Here's a note from a friend I met in Cabo, a good thing to remember when renting a car, wherever you are:
"We had our first major incident in Cabo when returning our rental car on Saturday. They charged us for some scratches on our car to the tune of $150 that were definitely there when we rented the car. Unfortunately for us, the copy of the agreement that I signed did not show the scratches as none of the carbon went through. Upon reviewing the original, the area was marked; however, they claimed that it was a different set of "new" scratches. When the clerk called me a "liar", I nearly decked him, but I got my wits about me, told him to itemize everything on the bill, and made it clear that they would never see a dime as I'm convinced that Citibank will support our claim. So, what's the moral of the story and something you may want to share with all of your traveling friends. Use your cell phone or digital camera every time you rent a car, and take thorough pictures of the vehicle before you leave the agency. We actually did that in Austria a few years ago because we had to leave the car in a parking space early in the morning when no one manned the rental car booth, and I wanted proof later (that I didn't need) if they claimed we did damage to the car."
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Damiana
The mystery liquor in my margarita at Shut Up Frank's bar in Todos Santos was Damiana. See this link for more information: http://www.loscabosguide.com/mexicandrinks/damiana.htm.
La Vuelta
Home, Seattle, WA November 11, 2007
Ah, sleeping at home is so good. Ben next to me, giving off body heat and an occasional snort. Carly lying across my legs, snoring from a deep, uncomplicated sleep that I will never achieve, home or not. The mattress familiar and my little foam pillow cradling my bulging cervical disc just right. Even the traffic roaring behind us on Aurora soothing in its familiarity.
I got home last night about 11, after Ben arrived at the airport with a tiny Jaguar convertible to get me. It took a lot of shoving and rearranging to get my golf bag into the back seat in such a way that we could get the top to close against the 40-degree night air. I held my driver between my legs, and shrunk back in my seat as far from the passenger side airbag as I possibly could, given the fact that my seat was so far forward I could barely get my legs in the car. But we arrived home safely and by the time we got inside the door to greet Carly, I was over my anger at my husband’s impossibly silly idea to come to get me in a tiny review car instead of the nice, comfy – if old and dirty – Explorer.
The 13-hour trip home was uneventful, mostly. The driver, who had agreed to take me from the Posada to the airport for 800 pesos, tried to strong-arm me into paying 1000 pesos when we got there. I angrily retorted – struggling loudly with being angry in Spanish – that we had agreed it would be the same price as the ride he had sold me from the airport to La Posada six days earlier. If he’d been cruel and had stopped a mile or two short of the airport before trying his extortion, he might have gotten by with it. I would have had no choice. But, once I was at the airport door, I could just hand him the four 200-peso bills I had set aside for him, and walk away. Not much he could do.
The man sitting next to me on the flight to L.A. wore his noise-canceling head phones most of the way – no music, just the filter – allowing me to ignore him and work on a book review I’m writing. His name was Randy, he told me near the end of the flight, when he dropped the ear cuffs to chat. He is a jet mechanic for FedEx at Boston Logan, hence his concern with his hearing. He had been sailing in the Gulf of Baja with a former boss who is now a friend.
My seatmate on the flight to Seattle pissed me off by talking loudly (is there any other way?) in a combination of a language I couldn’t identify and staccato English into his cell phone for about 15 minutes until we pushed back from the gate. I never talked to him, nor he to me. We ate our chicken Caesar salads (my second in as many flights) in silence. I read the Travel + Leisure magazine I’d picked up in LAX, and blazed through the airline magazine’s crossword puzzle. It seemed vaguely familiar. Had I done it before?
I am looking back on the trip with some sadness. I didn’t have as much fun as I should have for the money I spent. I made a bad choice in a hotel so far off the beaten path. I didn’t play any golf, even though I lugged my clubs all the way down and back. I didn’t accomplish much adventure shopping, returning with only a piece of jewelry and two table runners. Ben commented that I didn’t even get much of a suntan, although he helpfully noted the raccoon eyes I acquired from my big sunglasses. Ah, the joys of returning home to those who love you unconditionally.
Next time, and there will certainly be another trip soon, I will not go until I have a reliable buddy to go with me – Ben or someone else. And, I will think twice before I again choose serenity over access.
Hasta luego!
Ah, sleeping at home is so good. Ben next to me, giving off body heat and an occasional snort. Carly lying across my legs, snoring from a deep, uncomplicated sleep that I will never achieve, home or not. The mattress familiar and my little foam pillow cradling my bulging cervical disc just right. Even the traffic roaring behind us on Aurora soothing in its familiarity.
