Return to Puerto Vallarta

Bo and I left Los Alamos on Monday afternoon. A light rain was falling on the Jemez Mountains as we wound down the long canyon highway toward Santa Fe. By the time we reached the bottom of the hill at Pojoaque, the clouds had parted. My "Darth Vader" window tint has turned out to be a smart investment for the glaring desert sunlight. You can't see in, but I can see out. Like RayBans for the van.

We only made it as far as Lordsburg, NM, that first night. In the morning, we hit the road early, stopping only for a quick McDonald's breakfast (a burrito for me, a sausage McMuffin for Bo). By early afternoon, we were passing big yellow billboards beckoning us to see "The THING," a kitschy tourist trap on the outskirts of Tucson. As I closed in on Tucson proper, scenes with my ex-husband pricked the folds of memory, but receded quickly like footprints on beach sand, minus the old anguish. Tucson is just a place now.

My friends Liz and Jon Bailey welcomed me like family, which a girl without an address needs after so many hours alone in a car with just a dog and Pimsleur Spanish learning CD's for company.

That night I discovered an email from a company in Colo Spgs interested in me for a Creative Director position. I wrote back that I was on my way to Mexico, but would be happy to interview with them on Skype when I got to PV. They sounded eager to talk to me.

Car Larder

At Wal-Mart, I purchased a summer sausage and some canned nuts to stick under the front seat for potential bribes. I debated the purchase of a sexy black nylon console box for my dashboard, but realized the empty white cardboard box used to display craft paints was just as practical -- and free to boot. I'd nickeled and dimed myself to death on little gadgets for the van . . . hand sanitizer on a caribiner, CD sleeves for the visors, collapsible dog dishes, lanyards hung with padlock keys, police whistle, pepper spray and a portable panic alarm. There was a slim Igloo cooler that fit the narrow space between the bucket seats, and my "Jesus" club -- protection fashioned from a table leg, painted bright blue with JESUS in hot pink along the side. For good measure, I hammered round-headed upholstery tacks on the end. The club took the place of a 22" machete I originally purchased on the advice of my friend Lewis, who explained my security strategy this way:

"What you do is, you fold cardboard around the blade, with the seam on the blade side. Run cheap, brown plastic packing tape down the seam. Then when some bandito approaches you, keep the lanyard around your wrist and the blade at your side. When the guy cames at you, hit him with the back side of the blade first. If that doesn't stop him, hit him with the blade side and cut his arm off. The cops won't arrest you for that...you were just teachin' him a lesson."

Of course, in theory, I adored the idea of cutting some would-be rapist's arm off should I get into a tight spot (it would certainly make for great book chapter). But in the end, I thought better of having a lethal weapon that some bloodthirsty Mexican thug could just as easily use on me. I returned the machete to Home Depot in exchange for the table leg. (Somehow, it seemed more benign being bludgeoned to death than hacked to pieces -- go figure.)

Dubrovnik, Here I Come

All the goo-gaws, dogbowls and talismans hanging from the rearview mirror and visor latches made the van feel like a gypsy wagon jangling with wares to sell to the townsfolk of some Latvian hill town. But perhaps the luckiest and most practical acquisition was a TomTom GPS device programmed with routes for the US and Mexico -- a gift from Sheila's physicist friend Hank.

On Sunday night, Liz, Jon and I watched "Avatar" on their flat screen TV. Monday morning, Liz loaded me up with breakfast bars and packets of beef jerky for the trip. After jigsawing a few last items onto the floor of the passenger side and arranging my mascots, Oxxo and Pemex, on a corner of the dash for good luck, Bo and I pulled away from the curb and headed for the border at Nogales. The van was packed as tightly as a Chinese puzzle box, riding low and slow. If I tried to shift one curtain rod, several items would landslide into the front seat. As I steered the Whale onto the Nogales highway, I gazed off to my left, where the sun's rays lanced a mottled ceiling of grey clouds and danced over the Catalina mountains, purple and breathtaking in the distance. By the time I eased onto the truck route heading for the border, the clouds had parted and el Sol was baking the desert.

