A night on the town

I am beginning to feel the pangs of having missed a true wenches meeting this month. Celia and I crossed town for an early dinner at Miguel’s self acclaimed for their chili rellenos. I was surprised to see that the gringo shops were all closed up for the night at 5 PM but there was plenty of activity in the local haunts. In fact, the traffic was greater than I had see any time prior – indeed, we were witnessing the early evening pre-show to coming cruising main attraction. With much less ambitious goals for the night we set out for Miguel’s and a quick top in the grocery.

Miguel did make a mean relleno but his claim to fame should be his margarita. Celia and I watched the bartender/waiter prepare margarita after margarita with the same subline simplicity: place one slice of lime in the bottom of a hand blown margarita glass, fill the glass with ice. Squeeze three lime halves into the glass, fill to top with tequila and add a splash of cointreau. At $3 each, it was impossible to stop at one and difficult to walk away at two, yet the thought of Celia walking the streets chirping “ayudame, mi mama caye” was more than I could bear. That did not stop me from quizzing her on how to get back to Casa Bentley in the event of Mama’s incapacitation.

On the way home we passed the Coca-Cola playground – site of the infamous strawberry popcicle meltdown. The play structure was crawling with dozens of local kids. Surprisingly, Celia wanted in on it. I sat for nearly an hour and watched her skirt the social interactions of the other children. She retreated into a nook of the structure that allowed her easy access to the children’s play without much threat of involvement. Like mother, like daughter. I took a seat on a bench near two other mothers. As a preventative action against yet another impossible conversation, I first took photos and then retreated into my Blackberry Pearl. Who knew it could do so much! I’ve had it for two months but this was the first moment I had had to really check it out since I got it. Maps, voice recordings, to-do lists… the ability to burn time was seemingly endless. I tested my ability to access hotmail and send Ed an e-mail. It seemed to work but I had no way of knowing. Given that my quasi-drunken surfing was conducted on Mexican telecom, for all I knew, I may have been dropping $25 a minute to send the message, “@ parque. Testing new pearl. Wish U were here.”

When I finally pried Celia away from the slides, we walked up the now dark street to see that our market was still open. Although I chided myself for being silly, I took out my lip gloss as we approached and offered some to Celia. While it was out, I took a bit for myself. At the soda cooler I caught sight of the butcher. In no time, he was assisting me with my fruit selection and working hard to charm Celia. Overhearing their banter I caught his name, Eduardo – figures. Slightly tipsy from my agave-lime libation, I struggle to recall all the items on my list which, of course, had been left back at the hotel. The incentive for missing an item being a return visit tomorrow – hmmm. The store was obviously closing so I gave Celia the go ahead to choose an ice cream treat from the cooler, grabbed a bag of rice and headed for the check out. For reasons unclear to me, Eduardo was now my bagging my groceries. We all walked out of the store together. With a simultaneous “buenos noches”, Eduardo headed north and we turned south – directly opposite the direction of Casa Bentley.

I was in search of a store we had found days ago that stocked liquor. Having just learned to make margaritas from master Miguel, I wanted to give it a try myself. The town buzzed with activity. A near constant stream of pickup trucks thumping accordion-laced tunes throbbed past us. We came upon a community center hosting a party. Inside the gates dozens of children danced about while women looked on and men stood in packs drinking beer from long neck bottles. Celia and I watched until she said, “too bad we aren’t invited.” Her comment hit a long ago retired chord in me which elicited a reflexive response, “we don’t need them to have fun!” Just then I saw the impossibly large, pumpkin orange, mist-veiled harvest moon rising above the party. “Look at the moon Celia!” I gasped. She looked up in the opposite direction, as children always do, and started laughing. Directly above our heads, peering down from the roof top above, was the snout of a German Shepherd who has been put out for the night.

Deciding that this place in time was too good to be true we plopped down and beneath the pumpkin moon and roof pooch, we sat on the corner, watched the town folk cruise. Celia led the conversation. We talked about – what else? – geology. If asked, I can summarize the Topic of Cancer, which we crossed today on oru walk, in 30 words or less – not because I am especially succinct but because that exhausts my complete knowledge on the topic. We moved on to the earth’s core and earthquakes. When we arrived back home, I still had no tequila but we went to bed with tectonic plates well covered.

