanders give us spackled shade for the perfect temp.

We are only inside long enough to cook a meal, shower, sleep at night. The rest of the time we are outside. A far cry from our friends at home in MT who are currently dealing with temperatures of anywhere from minus 20 to minus 35!  And best of all, our casita is literally one sandy path (less than a block) away from the beach.

On a typical day we take our mornings slowly.  We awaken to the aroma of fresh brewed coffee, as our casita has an automatic brewer which we set up the night before.  We greet the sun while sitting on the porch, drinking coffee.  By the time the sun clears the trees to the east of us, we are in shorts and tank tops.  Then it's a simple breakfast (usually yogurt and fresh bananas; somedays eggs fresh from the market seasoned with whatever is on hand in the way of chilis, onions, peppers, tomatoes all served with a warm hand-made tortilla, never older than a few days).  By 10:30 the warmth of the sun on our porch drives us to our swimsuits and the beach.  Bruce creates a personalized lounger chair, custom fit to his body, out of the sand on the beach.  The steep incline of the sand, created in the wee hours of the morning at high tide, serves as a fitting foundation for his throne-by-the-sea. 

 I lay on my belly and face the flock of surfers bobbing on the swells waiting for that perfect wave.  Sometimes there is an entertaining dog or two on the beach.  I have two favorites. One chases a ball right into the crashing waves, happy as he can be to basically tread water against the undertow until the next wave actually crashes over his head and carries him to shore!  Yep, I'd say he is a body surfing dog.  The other belongs to a surfer and is not as fond of the waves.  He sits at the water's edge, holding his head high so he can keep an eye (and nose) on his master out beyond the breakline.  When a large swell hides his master from view he frantically runs along the shore, jumping up to catch a glimpse of the fellow for whom he waits.  

The other surfers seems to know the dog as they all greet him when they come out of the water, but the dog is not easily distracted for any length of time before beginning his vigil again.  It is when his master begins paddling south and whistles, the dog knows his wait is nearly over and happily trots down the beach, all the while keeping an eye on his southbound master until the moment of happy reunion.

 

Meanwhile, Bruce and I have become sand lizards, melting into the beach.  We use plenty of sunblock to keep from buring our tender Montana skins.  After we've gotten good and toasty, and if the seas are calm enough, we take a dip in the ocean. The water here is surprisingly warm.  We find we can stay in as long as we like without getting too cool.  The surfers, however, who are out for hours on end, seem to prefer wetsuits.  A few surf "California style" with simple baggies or bikini. Skill levels vary, some working the wave for all its worth while others seem happy to have caught a ride at alll  Once the big surf subsides, the surfers all go in. Bruce flips to his stomach and I take a turn in the throne.  Now it is whale-watching time.  We are seeing more and more of them each day.  Sometimes a whole pod passes by.  About three quarters of the way to the horizon we can see them spout.  If we keep looking at the same spot we might even get to see the back side of one, reflecting the sun as s/he breaches on her/his migration north.  One more swim in the waves marks the end of our beach time.  We can't seem to leave the beach without filling our suits with sand from the shallow water.

Showers clear the sand from our suits and bodies, we dink away the afternoon and soon it is happy hour.  The shade of the oleanders on the west side of our porch is welcoming.  If we time it right, happy hour ends about sunset.  We have recently discovered a palapa (a thatched roof patio) on the property from which we can watch the sunset.  Perfect!  Bruce swears he has seen "the green flash," but you know how that story goes.

LIfe is pretty good here in paradise.  We've just completed another perfect day.  And we've almost forgotten what it feels like to need coat, hat, mittens, boots and scarf.

 

Mexican Riches

Our landlady in Los Barriles last year was Mexican, but spoke quite a bit of English.  Speaking with her for an extended period of time was always intertesting as one or the other of us simply slipped back into our native languages while continuing to communicate.  While giving me a ride to town one day last year, she shared that she had recently lost her father  After I expressed condolences and shared the story of my father's death, she asked if I had any brothers or sisters.  I told her I had one.  Sadly, she told me she also had only one sibling.  Gazing into the distance, the loss still fresh in her heart, she confided that it is easier to suffer the loss of a parent when you have more siblings.  I didn't quite understand what she meant.  As I have more experiences with this culture, I gain a teeny bit more understanding.

Serita shed some light on that story a couple of days ago. We had returned to eat at her cafe and to let her know we found our place to live.  When we had told her we were looking for Las Palmas Tropicales and Wendy, no one in the cafe recognized those names.  She had mentioned that she had a friend who rented places. She had mentioned that if we didn't find the spot we were looking for to come back.  I figured she wanted to hook us up at her friend's place.  Once we got settled in our new digs, I found myself wondering if we might know Serita's friend.  On a subsequent visit to town we stopped again at Serita's for lunch.  When I asked about her friend who rented casitas, it turned out we did know him. "Oh yes," Serita cried, "Your know him?  He is my friend....for nearly 10 years!"  In fact, she motioned to a Mexican  sitting at the lunch counter, saying that he had had business dealings with our mutual acquaintance, a younger married man. Then she told the story that our friend  was crying while trying to strike a deal, saying he was poor had not much money....Serita had interrupted to tell our friend that he wasn't poor, he was "rico!"  At this point I expected references to his large house, his nice car, etc, etc.  She got a twinkle in her eye and said, "He is not poor; he has five children!" And she held up all the fingers on one hand to emphasize her point.  "He is very rich," she said.  "There is much corazon in his house."  Then the twinkle came back in her eye and she said, "He's very good looking, don't you think?"  I could only laugh;  Serita and I are much too old to notice whether or not our young friend is considered attractive.

