I woke to the sounds of the exquisite Sea of Cortez, soft rolling waves gliding endlessly in. Shoooew, (Pause.) Shoooew, (pause.) They were tempting me to spend the entire day in bed. Somewhere off in the distance, I heard the sound of child’s’ play, innocent laughter, the kind that only comes from young souls unblemished by the toils of life. Ritualistically, I rose and shuffled to the bathroom. I sat and urinated while brushing my teeth, a scene my wife always finds quite appalling. I quickly reminded myself not to rinse with the Mexican Water, or risk Montezuma’s Revenge. Donning nothing more than a bathrobe I continue the lazy shuffle out of the beach house and step up to the outdoor, completely exposed shower. Although it’s only March, disrobing wrapped me in a warm blanket of the sun’s precious rays. Showering outdoors, I felt, had awakened something in my subconscious mind, perhaps taking my soul back briefly to mans’ more primitive times; it felt correct. Interestingly, there was only one squeaky derelict handle that controlled the water; no hot or cold options in sight. The public water supply is rationed to an inconsistent four hours a day, so it came as no surprise when I turned the handle and nothing happened. I then slid a lever which allows water to be drawn from a rooftop reserve basin, filled with rain water. Ahhh, more primitive luxury! That day, as most when in the company of the millionaires, it had been decided for me that I would be going into town for breakfast. Completely stumped by the language barrier, we simply pointed to items on the menus and enjoyed the suspense of pot luck. Luckily, the waitress understood my request for orange juice; I have no idea, maybe orange juice is pronounced orange juice in Spanish. What sparked my interest (in addition to her smile) was that she was squeezing the oranges by hand. They say you learn something new every day. That day, I learned it takes a good 12 oranges to make one small glass of juice. A trip to the bathroom revealed a coin operated lock on the stall door. Yes, here in San Carlos Mexico, you pay for the privilege! Upon returning to our table I discovered three Mariachi Men, feverishly playing there respective instruments and singing. While interesting, this always makes feel me uneasy, like back in the states when one gets surrounded by a gang of gleeful restaurant employees singing happy birthday to you. And understand this, whether or not you desire them to play, they play, then stand by with their hands out for payment! Happy to finally exist, I peered up and down the street. I was instantly enamored by the Spanish flavor of things; the spunk. Brilliant fantastic shades of purple, red, orange and yellow dressed the buildings and homes. Heavy orange tiles adorned the roof tops, cracking the mud adobe walls beneath them. The street was a bustle with unrelenting street vendors, offing everything from colorful hand woven blankets and ponchos, to blown glassware and hand carved wooden children’s toys. The work and craftsmanship put into these items was clearly not reflected in their prices. I honed in on some hand-crafted blown drinking glasses, carefully selecting a few that had bugs stuck permanently within the glass, knowing they would make good conversation at the next party. Later in the evening, once again, the agenda was dictated to me; I was to use a one night pass to Club Med where yes, they sometimes allow peasants such as me to mingle amongst the social elites and upper echelons of high society. Frosty drinks, overindulgence in international cuisine and enough phoniness to drown a B film actress were a certainty. Against the advice (and will) of the majority, I bowed out and chose to take a trip to No Mans Land. Peppered along the coast of the Cortez, you will find quite a few American and Canadian Campers’ or as my company would likely call, desperados that came to this paradise and never left.
