Our last few bittersweet days in Pescadero filled me with mixed emotions. I was sad to say good-bye to the many pleasures we found there and yet happily looking forward to new adventures.
The last day for us on the Pacific side brought huge waves, unpredictable currents and cloudy weather, and it was still a bit sad to say good-bye to the ocean I had grown accustomed to seeing every morning with coffee, every evening at sunset, most afternoons, and many dark nights.
This year I also deepened a few acquaintances with "local" surfers (the local referring to the fact that they own homes in Pescadero and live here part of the year). I also enjoyed warm greetings and friendships from a few local Mexicans such as the lady who runs Rosarita's loncheria, Fidel, the vegetable vendor, and Lupe, jack-of-all-trades and man with the most generous and enthusiastically warm smile. Hosts Bobby and Wendy treated us almost like family, their children regularly visiting with us, Bobby stopping in several times a day to chat and trading favors back and forth.
But in Pescadero it is becoming too easy to not use my Spanish, to observe Mexican life from a distance and to socialize with gringos. Bus travel demands intelligible Spanish and offers opportunity to casually visit with true locals. The journey to La Paz offered just such potential. The hour wait for the bus brought opportunity to observe Mexican life in Todos Santos away from the "gringo strip" housing Hotel California, rows of souvenir shops, and the only English-speaking dentist in Todos Santos (who fixed my teeth last year). Here on the side street between bus station and city park, men hailed one another from opposite sides of the street, started conversations, which , if prolonged, sparked the need for one to cross to the other. Women walked in twosomes chaperoning small children to school, walking to work or shop. The music of Spanish spoken by native speakers was in the air. Time passed quickly and soon the bus whisked us up. The on-board movie screens showed Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire dubbed in Spanish, but most people were engaged in quiet conversations with their seat mates. The older man seated across from us, head capped in gently worn straw cowboy hat, worried the folder of papers in hands that had worked outdoors most of their weathered life. I imagined him on important legal business in his state capital. The fact that he had not a single bag with him made me think he would make the journey back to his place the same day. He was on the bus when we boarded, two hours from La Paz. I wondered how far he had already traveled this morning.
Endless scenery of desert flatlands racing to the sea from the the mountains of the Sierra Laguna soon gave way to the outskirts of La Paz. Gradually we entered the bustle of the big city until the two lane highway divided into four lanes of city traffic. The bus wound its way through quieter back streets pulling into the narrow back gate of the bus station located opposite the malecon of La Paz. Soon we were walking along the picturesque boardwalk near the turquoise blue waters of the Sea of Cortez. Couples rested on sandy beaches under palapas, gringos and Mexicans boarded ponga boats to snorkel with whale sharks. Tourists sat in white rod iron benches, some facing the beautiful sailboats in the harbor, others looked toward the malecon, casual pedestrians, bike riders and shops across the way.
Our hotel, just a partial block back from the malecon, promised rooms around a courtyard, a private balcony, and rooftop terrace. Without a kitchen, we would be living high and eating out for our single night and day in La Paz! Our cute young hotel clerk, spoke excellent English and delighted us with his tale. Born in Mexico, he moved to Oregon with his parents before getting to know his native country. His parents offered him a trip and for five years he toured the United States learning English as he traveled and worked, seeking out the company of other Hispanics to help him learn. Every night after work, he practiced and studied his English. After he worked long enough to save a few dollars, he would soon be traveling to see what was over the next hilltop and on the next island. Lately he has been bouncing around Mexico, wanting to know the country of his birth, living in La Paz now for the past three years and finding life very agreeable here. He says, "It is just how I am. I have to see what is out there. And what is out there is......" he rummaged through his knowledge of two languages before continuing, "well, it is life...you know? You have to go out there and get in it and just live it, because it is what we have!" He ended with a laugh and a shake of his head. Our room would be ready in another hour or so, could he put our bags in the room for us? We were soon on our way to two for one carnitas at La Paz's Mercado Bravo. The carnitas come with salsa, onions and cilantro. We picked up enough for ourselves and for the hotel clerk. Around the corner from the carnitas shop another vendor offered fresh tortillas, hot off the grill. For a few dollars we had the makings for a wonderful taco lunch for three!
After lunch and settling into our room we proceeded on to the errands we needed to do before leaving the ease of the big city: cash machines, bus schedules, and a search for rolling tobacco (since Bruce heeded the importing regulations this year). Each errand brought opportunities to dust off our Spanish and to explore the streets of La Paz. To walk around la Paz is to immerse oneself in contemporary Mexican culture. In between the souvenir shops are the shops selling what the permanent residents of Mexico need. Everything from fashion to markets, hardware stores and barbershops, office supplies and toy stores. Away from the malecon the sounds of Spanish dominate. Borganveas bloom next to scattered litter in empty lots. Private homes abut the sidewalks next to shops and restaurants. The city bustles with life and activity, but always the pace is low key, conversations and relations seem to take precedence.
With errands completed by late afternoon, we had time for happy hour in the garden courtyard before going to our favorite place to stay in La Paz for a genuine Italian dinner and a salutation to owner Franco. We had tried to reserve a room with him, but his palapas were full, so we decided the next best thing to staying there was eating there. We found the food as good as ever and Franco happy to see us. As memories of our happy La Paz day filled our brains, this year's satisfying Pescadero visit slipped easily into the past, becoming another happy memory.
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