Later in the afternoon I was thinking about the exchange with Serita and something occurred to me.  I once read a book that talked about the connotations for many Spanish words.  The word, "simpatico" for example, translates in English as "nice."  In Spanish, the word "simpatico" connotes a certain generosity of spirit, a kind and giving attitude; much more than just being pleasant, as we would define "nice."  So later, I wondered if the word Spanish word "corazon" (meaning heart) has as many connotations in Spanish as the word "love" does in English.  I couldn't help but wonder if Serita maybe wasn't hinting at an idea as why there were so many children in that home; why our friend's wife bore five children already.  No wonder she had that twinkle in her eye!

Ode to Gary

On our first trip to Pescadero  Cappi magically stumbled upon what became a cheap place by the sea for us to stay and the beginnings of a friendship with an extraordinary man..  The place looked quiet, except for the barking dog who greeted us followed by an elderly blue-eyed man who shuffled his way out to the driveway.  That was our introduction to Gary, propietor of Casitas Simpaticas, our first "home" in Baja.

 

During our many stays with Gary, we came to know Gary and the many roles his life had given him.  He came from southern California where he was a surfer and an adventurer.  He was a horse trainer, a sailor, a celestial navigator, an architect, a builder, a father, a patron of the arts and a humanitarian.  Our mornings at Gary's place were spent in what we came to refer to as "story hour."  A simple sharing of a cup of instant coffee became the door to Gary's many adventures.  More than once Bruce and I had to ask each other, as we left Gary and headed to the beach, "How much of that do you suppose is true?"  Tales of dinner in his father's house with Frank Lloyd Wright, training horses in the sea for the racetrack at Del Mar, visiting Tahiti long before it was a tourist destination, teaching his daughter to sail the boat backwards into the harbor as that is when you really know how to control a sailboat, and on and on and on.  Soon we were sharing dinners and pieces of exotic fruit from the gardens of Lupe, Gary's handyman and longtime friend.  Once he showed us a bottle which had held a very expensive tequila.  The bottle was white porcelain, painted by hand in fine blue ink.  Gary said the tequila cost over $100 and half the price went to the pople who painted the bottle.  He thought that was nice....that half the money went to the artists.  To Bruce and I, a stay in Pescadero, meant another deepening of our affection for Gary.  We were smong the last of his renters.

Bruce and I met his children on the beach at Pescadero.  We first recognized Chica, Gary's companion and Mexican dog.  Chica was never far from Gary's side, so we knew something was up.  Walking with Chica was one of Gary's daughters.  His other daughter and a son were on the beach also when we learned of Gary's passing.  It must have happened a week or two after we stayed with him.  I told the one daughter that we had heard so many of Gary's stories, many of them about his children.  She smiled, looked me in the eyes and said, "All of them are true."  She pointed out her sister further down the beach, so I approached her and introduced myself.  As soon as she said her name, I had to ask, "Can you really sail a sailboat backwards?"  She didn't hesitate, but maintained her gaze far out into the ocean while answering, "Yes, I can."

Gary's memorial was a week later.  The children found old photos in "Gary's Lair" of Tahiti and surfing days, horses and sailing.  The few Mexicans in attendance all had thankful words for Gary.  One told a story of Gary buying uniforms for the whole baseball team.  Serita, of  Rosita's Luncheria where Gary liked to eat only told us solemnly that Gary had helped her a lot and plenty of other people too.  Gary's son, Allen released Gary's ashes into the sea with his sisters next to him, clasping hands; all up to their knees in sea break.  When the last of the ashes had been rinsed from the container and Allen had finished his silent wishes and prayers his sisters encouraged him to toss the blue and white bottle high and far into the sea. 

Return to Pescadero

Sure enough, the airport workers led us to the same bus stop we had used before.  Bruce even recognize the corner we needed.  Just a half block's walk took us to the bus station and soon we had the schedule to Pescadero in our hands.  The walk to downtown was perfect.  At one point we sought affirmation from a Mexican that we were going the right way and he even offered to go with us, even though he had been walking in the opposite direction!  Before long we were in familar territory, found the hotel of catwalks and the nearby one which had no rooms last year.  We found the propietor under a palapa, singing and dancing with an electrical wire in time to the recorded mariachi music.  We discovered why we could never land a room: he only has 3 to let out!  He gave us his card and, maybe, just maybe we can get a room there on our return.

Herman, the propietor a Senor Manana's had a room for us just off the courtyard in the place of catwalks and stairs.