We Don't Need No Stinkin' Badges

My first stop was the the customs station just the other side of the border. I didn't see the giant cement tope till I was almost on top of it. I tried to slow down, but too late, the undercarriage of the van slammed the speed bump with a seismic jolt. I tried to ease by in the "non-declare" lane, but it was a slow morning and three young so-called customs "inspectors" motioned me into the "declare" lane. I lifted the back hatch and immediately they spotted the dorm-size fridge and a corner of my flat screen TV. The head customs dweeb led me and Bo past a pile of contraband tires and into an office, handed me a piece of scrap paper and told me to make a list of the entire contents of my vehicle. I listed the TV, a radio, a laptop, the fridge, some art. He looked at my list and arbitrarily declared, "894 pesos" (about $70). Secretly I was relieved I didn't have to unpack the whole car.

With my tax paid, I was waved on. A few miles ahead I stopped again to register my vehicle. That process took another hour and another $70 charged to my credit card. A few more miles ahead, another customs inspector pulled me over into a weigh station. I showed the female federale my papers and she, too, waved me on. The border drama was over. It was almost 2 pm.

Night #1, San Carlos

The sun was setting on the Baja as I veered right, away from Guaymas and into the Yankee-fied resort town of San Carlos. San Carlos can best be described as Mexico "light," with beach bars, pool float vendors and billboards in English advertising ReMax, Best Western and Subway.

The main drag was largely deserted. October in the Baja is oppressively humid, with a hot breeze blowing off the Sea of Cortez giving no relief. I stopped at the the renovated Fiesta Real Hotel where I stayed last year. The place was completely empty, but the girl at the reception desk refused to negotiate on the $65 room. I knew from last year's stay that the a/c barely worked and there was no TV. The Best Western was also a ghost town, but the price of a room was just as outrageous and they wouldn't take Bo. I finally settled on the threadbare, but moderately clean Creston Motel. No view, but dog friendly, with working a/c and telecable. The pool looked inviting, but by the time I lugged in coolers, cpap machine, dogfood and laptops, I was spent. It was nearly dark when I took Bo for his evening constitution past some new construction to the beach. He pooped on the rocks, but the loud waves and strange surroundings made him skittish. We trudged back to the room and I barely had energy to watch Dr. Phil on the American Network and nibble on some jerky before dropping off with the TV still flickering -- my gringa nightlight.

Day #2, La Celestina Gasca

In the morning, I packed up the car and waited for the Banamex to open so I could buy pesos. Swarms of gnats attacked the minute I opened the car door. Bo hovered by the bank's plate glass window as I waited in line for a teller.

It was almost 11 a.m. when we finally drove out of San Carlos and picked up the toll highway on the other side of Guaymas. This was the travel day I dreaded most. From San Carlos on, Mexico feels like the dark side of the moon. No comforting reminders of America. No cellphone signal. As I threaded the van through the comparatively manicured streets of Navajoa, I saw a man carrying a filthy mattress on his back in the rain. The stuff we throw in the dumpster in the US, people here re-sell at the local bazaar. Bedbugs are just a way of life in Mexico.

I remember last year's marathon second day on the road, wending my way to the far side of industrialized Guaymas, past the ragged fish shacks, potholes and polluted coastal waters, on to the ugly, smelly city of Obregon, and the long, endless stretches of toll road -- breaking my rule about stopping while it was still daylight. At that time, I stopped for the night in Culiacan, a seedy, depressing city controlled by drug cartels. Despite its alliterative, poetic name, Culiacan is a muggy, homely toad of a town squatting on a matted, grassy plain nowhere in sight of the ocean. The air is thick with the humidity of the tropics, but none of the beauty. A month after I first passed through, federales found the severed heads of two women in a cooler in the back of a pickup truck parked along the highway -- a gruesome message for someone in that hideous Sinaloa turf war. I didn't know at the time that the white sand and blue Pacific ocean were only an hour away as we headed south toward Mazatlan.

Faith

I was determined not to stop in Culiacan this year, but the sun was setting and there was a scary development with my vehicle. Twice as I pulled up to tollbooths, the car just stopped -- no brakes, no steering. It started up again, but I noticed the engine light had come on. I was halfway between Culiacan and Mazatlan.

The tollroads are dotted with S.O.S phones. Theoretically, if you have car trouble, you can pull over and summon help. The Green Angels -- mechanics in Volkswagen Beetles, equipped to fix your car and send you on your way -- supposedly appear from nowhere like little gremlin superheroes. When the engine light came on, I pulled over at one of the phones and pushed the button, according to the instructions in English and Spanish. "Bueno," I said into the grilled speaker phone. No response. "BUENO!" I said louder. Nada. The phone was dead. Apparently, thieves had taken the battery. I have since learned that most of the S.O.S. phones are broken, as useful as prop phones on a movie set.