I got home last night about 11, after Ben arrived at the airport with a tiny Jaguar convertible to get me. It took a lot of shoving and rearranging to get my golf bag into the back seat in such a way that we could get the top to close against the 40-degree night air. I held my driver between my legs, and shrunk back in my seat as far from the passenger side airbag as I possibly could, given the fact that my seat was so far forward I could barely get my legs in the car. But we arrived home safely and by the time we got inside the door to greet Carly, I was over my anger at my husband’s impossibly silly idea to come to get me in a tiny review car instead of the nice, comfy – if old and dirty – Explorer.
The 13-hour trip home was uneventful, mostly. The driver, who had agreed to take me from the Posada to the airport for 800 pesos, tried to strong-arm me into paying 1000 pesos when we got there. I angrily retorted – struggling loudly with being angry in Spanish – that we had agreed it would be the same price as the ride he had sold me from the airport to La Posada six days earlier. If he’d been cruel and had stopped a mile or two short of the airport before trying his extortion, he might have gotten by with it. I would have had no choice. But, once I was at the airport door, I could just hand him the four 200-peso bills I had set aside for him, and walk away. Not much he could do.
The man sitting next to me on the flight to L.A. wore his noise-canceling head phones most of the way – no music, just the filter – allowing me to ignore him and work on a book review I’m writing. His name was Randy, he told me near the end of the flight, when he dropped the ear cuffs to chat. He is a jet mechanic for FedEx at Boston Logan, hence his concern with his hearing. He had been sailing in the Gulf of Baja with a former boss who is now a friend.
My seatmate on the flight to Seattle pissed me off by talking loudly (is there any other way?) in a combination of a language I couldn’t identify and staccato English into his cell phone for about 15 minutes until we pushed back from the gate. I never talked to him, nor he to me. We ate our chicken Caesar salads (my second in as many flights) in silence. I read the Travel + Leisure magazine I’d picked up in LAX, and blazed through the airline magazine’s crossword puzzle. It seemed vaguely familiar. Had I done it before?
I am looking back on the trip with some sadness. I didn’t have as much fun as I should have for the money I spent. I made a bad choice in a hotel so far off the beaten path. I didn’t play any golf, even though I lugged my clubs all the way down and back. I didn’t accomplish much adventure shopping, returning with only a piece of jewelry and two table runners. Ben commented that I didn’t even get much of a suntan, although he helpfully noted the raccoon eyes I acquired from my big sunglasses. Ah, the joys of returning home to those who love you unconditionally.
Next time, and there will certainly be another trip soon, I will not go until I have a reliable buddy to go with me – Ben or someone else. And, I will think twice before I again choose serenity over access.
Hasta luego!
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Going Gringo
Todos Santos, BCS, Mexico November 10, 2007
Going Gringo isn’t so bad afterall. When I travel, I try to avoid the Gringo hang-outs. In San Miguel de Allende, where I lived for a month last year, I didn’t step foot in the New Orleans-style bar owned by an American ex-pat until Ben came down. And then, we only went in because we could get free wi-fi. Janet and I cringe when we see large groups of Gringos gathered someplace south of the border, loudly sharing tales that proved their cleverness and worldliness to each other.
But yesterday, I talked with local ex-pat Gringos in Todos Santos, hung out at a bar packed with ex-pats, and had two glasses of wine in a restaurant that only Gringos and Europeans flush with inflated Euros could afford. And, it was a good day. At least I didn’t spend it at the Hotel California.
My new friends, Marshall and Carolyn, bankers from Southern California, gave me a ride into town about noon, after both Carolyn and I had both had a relaxing massage out in the gardens, under a white canopy. Carolyn was in pain with a bulging disc in her lumbar region, but armed with a big, black orthopedic belt to strengthen her back, she was game for a shopping trip into town. I left them on the corner at the Santa Fe Café, where they went to have lunch, and I headed up the street to look at some ceramics I was considering.
I ran into an American sitting at an outdoor café with a Sprite. He told me he had ridden his Harley down from Placerville, California, but had fallen in Northern Baja, which laid him up at a hotel up there for two days. His trip had taken five days instead of three, and he’d missed the chance to cross over to mainland Mexico on the ferry to join a motorcycle festival. He was nursing a swollen right hand, a sore collarbone and a break in a small bone in his foot. He told me about his property in Todos Santos and the friends he made down here. I told him about my dog, my husband, the Posada La Poza and my hopes for landing a job when I got back. I glanced at my watch and realized I’d better get moving.