We settled in quickly and went off to find our first Mexican margarita and some real Mexican food.  Found both, Bruce enjoying a giant burrito while I savored the chicken enchiladas with green sauce.  Yum, yum!  Bruce stopped at a bench for a cigarette on the way home.  While waiting, I heard a curious stomping noise and music.  No voices or singing.  So I tracked it down and found a dance school. The footwear caught my attention immediately, reminding me of Billy Pilgrim. I saw everything imaginable on the dancers' feet.  I saw women's boots on men, dress boots on women and everything in between.  I guess what was important here was to have something that would make a nice stomping sound on the wooden floor.  We took in a few dances before heading back and hitting hay early after a long day of travel.

The next morning, on the bus, we saw something we rarely see on the buses: another gringo couple.  After exchanging introductions and "Where you froms" a young Mexican fellow in the seat behind me said in English,  "Did you say you are from Montana?"  He had been to job corp in Darby and talked about how he liked the open country of Montana, but not the cold.  He is from Cabo, but doesn't like it as it is too crowded and busy.  He was on his way to a port near La Paz where he would catch a ferry to Matzalan and then catch buses all the way to Chilapas (near Guatamala!) where he hopes to settle.

After the busy-ness of Cabo and San Jose, we were happy to see our small dusty town of Pescadero come into view.  There are quite a few ex-pats here, but also a large number of Mexicans.  Our first stop was Rosaritas Luncheria where Gary (our original patron here) had wanted to go when we offered to buy him lunch.
 Rosarita remembered us from before and served us up the best scrambled eggs I have ever eaten.  She wanted to know where we would be staying and we got a little uneasy when neither she nor anyone in the luncheria nor anyone working for her had heard of the place or the owners.  Bruce worried we'd been scammed; I worried we were patronizing some Americans who don't participate in the local economy.  Turned out neither of us were right.  Rosarita suggested we try a certain street and that turned out to be the right one.  Our new digs are really comfy.  We think we have the best casita in the little complex.  We are a block away from the beach, one block from our old place and two blocks from where Gary used to live.  Back in our old neighborhood!

The beach is as lovely as we remembered, and just as uncrowded.

The whales are just starting to come through, so we haven't seen too many yet and none as close as what we saw last year.  I haven't seen very many pelicans, either.  Where have they gone?  But there are still tall beautiful palms, crashing waves and amazing songbirds.  And we have plenty of time to see pelicans and whales.

Thanks to the community of ex-pats, we have found a place that will show the SuperBowl this afternoon.  Our propietor is going too and will give us a ride home tonight.

Only one thing could have made this day any better......and you football fans know what that might have been.

Oh well.  Can't have everything, eh?

Customs Adventure

Now that we are settled in our little Casita Oleander at Las Palmas Tropicales we have a somewhat reliable internet connection and can be back in touch.  Getting here was part of our adventure, beginning with a less than smooth trip through customs.  Before even claiming our bags, the fruit dog was on me!  Word must have traveled faster than we:  last year I forgot about a banana in my purse.  I had noticed the dog and his harness.  At first I thought he was an aid dog in training.  He was so cute and looked so friendly I did the usual reminder to self not to play with dogs in training.  Then I saw that the harness did not mark an aid dog and so I put my hand down to play with him and his accompanying agent began questioning me about fruit!  Busted.  Thank goodness Bruce had not slipped  a banana in my bag this year and the agent let me go after a quick rifle through my "purse."  (Aren't those dogs supposed to be mean and nasty and intimidating-looking?).  Meanwhile, Bruce  was having his own adventure with our packs.  He answered truthfully when asked, admitting to bringing in tobacco.  He had assured me during our packing process that he could take in two bags of his rollie smokes, if I carried one.  Yeah.  Bruce's honest answer put us in a special lineup.  Our bags were emptied; my brown rice confiscated and the two bags of tobacco separated out from the rest.  After many questions and stumbling through our rusty Spanish, the agents took some time to convert ounces to grams (something we should have done before leaving home) to discover we were over the allowable limit.  Ding.  Off Bruce went with his wallet and customs agent while I stayed with our bags.  One agent tapped me on the shoulder wanting to make sure I stopped at his little table before leaving.  Another female agent showed me which door would be my exit, as now the clump of touri from our plane had all dissipated.  The agent must have been bored too as she and I started up a converstion about language difficulties.  By the time the agent had finished with Bruce and his wallet, the place was deserted.  Even the officious little man who stood at the last table had disappeared without a trace.  The now-very-expensive tobacco went back in our bags and having completed that little adventure, we were on our way.

Next challenge: the Corridor of Condo Salesmen.  I seem to be one of those people that attracts not only customs dogs, but salespeople and street peddlers.  I breathed a sigh of relief to find the Corridor nearly empty.  One fellow remained, I had seen him with the customs agents, and he asked where we were headed.  Oh, he knew of a bus to Pescadero leaving in a few minutes and a hotel which would only cost us $30.  At first I thought he was sympathetic to our ordeal and wanted to help us out.  Then the light bulb came on.....these guys are pros!  They know exactly how to read you and how to get to you...."No, no...we have a hotel, I just can't remember the name of it."   And off we scurried into the warm Baja sunshine, following the shift-finishing airport workers to the bus stop.