I climbed back in the van and limped along for another 20 miles, watching the engine light. I finally made it to a Pemex gas station, where a police car was parked, occupied by two federales. It was about 6 p.m. The men took a peek under the hood, repeating in Spanish that my "bomba" might be bad. But despite the engine light, it appeared the engine wasn't hot. I told him I wanted to make it to La Cruz. He said, maybe two hours and that it would still be light when I got there.

It was dusk when I drove past the exit for Culiacan. Right at the turn-off for Mazatlan, the car had a complete power failure. I was able to steer into the narrow crook in the road where the road branches off to the Pacific coastal highway. I started the car up again and kept driving. Within half an hour, the sun had dropped like a stone. In another 10 minutes, it was pitch black. No street lights. No shoulder to pull off on. Just my high beams fanning the pavement, sniffing for any sign of civilization.

Around 9:30 p.m. the sign for La Cruz materialized like an apparition floating up from the depths of a Scottish loch. I pulled off and drove a few hundred yards down a blacktop road to a Pemex station. I bought some gas and a fuel additive, and the boy at the pump told me to get back on the highway and count the bridges to La Celestina Gasca; I knew there was a lovely little motel there, my safe haven for the night. At the fourth bridge, I should make a hard right. But I was so tired by then that I was becoming disoriented. I made a wrong turn from the gas station and ended up on a windy back road to nowhere. Fortunately, the GPS helped me get back on the tollroad. I was beginning to look forward to the computerized woman's voice telling me without passion or judgment, "Make a U-turn as soon as possible." Thank you, Bonnie, I most certainly will.

I started to count the bridges one by one. At the fourth bridge, there would be a dogleg to the right. The motel would be there in the hollow. I counted each bridge as it loomed out of the darkness, but somehow I miscounted. I MISSED THE TURN. I would have to drive 23 miles further down the road to catch the retorno BACK to La Celestina Gasca.

By this time, I was praying out loud. "God, I need an angel. Please send me an angel." A voice whispered somewhere in my gelatinized brain, "I will send you an angel when you need one." 46 miles later, I made the correct turn onto the dirt road leading to La Celestina Gasca. It was after 10:30 p.m. I was literally vibrating with fatigue when I stepped out of the car. The girl at the desk took my 280 pesos, swept the crickets out of room #13 and turned the a/c on high. Bo rolled in the lush, dewy grass of the courtyard. On my last luggage-hauling trip back to the room, I kicked a toad away from the doorjam and unlocked the door -- only it wasn't my room. A man yelled at me from the bed and I called out "Lo siento!" -- slamming the door. I whisked by the tableau of praying mantises and geckos congregated on the walls under a coach light, and scurried into my room. Apparently all the rooms at La Celestina had the same key. I pushed a chair up to my doorknob, took a cold shower and climbed into a bed with fresh sheets and a new mattress. Thank God. Dreaded Day #2 was over.

Day #3, Guayabito

I slept late the next morning. The little motel at La Celestina Gasca is an oasis on the edge of the tiny beach hamlet of La Cruz, about 50 mi. north of Mazatlan. It holds special magic for me, because it was the place where Bo first discovered the ocean in 2009 -- and none too soon, after that first miserable night in Culiacan. Bo was so traumatized by the trip at that point, he'd slept on a wet towel on the marble bathroom floor of the Zar Motel. Gazing upon my poor, panting dog, I asked God and my own conscience, "What have I done to my dog?"

When I first glimpsed the ribbon of white sand and blue ocean a mile off to the right in 2009, the residual pall of the night in Culiacan immediately lifted. The sky had turned a bright, beachy azul. I began to watch for a road that would take me to the water. The tiny fishing village of La Celestina Gasca appeared and I turned onto a dirt road that led past the motel, to a magnificent stretch of public beach. Bo and I walked up and down the beach playing tag with the waves. Bo's torpor turned into canine exhilaration as he romped and rolled in the sand. On that day a year ago, Bo and I had stopped at a small tienda where a mother and daughter sold snack foods to mostly Canadian tourists. I took their picture and the woman let me use the toilet in her house, just behind the store. I promised to send them the photo. But I lost the scrap of cardboard with the daughter's email address.

