Heading South

11.23.06

11.23.06

In an over packed mini-van we join the masses of Turkey seeking holiday travelers and head for the border between the U.S. and Mexico. It takes twice as long as we had planned, so we hit the crossing without lunch yet without a hitch, and fly down the highway, traversing one nation into another. It’s a seamless passage along the well maintained highway and we follow a pizza truck, our stomach pangs fueling our desire to get to our destination before dusk. The road passes resort after resort on the beach side and cows and horses on the left side. Billboards invite us to invest now in Rosarito and the new condos being built, but I am more drawn to the older seaside enclaves with whispers of 50’s would be novelists escaping Northern winters, 60’s hippies running from corporate culture and their Mexican hosts looking on with cocked eyebrows.

It’s hard to feel a geographic difference between the two countries and a well named complex does indeed look like Malibu. The city of Ensenada reminds me of any college oriented strip in Florida and it’s not until we turn off the main road to find our beach “resort” that I feel Mexico. The lack of road shoulders and adequate street lighting makes driving an exercise in dodging dogs, pedestrians, bicyclists and parked cars. We follow directions passing dozens of corner Taquerias, Tiendas de Liquores, Opthamologists, screeching to sudden halts as Michael notes the tiny, bent over Alto (stop) signs at the last minute with road crossers waiting in the dark to traverse. I am for once grateful for our overly litigious culture that makes all the rules and regs very easy to read, especially in the dark. Reflective paint does not exist here.

The heavy salty air hits us in the face as we decamp at Mona Lisa Beach, a family owned conclave of run down buildings and sweet concrete Aztec statues the owner, Leo, has put up everywhere. It’s off season and most of the bungalows are empty, the thatch roofed dining gazebos mere memories of taco and cervezas served at summer’s sun set. Our “condo” last decorated in the 60’s reminds me of Prague and our apartment that featured d2 beds in the living room, with an open kitchen area, dilapidated couches and lumpy mattresses. Noah freaks at the “stench” of fresh sea air compared to our arid desert environment and I feel the hairs curl at my neck from the welcome humidity. Hunger propels us to the nearest restaurant, Mario’s, which caters to Americans with its bi-lingual menu and English speaking staff. The place is filled with gringo families like ourselves and sadly, a TV broadcasts a football game in English, while Englebert Humperdink croons out of a radio.


Well fed on passable fare (although the re-fried beans with my Fajitas were the best I’ve ever had and the tortillas freshly made) we head to a CalMex to buy drinking water and feel America seep down the well lit, fully shelved aisles. We then return to our abode and crash for the night.