My ceramics purchases were squelched when the shopkeeper couldn’t find a complete set of blue and white Puebla dishes for me. But we had a nice long discussion about them, which gave me ample opportunity to hear and speak Spanish, and we parted friends in spite of the failed transaction. I stopped to buy a couple of table runners from an ex-pat whose brother I had met in the café here at Posada the day before, and she filled me in about her brother’s new romance. I told the sister that I thought the woman her brother was with seemed like a new girlfriend. I didn’t care for her brother much, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to hear all the details.
Then, I joined Marshall and Carolyn for a glass of wine at the cool garden inside the Santa Fe Café before we headed back out of town. On the highway leading to our turnoff, they convinced me we had to stop at Shut Up Frank’s, an ex-pat bar. The bar supposedly made “the best hamburgers on the block,” one Gringo told me, shouting above his noisy friends who packed the small patio on the street. We stepped inside and sat at the bar, and had what had to be the best margarita on the block: an inspired combination of tequila, fresh lime juice, a Mexican Cointreau and a dash of a peculiar Mexican liquor that I need to investigate further. A local pescadero who had lived some years in the U.S. worked to teach Carolyn some new Spanish words, and Marshall and I talked about golf. By the time we left, the ex-pats had all wandered off, and the streets were packed with what passes for rush hour in Todos Santos. We topped it off with a bottle of wine and dinner at the Posada.
While yesterday wasn’t the “going native” experience I usually try to find when I travel abroad, it seemed oddly appropriate for my last full day in Mexico. After a lonely week on this lonely beach, it was nice to connect with new people, and it reminded me that wherever you go, it's the same story: It's meeting people that makes the discomforts of travel all worthwhile.
Going Gringo isn’t so bad afterall. When I travel, I try to avoid the Gringo hang-outs. In San Miguel de Allende, where I lived for a month last year, I didn’t step foot in the New Orleans-style bar owned by an American ex-pat until Ben came down. And then, we only went in because we could get free wi-fi. Janet and I cringe when we see large groups of Gringos gathered someplace south of the border, loudly sharing tales that proved their cleverness and worldliness to each other.
But yesterday, I talked with local ex-pat Gringos in Todos Santos, hung out at a bar packed with ex-pats, and had two glasses of wine in a restaurant that only Gringos and Europeans flush with inflated Euros could afford. And, it was a good day. At least I didn’t spend it at the Hotel California.
My new friends, Marshall and Carolyn, bankers from Southern California, gave me a ride into town about noon, after both Carolyn and I had both had a relaxing massage out in the gardens, under a white canopy. Carolyn was in pain with a bulging disc in her lumbar region, but armed with a big, black orthopedic belt to strengthen her back, she was game for a shopping trip into town. I left them on the corner at the Santa Fe Café, where they went to have lunch, and I headed up the street to look at some ceramics I was considering.
I ran into an American sitting at an outdoor café with a Sprite. He told me he had ridden his Harley down from Placerville, California, but had fallen in Northern Baja, which laid him up at a hotel up there for two days. His trip had taken five days instead of three, and he’d missed the chance to cross over to mainland Mexico on the ferry to join a motorcycle festival. He was nursing a swollen right hand, a sore collarbone and a break in a small bone in his foot. He told me about his property in Todos Santos and the friends he made down here. I told him about my dog, my husband, the Posada La Poza and my hopes for landing a job when I got back. I glanced at my watch and realized I’d better get moving.
My ceramics purchases were squelched when the shopkeeper couldn’t find a complete set of blue and white Puebla dishes for me. But we had a nice long discussion about them, which gave me ample opportunity to hear and speak Spanish, and we parted friends in spite of the failed transaction. I stopped to buy a couple of table runners from an ex-pat whose brother I had met in the café here at Posada the day before, and she filled me in about her brother’s new romance. I told the sister that I thought the woman her brother was with seemed like a new girlfriend. I didn’t care for her brother much, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to hear all the details.