This year, before I left the states, I had four large prints of the photo made. This morning in 2010, I guided the Whale over the bumpy dirt road to the tienda. The mother and daughter were there. They were thrilled with the set of photos. But I told the woman, Sara, that I was scared. I'd had car trouble. And the tears started to flow. We have Jesus, she said. We don't have to be scared. He is with us. Then she and her daughter insisted that they take me to a mechanic in town who could fix my car. It was already nearly noon. I followed their dust-covered, dinged-up Toyota Corolla into town, gingerly guiding the van over rutted streets and potholes the size of kiddie wading pools, to a mechanic working in a small garage.

There was an hour wait, but we passed the time practicing language detente and munching on Wal-Mart trail mix. Once the mechanic got to it, the work went quickly. Sara invited me to spend a night at her mother's house to rest. I politely declined, telling her I really had to get to Vallarta in time to review a theater performance for Banderas News on Thursday. The mechanic replaced the air filter, charged me a whopping 490 pesos(maybe $45). He took me on a quick test drive, and I was back on the road before 3 p.m. God sent me not one, but THREE angels -- exactly when I needed them.

An hour later, I drove through chaotic, dusty Mazatlan, including a nasty stretch of gravelly, pitted road with air thick enough to choke on. Eventually, the city gave way to jungle-covered mountains, broad expanses of lakes and wetlands, with few signs of human habitation. At Tepic, I exited the tollroad onto Mex 200, the serpentine two-lane mountain highway that eventually threads into Puerto Vallarta. But it was slow-gowing, with giant semi trucks downshifting all the way. It was dark when I got to Guayabito, another charming beach town. I spent the night at La Mision Hotel, crossing the street to eat a wonderful meal of coconut shrimp at La Pina Loca Restaurant. After a quick dip in the pool, and a shower, Bo and I crashed. I didn't even holler when a palmetto bug crawled out from under my foot in the shower.

Day #4, Puerto Vallarta

After a walk on the beach and a full Mexican breakfast, Bo and I drove the rest of the way into Puerto Vallarta, arriving around 2 p.m. at Gloria's Hotel. I checked in with Gloria, then drove the van over to my new apt. in Colonia Emiliano Zapata. Unexpectedly, Eva the landlady's half-dozen children all pitched in to help unload the van. afterward, I took the three youngest to the McDonald's on the malecon for icecream cones, then headed back to Gloria's to get dressed for dinner and the "Get Back" Beatles tribute show at Teatro Vallarta; a review was due the next day. On Friday, I wrote my review and interviewed on Skype for the Creative Director job in Colorado Springs. When the young V.P. asked me the quintessential cliche interview question, "Where do you want to be in five years?" I answered appropriately.

But honestly, the life I'm living now doesn't jibe with five year plans. I am so immersed in the present moment, I have no idea where I'll be or what I will be doing in five years. I could be hit by one of PV's diesel-spewing busses tomorrow. The only thing I know is, and all any of us can know is, as my friend Margaret first uttered the phrase a decade ago...more will be revealed. I'm learning to live comfortably with mystery. How about you?

Los Alamos, New Mexico

The poet William Wordsworth once described poetry as "experience recollected in tanquility." Perhaps that's why it's been difficult to write about the last two months. My sister Sibyl has nudged me to keep writing on the "paradise" blog, even though I'm away from Puerto Vallarta now and life is unsettled.

I guess what makes it meaningful is not the slide show, not the spin on quirky dramas in exotic locales, but the insights gained as life unscrolls. The backdrop is really immaterial. Perhaps my weakness as a writer and purveyor of Truth As I See It, has been a reluctance to report on the mistakes, character flaws and questionable choices that have made my life harder at times than it needed to be. The declaration, "I once was lost, but now am found," may be true in so far as I have been redeemed by a loving Creator, but I still wrestle with blind spots, behaviors and assumptions that I have yet to submit for forensic moral self-scrutiny. And I don't always have the courage to ask people I may have hurt, irritated or alienated along the way, exactly what I did to hurt, irritate and alienate them. The fear of being annihilated by someone's judgment, criticism, disapproval -- what have you -- sometimes renders me sightless and mewing in darkened rooms, paralyzed by confusion and self-loathing, begging God for release.