Trouble In Paradise

Even as I awoke I could feel the clock ticking. Not the clock that read a merciful 8:43 AM but the clock that taps just behind my eyes telling me that my hours are limited before I and my five-year-old, lovely in her serene morning sleep, will pit iron wills against one another. There is no telling what might set it off but it is a known eventuality. It has been three days since we left home, all the while we have been over stimulated, out of our element and fully confined to one another’s company. Truly Celia has been exceptional but I can see the storm clouds on our horizon even as I gaze into her still sleepy eyes. Our first conversation goes something like this…
“Mama I had a bad dream,” Celia began.
“Really? What happened?” I inquired.
“Nicolas and Zoey and I were playing but there was a snake that was trying to bite us,” she began.
“Wow, where were you?” I said trying to sound interested though my eyeshade was still on so I hadn’t officially accepted the day just yet.
“Zoey and Nicolas ran away but the snake had arms and it grabbed me,” she continued.
“That is scary!” I said with all the emphasis I could muster, “Were you able to…”
Celia interrupted with the sort of sensationalism reserved for San Diego news casters, “The snake wouldn’t let go and I had to shake it loose,” Celia reported.
“Where did Nicolas and Zoey…” I began but was again cut off.
“The snake was as long as the bed and it could move really fast…” Celia paused a moment then shoved my arm and said, “Mama, are you listening? Did you hear me? I had a bad dream.”
The eyeshades came off and I stared into Celia’s face, our foreheads nearly touching, and said, “Yes, didn’t you hear me? I’ve been …” but was cut short by Celia placing her then seemingly eighty-year-old hand to her left year and shouting, “Huh?”

Yes, on day four of our month-long vacation my daughter had gone functionally deaf from the mini ponds of pool water sloshing about in her hears. The storm clouds grow ever more ominous. In the best of times I hate to repeat myself. Celia listens well but, let’s face it, she’s FIVE. I must say her name 30 time a day just to get her attention. As I ponder the ramifications of this latest twist, Celia begins to sing a song at a volume meant only for Broadway musicals due to her sub aquatic insensibility. Rationalizing that I am concerned for the neighbors beyond the 10 inch thick stone wall, I shush her.
“Huh?” she yells.
There is no escaping it. I am on a collision course with trouble. No choice but to ride this one out.

Yesterday we attempted to walk to the beach using only verbal guidance provided by Beatrice, Bob’s lovely sidekick. We set out on our 4 mile hike shortly after 1PM in the height of the mid-day heat. As we walked past people obscured by the shade of their porches and dogs hardly visible under parked cars, it occurred to me that wandering the dirt roads of Baja with a small child in the middle of the day might be considered endangerment until a car flew past with a family of 12 protruding from the windows. Engulfed in their dirt wake, I take comfort in relativity. On the grounds that what happens in Mexico stays in Mexico, we wander onward past local cinder block homes, crowing roosters and heat-dazed canines until I am quite certain that we are gaining no ground on the ocean. (An arial view at this moment would be quiet comical as we actually stood less than ½ mile from the beach). Temporarily admitting defeat, Celia groaned with equal parts relief and anguish but the promise of the pool kept her in motion.

Today, we consult a map and combining the new intelligence with Beatrice’s narrative, we again set out for the beach - this time at 9AM. Remarkably cooler (go figure), Celia is in great spirits despite the fact that her mother will not listen to her, a.k.a., respond to her every comment. In fact, I am responding, and starting conversations, and asking questions, but it all falls on Celia’s deaf ears. We are on our 10th spat due to a conversational impass when we realize that we have found the true path to the beach.

Just as Beatrice had described, the road winds up and over a hillside at which point we are able to see the entirety of Todos Santos, the mountains beyond and the pacific ocean in all its great blue splendor. The view freshens Celia’s waning energy and we press on toward the beach. Beatrice’s words echo in my ear as our road narrows to a path and then a single file trail along a rocky crag. I can hear the roar of the ocean drowning out my intuition crying, “Go back, for the love of god, go back!” When we came to a point that required crossing barbed wire, I threw in the towel. We turned around and began the 2 mile death march back to town as the sun began to hit its mid-day stride. Still, we managed to stay jovial, albeit it at a happy holler.

Things began to turn dark as we came upon a video store. Partly to escape the sun we darted in to see if renting is an option for turistas. I thought I might have to produce a driver’s license, possess a local phone number, something to be entrusted with a Dora the Explorer DVD but, no, the teen behind the counter deeply engrossed in a Mexican soap opera simply passed me a written sales slip showing that I owed 35 pesos and that was that. Though I couldn’t begin to guess the contractual enforcement methods of the 15-year-old to collect on our Dora DVD, I asked Celia to ask him how long we could keep the movie. She looked at me but couldn’t hear me. I stammer out a “por una dia?” and he replied “no, dos.”

We hit the street blinded by the sun and I empathized momentarily for the blind deaf child beside me though I couldn’t find the compassion to be her Helen Keller. I shout at her about how we need to pool our language resources in situations like the video store. She whines something about being tired and hot. Miffed, I don’t notice the thunderhead gathering directly over us.