Then, I joined Marshall and Carolyn for a glass of wine at the cool garden inside the Santa Fe Café before we headed back out of town. On the highway leading to our turnoff, they convinced me we had to stop at Shut Up Frank’s, an ex-pat bar. The bar supposedly made “the best hamburgers on the block,” one Gringo told me, shouting above his noisy friends who packed the small patio on the street. We stepped inside and sat at the bar, and had what had to be the best margarita on the block: an inspired combination of tequila, fresh lime juice, a Mexican Cointreau and a dash of a peculiar Mexican liquor that I need to investigate further. A local pescadero who had lived some years in the U.S. worked to teach Carolyn some new Spanish words, and Marshall and I talked about golf. By the time we left, the ex-pats had all wandered off, and the streets were packed with what passes for rush hour in Todos Santos. We topped it off with a bottle of wine and dinner at the Posada.
While yesterday wasn’t the “going native” experience I usually try to find when I travel abroad, it seemed oddly appropriate for my last full day in Mexico. After a lonely week on this lonely beach, it was nice to connect with new people, and it reminded me that wherever you go, it's the same story: It's meeting people that makes the discomforts of travel all worthwhile.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Low blood sugar
Posada La Poza, Todos Santos, BCS, November 8, 2007
Okay, I have to tell you: This place sucks.
I have never had such indifferent hosts at a “boutique hotel” and paid so much for the privilege. No offers to help arrange rides to and from this mosquito-ridden swamp at the end of a long, dusty road. No suggestions of where to go or what to do. No recognition that a person without a car might need some assistance in getting to dinner on the night the restaurant is closed. Or even that you might warn her that the restaurant will be closed.
On the website and when you arrive, Juerg and Libusche promise the world, and for $265 a night, they should. But for that price they ought to deliver too. At the pool: “Just ring the bell, and the server will bring you whatever you want.” I rang the bell and no one came. Ever. At the bar, you can sit for hours and never get a drink. “Early-riser” coffee service is promised, but it isn’t set out until after 7:30. That’s early?
At the front desk, I ask: “Is the mission or church downtown open for visitors?”
Answer: “No.”
Hmmmm….. “What else might there be to see in town?”
No answer. Juerg is at the front desk, but doesn’t seem to be listening. I try again.
“Is the cultural center worth seeing?”
Answer: “They have some exhibits.” He turns and walks into the back room.
So here’s what I’d put on the website if I owned this place and wanted to run it like Juerg and Libusche do: “Come if you want. Drive your own car; there’s no other way to get around. And figure out what you want to do before you get here because we’re too busy to be bothered. And, by the way, our kitchen is closed on Thursday nights and the bar is almost never tended. We shut off the wi-fi when we want to. We turn it back on when we want to. If you think you can run the place better, go right ahead. We don’t care.”
Breakfast is served from 8 until 10. This morning I arrived shortly after 8, and Libusche curtly told me I couldn’t sit in the dining room yet. “We aren’t ready.” The tables were set and the lights were on, but dammit, I wasn’t going to sit in there until she was ready for me. So, I sat at the bar while she answered e-mails. Then, the magic moment arrived and I could enter. As far as I could tell, the only difference was it was now 10 minutes after 8 instead of 5 minutes after.
Here’s what I want to say to Libusche and Juerg: Folks, I imagine that it is hard to run a B&B. It’s a 7-day a week (or six-and-a-half, in your case) job, 52 weeks of the year. But you knew that. If you don’t want to do it, sell the place. Find someone who does. Anyone who is paying $265 a night for a hotel room deserves better than you can deliver.
I’ll tell you this: if I ever get out of here, I’ll never come back. But given the level of “service” around here, I may never find a ride out. Perhaps the Hotel California’s motto has moved from its namesake in town to out here: “You can check out, but you can never leave.” Now that would be hell.
Pasado La Poza, Todos Santos, BCS, November 9, 2007
Now that my blood sugar is approaching normal, having had breakfast, I should add a little perspective. This is not a place for singles, except those who really need a lot of time alone – like all day and night – to study or read or examine their navel. It is also certainly not a place for those who don’t want to drive in Mexico. Those two things should be made clear on the hotel’s website and in its marketing materials.
Last night, after realizing the restaurant was closed, I ate Cracker Jack and mini-Pringles out of the mini-bar in my room. I hate both. Because the bugs at night are thicker than molasses, I couldn’t go outside, and because the bar and restaurant were closed, my only option was my room. I couldn’t go into town, as there was no way to get there in the dark.
Now, if I want to stay in my room and read a book and eat junk food, I can do that at home. A $265 a night hotel room in Mexico is not the place. But, when I reserved this place, and told Juerg that I would not be driving, he did not say one word about the isolation here. He knew I’d be stuck, but he let me come anyway. I think that is bad guest relations.