But thank God, that's not all the time. And I write about this journey I'm on so both you and I will know we're not alone. That's really all it comes down to. What I set down in this "experience recollected in tranquility," is stuff that most of us know already. I just have a knack for putting it into words.

The best I can offer anyone is my transparency mingled with a desire to entertain, empathize and maybe offer a tincture of hope. We are all damaged and broken, stumbling in the dark, trying to make healthy choices, but with skillsets limited by faulty perceptions, skewed by pain. The Truth of Grace poured into us has a way of leaking out. Thank God, He/She never turns off the spigot. That's what keeps me going, keeps me wanting to write these words, whether or not they are read or appreciated by anyone out there in cyberspace.

Kansas

After a week taking care of personal business in Colorado Springs, I loaded up the Beast for another 12-hr marathon drive to my mom's home in Fulton, MO. For two days, I pushed through on I-70, a trip I've made almost annually for the past 25 years. I've learned to settle into a zenlike state for what used to be an interminable mind and butt-numbing trek across the prairie. I know every antique mall, roadside attraction and excuse-to-stop along the way. There's an Arby's break in Limon, Colo, followed by the merge onto I-70, then every 100 miles or so, a town...Oakley, Hays (home of the 5,000 lb. prairie dog), Colby, Russell (Bob Dole's hometown), Junction City, Salina, Abilene, Lawrence, Topeka. I've spent time in all those places. While I was married to Stephen and temporarily sidetracked from this roadtrip, someone put in a windfarm in the flint hills between Junction City and Russell. I always pull off the highway to park and marvel at the giant gleaming windmills slicing the sky. On this trip, I encountered several prairie fires creeping over the ocean of drought-yellowed grass. In places, the charred fields stretched for miles in every direction.

I used to dread the drive across Kansas, but over the years I've grown to appreciate the stark beauty of the plains. I try to imagine what it must have been like when cowboys and Indians populated the land. Some of these sleepy towns, like Abilene, for example, were once rowdy with outlaws and houses of ill repute. I guess all that drive time puts my mind into "Lonesome Dove" mode.

There's a calming feng shui quality to the topography of Kansas, interrupted only by occasional grain silos and grazing cattle. Have you ever noticed that cattle all face the same direction as they graze? Why is that?

On day two of the drive home, I stopped in Concordia, MO, for some barbecue, which I ate while parked with Bo in the town cemetary, overlooking a regiment of farm tilling equipment. A white cadillac carrying a couple of suspicious locals crept around the cemetary watching me from a distance. I played a passive-agressive game of cat and mouse with them for a few minutes, but finally had enough and got back on the road.

Missouri

I spent a month with Mom in Fulton, crowded into her tiny Victorian hoarder's house with its windows sealed shut and every available inch of space crammed with boxes of fabric scraps and news clippings, gilded mirrors, candlesticks wreathed in artificial flowers and 10-year-old canned goods stacked to the ceiling in the tiny kitchen. At 91, she's still a steel magnolia. Carmen balances on the Mexican cane my sister gave her and subsists on a diet of game shows (Price is Right, Deal or No Deal, Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy) and crossword puzzles she works in the bathroom. On Monday, she plays cards at the Senior Center and attends Red Hat Society functions. During my stay, I hunkered down and tried to stay out of her way, escaping to local antique malls or walking on the Stinson trail with Bo. I was heartbroken to see that Westminster College had cut down century-old oak trees on the old homestead where the artist David Mode Paine once lived; they were making way for an apt. bulding. I ignored a no-trespassing sign to examine one dismembered oak tree four feet in diameter. Tried to count the rings and lost count at 130.

Like wistful Meryl Streep reminiscing about her farm in Kenya in "Out of Africa," I find myself musing..."I once lived in a hacienda in Puerto Vallarta."

Back to Colorado

I spent about a month with Mom, eating compulsively, watching serial episodes of "Madmen" on my computer, and becoming addicted to mocha frappes from McDonald's. To use the internet, I retreated to the Fulton Public Library or the McDonald's parking lot.

It was rainy in the midwest for much of the time I was home, and by the time I crossed the Kansas flinthills heading west, they'd turned a lush neon green. I realized the grass fires are just part of the natural cycle of death and life on the prairie.

