For a day that started much too early and not at all well, it came to an end beautifully.
There are sordid details about missing documents, State Department bungles and heroic measures by Ed, airline staff and one San Diego cab driver but it really doesn’t matter any more.
We arrived in Los Cabos, retrieved our car, patronized the local MEGA supermarket (it would make Fred Meyer proud), and headed west to Cabos San Lucas with pick-up trucks brimming with riders in their open beds. Past the Costco, Office Max, and, yes, Home Depot I resolve not to engage in wonton gluttony, work or home improvement for 27 days and nights. Right at the soccer field that you won’t see and then right again at the bull fighting arena and we were on our way North to Todos Santos.
Along the route, nothing. Dense desert as far at the eye can see spiked with cactus heads craning for a glimpse of the ocean just beyond. Horned cattle along the road remind you to “maneje” with care. Celia tells us this means steer. Shrines to lost motorists drive the point home. The occasional sign rises from the shrines reminding the living with a posthumous, “Si toma, no maneje.” After an hour of driving on a remarkably civil highway and one axel-grinding surprise speed bump (reductor de velocidad) we slid into town just as the sun was meeting the horizon.
A note on the common traffic enforcement mechanism known as reductor de velocidad. The standard Mexican road sign for this tool resembles a stylized boob shot – two bumps side-by-ide as if looking down one’s own shirt. Just as you point out this funny fact to your driver or co-pilot, and begin your “isn’t-Mexico-a-hoot” chuckle, you will feel the nose of your vehicle launch into the air followed by the in-flight rearrangement of groceries, luggage and internal organs. As no coincidence, two unfazed horses stood at roadside pretending to nibble leaves from naked twig along side the reductor – teeth bared in an unmistakable aren’t-foreigners-a-hoot grin.
My first impression of Todos Santos was a concoction of relief at finally having arrived and mild disappointment in the reality that I was still in Mexico. On the dirt road just beyond the infamous imposter Hotel California, my disappointment whirls into near panic as we peer into the cinderblock shanties lining the rutted road. A moment later, all the saints of Casa Bentley open the teal green gate to another world. Beyond the gate lush tropics dripping flowers and fruit provide a thick canopy over rock walls. The temperature drops to a cool, dewy perfection.
Our host and resident geologist, Bob, greets us with gracious detail. I can’t help but wonder what he must think of me. For months I have blasted him with e-mails written in my usual mile-a-minute manner. How does he feel about hosting a neurotic city girl with too much free time? How would I feel about it? I look around the casita that is to be home for a month and I vow to change his mind about me. I have faith that a kinder, gentler woman will emerge newly fortified by the stone, flowing with the rhythm of the fountain. Whatever his prejudice, he tucked it away, gave us the tour and pointed us to a single restaurant for dinner – not presenting options but prescribing Tres Gallinas. I am in love. With this place. With the prospect of reincarnation in this life. With being given no options.
Ed, Celia and I follow Bob’s directions to exit the magic gate and climb the steep dirt road to the main street of town. We pass a hair salon painted with bright green walls. As it had grown dark, the single stylist and customer glow within the limey box just as the all the picture boxes in San Diego’s Old Town were trying to tell me. The ice cream parlor stands at the crest of the hill and I wonder if gluttony is trumped by physical exertion. Left on Juarez, we come to the prescribed Italian bistro. It is a lovely layered affair of courtyard and dining rooms with terra cotta and mustard-colored walls. Subtle but consistent artwork depicted the restaurant’s namesakes. Magda, the owner and chef, is at once obvious among her Mexican staff. We sit by the kitchen to take it all in.
The dinner conversation was the highlight of the evening. True to form, Celia used her carbs from the Penne to fuel debated on the origin of the universe. I am not making this up. She asked us about the birth of stars, sought to know whether seeds predated plants or vice-versa. I raised the issue of the chicken and the egg to throw fuel on her now raging fire. She asked us if everything was created at once or made little-by-little. I gave her the variations of the story ending with the King James 7-day version. I quoted, “In the beginning God made the heavens and earth.” Celia let out a genuine belly laugh followed by a snickering, “I don’t believe that.” I persisted to describe God’s creation of man and afterthought molding of a rib bone to make woman. Celia’s amusement morphed to deep skepticism that I was now making things up. I in turn marvel at the creation of Celia.
Back within the walls of Casa Bentley we christen ourselves in the deep blue-tiled pool beneath the monstrous Hule tree. The night is quiet and cool. Bob’s cats come out to greet their latest guests. We warm up with a late night shower and fall into bed a family exhausted. The courtyard fountain could easily be mistaken for rainfall if it were not June in Mexico. But then, behind the teal-green gates of Casa Bentley, it just might be. A world away from Costco, Office Max and Home Depot, I think about the decadent meal and wine we shared, the likelihood I’ll get to my e-mail tomorrow and drift to sleep wondering if Bob might like help in the gardens.
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