And about the service: Although I've had better service a Ramada Inns on the interstate, at times Libusche is okay - she will stop and talk and even offer assistance. Juerg must just have too much to do. I find him obsequious at times, totally rude at others.
There are people who love it here. This morning I met Marshall and Carolyn, two bankers from Southern California who have a home near Cabo San Lucas. They are here for the third time, and say they like to come here for the first two days of every trip to Baja to relax before returning to the craze of Los Cabos. But they drive, of course. They can get into town to get dinner. And there are two of them. They can row out to the beach together and watch whales or simply gape at the huge breakers. They can talk.
Yesterday, I walked into town, looked around, had lunch and walked back. I was going to take a cab back to the hotel, but the driver wanted about $10 to take me the mile and a half, and I decided that was crazy. (Like a $265 room isn’t?) I tried to buy some jewelry, but earrings that should sell for $5 were priced at $20. How do you even begin to bargain from there?
I nearly bought two antique retablos – the hand-painted “muchas gracias” to saints or to Jesus or to the Virgin for miracles that saved lives or horses or whatever – but had to abort the transaction. Here, many things carry the same sign - $ - for both pesos and for dollars. When the peso is 1/10th the value of the dollar, it should be obvious which is intended on the price tag. When it isn’t obvious, something is horrendously overpriced. I thought the retablos were 190 pesos each, but the vendor wanted $190 each! After he had wrapped them up for me and presented me with the bill, all I could do was back out of the store and apologize.
“But they’re antiques,” he said. “Did you think they would be only $19?” Well, yes, I did.
I had a nice massage under a tent on the beach today. It was one thing that has not been overpriced – only $75 for 90 minutes. It was a nice massage, too. I feel much more relaxed. But then, relaxing hasn’t really been the issues here.
Okay, I have to tell you: This place sucks.
I have never had such indifferent hosts at a “boutique hotel” and paid so much for the privilege. No offers to help arrange rides to and from this mosquito-ridden swamp at the end of a long, dusty road. No suggestions of where to go or what to do. No recognition that a person without a car might need some assistance in getting to dinner on the night the restaurant is closed. Or even that you might warn her that the restaurant will be closed.
On the website and when you arrive, Juerg and Libusche promise the world, and for $265 a night, they should. But for that price they ought to deliver too. At the pool: “Just ring the bell, and the server will bring you whatever you want.” I rang the bell and no one came. Ever. At the bar, you can sit for hours and never get a drink. “Early-riser” coffee service is promised, but it isn’t set out until after 7:30. That’s early?
At the front desk, I ask: “Is the mission or church downtown open for visitors?”
Answer: “No.”
Hmmmm….. “What else might there be to see in town?”
No answer. Juerg is at the front desk, but doesn’t seem to be listening. I try again.
“Is the cultural center worth seeing?”
Answer: “They have some exhibits.” He turns and walks into the back room.
So here’s what I’d put on the website if I owned this place and wanted to run it like Juerg and Libusche do: “Come if you want. Drive your own car; there’s no other way to get around. And figure out what you want to do before you get here because we’re too busy to be bothered. And, by the way, our kitchen is closed on Thursday nights and the bar is almost never tended. We shut off the wi-fi when we want to. We turn it back on when we want to. If you think you can run the place better, go right ahead. We don’t care.”
Breakfast is served from 8 until 10. This morning I arrived shortly after 8, and Libusche curtly told me I couldn’t sit in the dining room yet. “We aren’t ready.” The tables were set and the lights were on, but dammit, I wasn’t going to sit in there until she was ready for me. So, I sat at the bar while she answered e-mails. Then, the magic moment arrived and I could enter. As far as I could tell, the only difference was it was now 10 minutes after 8 instead of 5 minutes after.
Here’s what I want to say to Libusche and Juerg: Folks, I imagine that it is hard to run a B&B. It’s a 7-day a week (or six-and-a-half, in your case) job, 52 weeks of the year. But you knew that. If you don’t want to do it, sell the place. Find someone who does. Anyone who is paying $265 a night for a hotel room deserves better than you can deliver.
I’ll tell you this: if I ever get out of here, I’ll never come back. But given the level of “service” around here, I may never find a ride out. Perhaps the Hotel California’s motto has moved from its namesake in town to out here: “You can check out, but you can never leave.” Now that would be hell.