I made it only as far as Abilene the first day of the return trip. Day 2 turned into a grim push westward as the skies filled with mushy black clouds. For a change of pace, I pulled off I-70 at Oakley and took a two-lane road diagonally across the barren prairie. The "towns" I passed through were only wide places in the road...I must have driven 300 mi. with nary a car in sight. No gas stations. No fast food places. Just miles and miles of Kansas, then miles and miles of Colorado grassland. Near Kit Carson, the temperature dropped, the winds picked up and big drops of rain splashed on the windshield. I arrived in Colorado Springs at dusk in a downpour, exhausted from 700 miles on the road...and with no place to go.

No Room at the Inn

Nothing is so depressing as arriving in a town that used to be your home...and finding no one willing to take you in. No warm hearth full of friends who've been waiting anxiously for your return. Just a McDonald's parking lot on Fillmore St., where you let the dog out to pee in the rain and the gathering gloom, then try to find a motel that will take you both in before it gets dark. After finding that the Spruce Lodge (they have weekly rates) had no vacancy, I drove down to the Econolodge on Nevada St. (the closest motel to a real neighborhood). Sorry. We don't take dogs. At that point, I sat down in the lobby and wept. The woman at the desk was very sweet. She fixed me a cup of tea and called the Motel 6...my last choice for a place to stay, but beggars can't be choosers. I made my way to the other side of the interstate and checked in.
The Motel 6 turned out to be a good choice for me and Bo. My little room was clean and bright, and the bathroom had one of those shower pods that remind you of something that could beam you up on "Star Trek." Behind the motel was a big field for Bo to run and poop.

For the next week, I checked mail, conducted bank business, consolidated stuff from two storage units and had a little quality time with my old friend Athena. I also made friends with Lisa, a woman who was working as a maid at the Motel 6. She shared her story with me...and it made me appreciate how fortunate I am, despite my current state of unemployment and uncertainty. 38 years old, attractive and sharp, Lisa had endured the loss of her business in the Springs, foreclosure and eviction from the home she'd lived in for 16 years, an unplanned pregnancy which resulted in giving up the baby for adoption last year, a stalking abusive ex-boyfriend -- who she's been hiding from by staying in a one room apt. off the highway, and a brain aneurism and blood clots in her lungs -- a direct result of beatings from the boyfriend...

I don't know how people end up in such dire circumstances. It can be tempting to blame the victim...but I feel for Lisa. A beautiful, intelligent woman for whom life just ran off the track. I watched her doing what she has to do to survive and take care of her 11 year-old daughter. Trying to stay positive when all around her is the evidence of her bad luck and poor judgment. But all I can think of is...there but for the grace of God go ALL OF US.

I paid Lisa to help me load up my bed and dresser and some other stuff into a U-haul trailer. We talked as we worked, about our lives, the men we'd trusted, the patterns we were trying to change. We finished up late in the day and headed to Chick-fil-A. I bought her dinner and we sat outside in the golden afternoon sunlight. I needed a friend and God sent me one.

The next morning as I checked out from the motel and prepared to leave for Los Alamos, Lisa arrived for work, fighting back tears -- she'd had a rough night with her demons. I offered to pray for her, but she turned me down. I gave her a final hug...then me, Bo and the Beast lumbered onto the highway for the next leg of the trip.

It was nightfall when I chugged up the hill to my friend Sheila's house in Los Alamos a week ago, thankful to finally have a place to land. Have spent the past week unloading and putting things away. I've also decided to sell The Beast before it gives up the ghost. Searched Craig's List and found a 2002 Ford Windstar cargo van for only $2800. Two seats up front and the rest is all business. If I go back to Mexico in the Fall, I'll fill it with just what I can carry and sell off the rest.

The adventure continues.

Back to the United States

Northward Journey
Day 1 - Tepic, Mexico

My ambivalence about leaving Puerto Vallarta showed up in procrastination about getting last minute chores taken care of. On the 29th, Israel and I were still empyting and cleaning the casita, and I had to find a place to buy Mexico car insurance. Mine expired way back in December. It was after 2 pm when we left Vallarta. Israel decided to ride with me to Tepic, and take the bus back to Vallarta. through the winding jungle highway, past the beach communities of Sayulita, San Pancho and Compostela.