We turn the corner to see the Coca Cola park complete with state-of-the-art play structure and refreshment pavilion serving, what else? I ask Celia – twice - if she’d like an ice cream. With each exchange we sound more and more like Al and Peg Bundy throwing accusations of intentional miscommunincation. In the steamy hot shop we peer into the ice cream case as the shopkeeper hovers over me. “What do you want Celia?” Silence. “Pick something Celia.” Barely audible mumbling sounding faintly like fresas wafts from my child. I ask her to ask the gentleman, now entirely too close to me, how much the strawberry popsicle costs. Silence. “Will you tell me how to ask?” Butterfly wings make more sound than the words that came from the child who, until that moment hadn’t spoken below a shout all day. “Speak up Celia. I can’t hear you (and the man is almost touching me!) Flutter, flutter. Utterly frustrated, I shoved my hand forward to distance myself from the encroaching merchant with 15 pesos. He took 10 and I thanked him before hauling Celia by her shoulder, a little too roughly, out of the pavilion toward the playground.

If I lead you to believe that this would be the story of a Celia meltdown, I apologize. On the contrary, I lost it. Celia attempted to ignore the fact by reveling in her strawberry distraction. Then the downpour began. Utter childishness rained from my mouth, “I’m not buying another thing for you as long as we are here. You want something, you ask for it. I don’t speak Spanish – you do! You’re not doing a damn thing to help… point for being here…get on the next plane…” and so on until we were both drenched - Celia in tears and me in strawberry popsicle.

Within minutes the clouds parted, I regained a semblance of maturity and Celia – sensing the shift, took to the play structure. I drank a liter of water and watched the children play and the teenagers in their catholic school uniforms execute carefully choreographed public displays of affection.

The rest of the day was lovely. We swam, I worked, Celia sketched with pastels, Bob drove us to the same beach that we so nearly reached earlier in the day (FYI – we should have pushed on past the barbed wire. So much for intuition!) and we prepared and devoured dinner al fresco. Without doubting the many, many disapproving statues of Mary that witnessed my tantrum in the park, I can tell you that Todos Santos’ has at least two saint in current residence. As I washed the dishes from dinner, Ted and Laurie, the couple next door, invited me to their patio for a little conversation with Don Julio. Celia, meanwhile, retired to our room where she artistically expressed herself for two solid, blissfully quiet hours while I talked to adults who heard every word I said the first time.

The night sky was crystal clear – not a cloud in sight.

Driver's training

Bob’s not feeling well but his deeply developed host personal will not let him disappoint. As he fiddled with our shower which was producing only a trickle of water, he share with me the anomalies of Mexican water management. This lead to a discussion of the road conditions. I was impressed by the new blacktop on the road from Cabo. Bob looked pained by the reminder. He explained that NAFTA enabled Mexicans to bring old, unwanted cars from across the border into Mexico for free. Previously it may have cost as much as $3000 to bring a car into the country. For the small town of Todos Santos, and for all towns in Mexico, this resulted in a massive explosion of personal vehicles. Todos Santos has 3 times the cars and trucks that it had 3 years ago.

Suddenly the loose interpretation of the stop signs I’d witnessed made perfect sense. It is a country of first time drivers – dear God! My thought of renting a bike immediately dissipates.

Bob went on to say that prior to last year when Todos Santos became the magic city – I don’t know if that is an official distinction but judging from the sneer on Bob’s face, I’m guessing it is an unofficial nod from the Mexican tourism gods – police from La Paz would come into town each day, stand on the street corner and ticket foreigners who feel prey to following the driving example of the locals. When in Mexico, do as the Mexican’s do will land you a ticket – or more likely an opportunity to bribe your way out of a ticket. When the tourism gods meet to designate Todos Santos the magic city, it was agreed that this practice would stop. Consider it a hospitality improvement process.

My personal trainer

We crossed town in search of a morning coffee. We ended up in a restaurant where the owner immediately picked up and hugged Celia. Although she was a little freaked out, she rolled with it well. He spoke with us in Spanish and returned several times to dote on Celia. When we left, he again hoisted her up and kissed her. It is a sticky wicket to explain to a five-year-old that Mexican men may want to kiss and hug her and that is most likely okay.

This morning I prepared a mango, apple and melon for breakfast. Be prepared, I mean that I ran a knife through them. Why wouldn’t I call this breakfast at home? Celia devoured it and announced that it is time for yoga.

Ladies, here is the surefire way to stick to an exercise regimen – involve your five year-old. Put their ability to badger you to work. Rather than listening to “Can I watch Barney? Can I? When can I watch Barney?” turn their iron will devoid of repetition detection loose on your flabby abs. 40 minutes of yoga, sit-ups, push-ups and butt exercises we simply call doggie (use your imagination), and we are sitting in the lounge chairs adding to our journals – Celia in her paper and pencil perfection and I on my laptop. I am certain that had the morning been my own, I would have progressed from fruit to lounge chair 40 minutes faster.

Today I taught Celia:
Quarter fractions of a whole – ¼, ½, ¾, 1 while swimming laps in the pool.
How to rock out to Bohemian Rhapsody
Warrior Pose

Celia taught me:
How to ask, “Where can I buy beer?”
How great guayabas are

Contemplations of a Redhead Among Saints

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.