Pasado La Poza, Todos Santos, BCS, November 9, 2007
Now that my blood sugar is approaching normal, having had breakfast, I should add a little perspective. This is not a place for singles, except those who really need a lot of time alone – like all day and night – to study or read or examine their navel. It is also certainly not a place for those who don’t want to drive in Mexico. Those two things should be made clear on the hotel’s website and in its marketing materials.
Last night, after realizing the restaurant was closed, I ate Cracker Jack and mini-Pringles out of the mini-bar in my room. I hate both. Because the bugs at night are thicker than molasses, I couldn’t go outside, and because the bar and restaurant were closed, my only option was my room. I couldn’t go into town, as there was no way to get there in the dark.
Now, if I want to stay in my room and read a book and eat junk food, I can do that at home. A $265 a night hotel room in Mexico is not the place. But, when I reserved this place, and told Juerg that I would not be driving, he did not say one word about the isolation here. He knew I’d be stuck, but he let me come anyway. I think that is bad guest relations.
And about the service: Although I've had better service a Ramada Inns on the interstate, at times Libusche is okay - she will stop and talk and even offer assistance. Juerg must just have too much to do. I find him obsequious at times, totally rude at others.
There are people who love it here. This morning I met Marshall and Carolyn, two bankers from Southern California who have a home near Cabo San Lucas. They are here for the third time, and say they like to come here for the first two days of every trip to Baja to relax before returning to the craze of Los Cabos. But they drive, of course. They can get into town to get dinner. And there are two of them. They can row out to the beach together and watch whales or simply gape at the huge breakers. They can talk.
Yesterday, I walked into town, looked around, had lunch and walked back. I was going to take a cab back to the hotel, but the driver wanted about $10 to take me the mile and a half, and I decided that was crazy. (Like a $265 room isn’t?) I tried to buy some jewelry, but earrings that should sell for $5 were priced at $20. How do you even begin to bargain from there?
I nearly bought two antique retablos – the hand-painted “muchas gracias” to saints or to Jesus or to the Virgin for miracles that saved lives or horses or whatever – but had to abort the transaction. Here, many things carry the same sign - $ - for both pesos and for dollars. When the peso is 1/10th the value of the dollar, it should be obvious which is intended on the price tag. When it isn’t obvious, something is horrendously overpriced. I thought the retablos were 190 pesos each, but the vendor wanted $190 each! After he had wrapped them up for me and presented me with the bill, all I could do was back out of the store and apologize.
“But they’re antiques,” he said. “Did you think they would be only $19?” Well, yes, I did.
I had a nice massage under a tent on the beach today. It was one thing that has not been overpriced – only $75 for 90 minutes. It was a nice massage, too. I feel much more relaxed. But then, relaxing hasn’t really been the issues here.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
No pasa nada
Todos Santos, BCS, November 8, 2007
As I re-read and then post the blog entry below, written last night, I am disgusted with myself. It appears that yesterday morning, I came to the conclusion that there are only two things to do here: golf or nothing. Exploring the mission in town, finding a good desert hike, sitting in a downtown bar practicing Spanish by chatting up some locals – all perfectly good options to both golf and nothing – had escaped my imagination.
Perhaps the frustration with not finding a taxi that could take me back to my hotel on Tuesday strangled my sense of adventure. But, I have now bored myself. I hope to have a more interesting, less self-pitying entry to share with you tomorrow. If not, I should quit this obsession with travel and stay home. Perhaps armchair tourism is my style.
Egads, let’s hope not. On to a more adventurous day!
Todos Santos, BCS, November 7, 2007
Last night, I lay awake unable to sleep and wished I were home. I missed Ben and Carly. I was squirming because I saw two very large bugs in my room – or really one beetle and a large spider – right before going to bed. I was unhappy because my ground-floor location required keeping my sliding glass door closed, even though the room was stuffy and humid. And, the surf was particularly violent last night. In the still of the night, the roar was deafening and I had visions of a huge tsunami crashing into my casita, which sits only 150 yards from the beach and no more than a half-dozen feet above sea level.
As I lay awake, I weighed the possibility packing up this morning, trying to get a seat on the Alaska Airlines flight from La Paz (it only departs on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday), and heading home.
In the middle of the night, the thought of “wasting” three more days with nothing more to do than sit by the pool, walk on the beach, catch up on NYT Book Reviews and read novels wasn’t pleasant. Because of the poor transportation options, I realized I won’t be able to play golf. If I had someone to share the cab ride to the courses down by Los Cabos, it wouldn’t be so bad. We could split the fare, and we could work on finding a ride back together. But alone, it would cost me $200 roundtrip, and the cost of the golf would double that outlay. And who knows if I ever would get back?