It was dusk as we pulled into the dusty outskirts of Tepic, actually the city of Jalisco. I took a turn onto a side road looking for a place Bo could pee. We were parked waiting for the dog to do his business when a barefoot girl in a black cocktail dress offered to show us to the local hotel. She led us on foot to the old Azatlan Hotel, the only hotel in town. $220 pesos, so the price was right. But the sheets had cigarette burn holes and the pillows were lumpy. Fortunately, I brought my own. I tried not to think about what the mattress probably looked like underneath. In the morning, Israel and I both were disappointed to discover only cold water emitting from the shower head. It was misery, but we took turns easing ourselves under the chilly torrent.

After Bo's morning constitution, we set out for a PEMEX to fill up and to locate a bus stop where Israel could board a bus for the long ride back to PV. The gas attendant was an older woman with immaculate makeup, hair and rhinestone earrings to accessorize her coveralls. She checked the oil, careful not to break her long, manicured fingernails.

Israel and I made our way back to the turn-off for the Cuota highway. We were both tearful, finally forced to face our parting. but we stifled our tears. I had a long drive ahead and he would have to go to work as soon as he arrived back in PV. We embraced one last time. I gave him 300 pesos for bus fare, loaded up Bo and was off, heading onto the CUOTA highway.

Day Two - Mazatlan, Meseta de Cacaxtla

I settled in for the long, zenlike stretch of highway over the mountains and lake country. I was relieved to make my way past army checkpoints on the outskirts of Mazatlan. A few miles north, I wanted to see the ocean at least one last time before heading inland, so at the first, "retorno," I took a left onto a gravel road leading to an archeological site on the coast. The dusty road eventually lead to a tiny village of thatched houses. I took a hard right where a large hog lay on its side and made my way to the archeological site of Meseta de Cacaxtla. A "museum" of thatched bldgs and archways was manned by an old goat herder with an animal I have never seen before in my life. -- an anteater of some sort, with a long snout and a long, tapered tail. It looked across between a badger and a raccoon. The funny little beast followed Bo around. We were both unnerved by the animal's curiosity, but eventually I decided he would do no harm to Bo.

We made our way through a clearing and the Pacific Ocean opened up before us with miles of unspoiled beach with a large field of black rocks and tidepools and gentle waves as far as we could see. What made the spot so amazing were the petroglyphs etched into the rocks. Human figures, swirls, phallic symbols, geometric shapes. I wandered among the tidepools, and picked up sea treasures, including a big fat sand dollar, and sea urchins, long dead, wedged in the rocks.
Bo and I explored the beach and the tidepools for an hour, then made our way back to the car. The anteater was waiting for us. He sipped out of Bo's water bowl and sniffed in the dirt. I chased him around for a few last photos before we headed back onto the highway.

The Power of Serendipity

The unexpected discovery of Meseta de Cacaxtla was the highpoint of my first day alone on the road. I had determined that I would not be held captive by a time table on the drive back to the US. I am learning to follow my nose where it leads, to be mindful of serendipity. The road to this amazing place was marked only by a sculpture of a famous petroglyph -- a swirl sign that has become something of a talisman for me. I believe there are no accidents. This symbol appeared in my path for a reason. Too often, we skip such impulses to explore because of vague misgivings about where the road might lead, or the irrational belief that "saving time" is the ultimate priority. Saving time for what? Checking into the motel at 7 pm instead of 8 pm? I may not pass this way again. I don't want to miss the blessing or the adventure. On my way back to the main highway, I was able to snap photos of boys on bicycles herding goats down the road.

After following a tip from another tourist to check out some casitas for rent in a remote beach community off the main highway (mile marker 59, Mex 15), I followed another winding, gravel road for 15 mi., only to discover no vacancies. The proprieter recommended a motel at La Cruz, further down the highway. I stopped briefly to snap a photo of buzzards perched on a cactus, but Bo and I were both beat. I was relieved to turn back onto the main highway. I stopped for the night at La Cruz, a lovely little fishing village I'd passed through on my way south eight months ago. There was a cute motel, La Celestina, modern and clean and only 300 pesos for the night. Bo and I ate a dinner of fried camerones (shrimp) and fell into bed. The bed was clean and comfortable, which made up for the discovery in the morning that once more, there was no hot water...