If I go home, I thought, there is so much I can do, so much I can get done.
By daylight, my outlook improved. I could see that the surf, while high and noisy, was still no closer than it was the day before. I began to re-examine my options. I’ve already paid for this hotel room, so I wasn’t going to save any money going home early. The sun is going to shine down here for the next three days, for sure. And what exactly do I have to get done back home? What are those urgent items on my “to do” list? And what’s so wrong with not having anything to do? Isn’t that what some people think vacation is all about?
The problem is, I’m just not very good at having nothing to do. I decided to spend the day seeing just how lazy I could be, and seeing if I could figure out how to enjoy that.
No, I couldn’t manage to take a nap, in spite of how little sleep I got last night. I tried, but I couldn’t quit fidgeting. But I passed the day without doing anything that could be considered athletic or productive. I didn’t write postcards or go for a hike. I didn’t learn anything new about Mexican history or Mexican culture. I never even left the hotel grounds.
Instead, I had a leisurely breakfast while checking my e-mails. I read the second half of the Ann Patchett novel I brought. I read two more NYT Book Reviews. I took a picture of the bunch of green coconuts on the tree above my head. I got in the pool – just to get wet and cool off, not to get any exercise. I sat in the sun. I sat in the shade. I had lunch up on the terrace above the bar and scoured the horizon with my binoculars looking for whales. I made small talk with a couple from Denver and Palm Springs whom I didn’t even like. I checked my e-mails again. I had a margarita at the bar and talked to a couple from New York who recently bought a house down here. I had a salad and a glass of wine for dinner. That’s it. And I managed to spend about 14 hours doing all of this nothing.
I am not yet sure that I enjoyed it. How do you know when there’s so little to remember?
Tomorrow, I’m ratcheting it up a notch. I’m going to walk into town to find some jewelry for Christmas presents and cash for my ride back to La Paz on Saturday and a book about the region. I’m going to walk along the beach if the surf isn’t too high. The other thing I’m going to do … I’m going to have nothing but dessert for dinner. Yes, me, the anti-sweet, protein-loving me. Will wonders ever cease?
As I re-read and then post the blog entry below, written last night, I am disgusted with myself. It appears that yesterday morning, I came to the conclusion that there are only two things to do here: golf or nothing. Exploring the mission in town, finding a good desert hike, sitting in a downtown bar practicing Spanish by chatting up some locals – all perfectly good options to both golf and nothing – had escaped my imagination.
Perhaps the frustration with not finding a taxi that could take me back to my hotel on Tuesday strangled my sense of adventure. But, I have now bored myself. I hope to have a more interesting, less self-pitying entry to share with you tomorrow. If not, I should quit this obsession with travel and stay home. Perhaps armchair tourism is my style.
Egads, let’s hope not. On to a more adventurous day!
Todos Santos, BCS, November 7, 2007
Last night, I lay awake unable to sleep and wished I were home. I missed Ben and Carly. I was squirming because I saw two very large bugs in my room – or really one beetle and a large spider – right before going to bed. I was unhappy because my ground-floor location required keeping my sliding glass door closed, even though the room was stuffy and humid. And, the surf was particularly violent last night. In the still of the night, the roar was deafening and I had visions of a huge tsunami crashing into my casita, which sits only 150 yards from the beach and no more than a half-dozen feet above sea level.
As I lay awake, I weighed the possibility packing up this morning, trying to get a seat on the Alaska Airlines flight from La Paz (it only departs on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday), and heading home.
In the middle of the night, the thought of “wasting” three more days with nothing more to do than sit by the pool, walk on the beach, catch up on NYT Book Reviews and read novels wasn’t pleasant. Because of the poor transportation options, I realized I won’t be able to play golf. If I had someone to share the cab ride to the courses down by Los Cabos, it wouldn’t be so bad. We could split the fare, and we could work on finding a ride back together. But alone, it would cost me $200 roundtrip, and the cost of the golf would double that outlay. And who knows if I ever would get back?
If I go home, I thought, there is so much I can do, so much I can get done.