Day 3 -- Alamos, Mexico

After taking Bo for a brisk walk on the beach in La Cruz, we hit the road by 9 a.m. Few stops this time. The only incident on the road occurred in the morning as I watched a white pick-up truck several hundred yards ahead, pulling an open trailer loaded with grain, that started to shimmy and lose control. I was far enough back that I could pull off the highway and watch the slow motion ballet as the truck swirved back and forth across the road trying to regain control, but finally jacknifing to a stop, throwing bags of grain onto the road. I drove past just a police car came from the opposite direction.

Eight hours on the road, and as I entered the city limits of Navajoa, I debated whether to continue on to Guaymas/San Carlos, or take another enticing detour to Alamos, 50 km out of the way. It was a town where Mom and sister Kathie had visited several years ago which had inspired Mom to take up water colors. I always regretted not being with them on that trip.

I opted for the Alamos turn-off and as the sun glowed red on the mountains, I made my way onto the highway that eventually dead-ended at 17th century Spanish town of Alamos, with a pristine town square, a spectacular cathedral and well-maintained haciendas dripping with bougainvilla. After checking into Posada Don Andres, Bo and I toured the cobblestone streets and stopped for street tacos which we ate at a picnic table surrounded by some aging American "expats." I stopped at a local internet cafe where I typed a few quick emails on a stiff, worn-out keyboard, then continued exploring.

Day 4 - Nogales

I set the alarm for 7 a.m. The old cowboy guarding the gate to the hotel unlocked the padlock, and I loaded the beast. After a quick walk around to view the city's deserted architectural wonders in the quiet morning hours, Bo and I hopped in the Beast and continued on our journey.

I arrived at the border about 6 pm, with plenty of daylight, I thought, to cross over and find a place to stay for the night. But the long line of cars moved at a snail's pace. Four hours later, in the dark, in a cold, drizzling rain, we finally approached the American checkpoint, where drug and bomb sniffing dogs were led up and down the rows of cars. I had to pull the Beast into a bay where inspectors checked out the car while I took Bo, in a stupor for hours, to a patch of gravel to relieve himself. It was after 10:30 pm when I finally pulled out of the inspection area and drove to the Nogales Holiday Inn Express where I negotiated for a room -- the posted price being $150 PLUS a non-refundable pet deposit of $100. The girls at the desk took pity on me and let me have their handicapped room for $100 plus $30 for Bo. I was so relieved to be on US soil and to have a clean, spacious room with a big comfy bed, I happily coughed up the money. I slept late and took advantage of two helpings of the complimentary hot breakfast. I snuck Bo a bowlful of scrambled eggs and sausage and we lounged around till nearly 11 am.

Day 5 - Patagonia, AZ

After stops for gas and an ATM stop, it was nearly noon when me and Bo headed down a two-lane road to Patagonia. On the way, we passed a large real estate sign advertising John Wayne's ranch for sale. The scenery was spectacular, with rolling desert the color of burnished siena and giant cottonwoods in creekbeds on either side of the road. Desert sage stood in relief on the topography like cotton tufts on a chenille bedspread. Patagonia turned out to be an unexpected and delightful surprise, with a big park where I could let Bo run before driving into the tiny town to visit a couple of funky boutiques and eat a calzone at the Velvet Elvis Cafe. I lost track of time in Patagonia and it was 4 pm when I finally pulled back onto the road. We wove our way to Sonoita, some of my favorite geography southwest of Tucson, and finally exited onto Highway 10 as the sun dropped behind the mountains. I could feel myself becoming dangerously fatigued. We only made it as far as Lordsburg, where we stopped at an Econolodge for the night.

Day 6 - Los Alamos, NM

It was pedal-to-metal the next morning. We took a detour off Hwy 10 at Deming, stopping for a stretch break on a lonely, windswept stretch of desert near Hatch. We stopped once more for lunch at a funky barbecue shack in Hatch before making our way to I-25, past Truth or Consequences and Elephant Butte. I had one scare near Belen, when my oil light came on. I lost an hour when I stopped to add oil and have a good samaritan look over the car's innards before getting back on the road. I arrived at Sheila's in Los Alamos just after 6 pm.

I've decided to relax for a few more days in Los Alamos before the easy drive to the Springs. This morning I woke up to snow flurries and gusty winds. Quite a contrast to the steamy tropics I left just a week ago. More will be revealed.