By daylight, my outlook improved. I could see that the surf, while high and noisy, was still no closer than it was the day before. I began to re-examine my options. I’ve already paid for this hotel room, so I wasn’t going to save any money going home early. The sun is going to shine down here for the next three days, for sure. And what exactly do I have to get done back home? What are those urgent items on my “to do” list? And what’s so wrong with not having anything to do? Isn’t that what some people think vacation is all about?
The problem is, I’m just not very good at having nothing to do. I decided to spend the day seeing just how lazy I could be, and seeing if I could figure out how to enjoy that.
No, I couldn’t manage to take a nap, in spite of how little sleep I got last night. I tried, but I couldn’t quit fidgeting. But I passed the day without doing anything that could be considered athletic or productive. I didn’t write postcards or go for a hike. I didn’t learn anything new about Mexican history or Mexican culture. I never even left the hotel grounds.
Instead, I had a leisurely breakfast while checking my e-mails. I read the second half of the Ann Patchett novel I brought. I read two more NYT Book Reviews. I took a picture of the bunch of green coconuts on the tree above my head. I got in the pool – just to get wet and cool off, not to get any exercise. I sat in the sun. I sat in the shade. I had lunch up on the terrace above the bar and scoured the horizon with my binoculars looking for whales. I made small talk with a couple from Denver and Palm Springs whom I didn’t even like. I checked my e-mails again. I had a margarita at the bar and talked to a couple from New York who recently bought a house down here. I had a salad and a glass of wine for dinner. That’s it. And I managed to spend about 14 hours doing all of this nothing.
I am not yet sure that I enjoyed it. How do you know when there’s so little to remember?
Tomorrow, I’m ratcheting it up a notch. I’m going to walk into town to find some jewelry for Christmas presents and cash for my ride back to La Paz on Saturday and a book about the region. I’m going to walk along the beach if the surf isn’t too high. The other thing I’m going to do … I’m going to have nothing but dessert for dinner. Yes, me, the anti-sweet, protein-loving me. Will wonders ever cease?
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Traveling alone
Todos Santos, Baja California Sur, November 6, 2007
When you travel alone, wonderful things can still happen to you. You just have no one to share them with…at least not immediately. Bad things can happen too, but I don’t think those are the ones that make you most lonely.
Today, I was walking along the beach before breakfast, wondering what was causing the water to splash way out in the middle of the ocean, far from where the surf was breaking. Climbing up on a granite rock, I figured it out: whales were jumping up, splashing their tails, and diving down in real-life Pacific Life commercials. As if in a congo line, they swam along the top of the water, heading north, dived down, splashed their tails as if posing for postcard photos and apparently (though I could not see it) dived down and back below the surface to rejoin their joyous pod at the back of the line. The joy, from what I am told, is from the fact that the mating season has begun. Or as my new friends from Italy put it, the “loving season.”
“I’m not sure what is making them frolick is love,” I murmured to my breakfast companions, with the weight of 54 years of cynicism pulling down my vocal chords.
“It’s a rough translation,” laughed Fabrizie, a beautiful, red-haired, freckled Italian, whom I guess is about my age but looked much younger.
I met Fabrizie when I ran back to my room to get my binoculars so I could better spy on the “loving” ritual out on the sea. She joined me on the beach to watch the whales, both of us with cups of “early riser” coffee – the coffee the hotel puts out in the garden for those of us who can’t wait until 8 a.m. for our first caffeine fix. Later, she introduced me to her husband and daughter at breakfast. We talked about the whales and about U.S. politics and economics, and about their trip down from L.A., where the daughter and her new husband have settled recently for his new job with Boston Consulting Group.
Fabrizie and her family gave me ride into Todos Santos shortly before noon, as they headed south for Cabo San Lucas. Given how much they loved the birds and gardens and tranquility of our little beach hotel, I am certain that noisy Cabo, home of the chug-til-you-puke Cabo Wabo, will be a disappointment.
Catching the mating of the whales and meeting my new Italian friends were two of the great things that happened to me today. Another was the offer of a comfortable, air-conditioned ride back to the hotel. But more on that later.
Ten years ago, when Ben and I rode through Todos Santos on a Backroads bicycle trip, the town boasted 900 full-time residents. It was a quiet artists’ and fishing enclave with one decent tourist hotel and one restaurant that was open for dinner. The Hotel California was a rundown, slightly seedy and totally laid-back waystation housed in a crumbling stucco building with a creeky two-story portillo that ran along the main street into the village. Upon request – or more often without prodding – the desk clerk or bartender would plug the jukebox with centavos and play the Eagles’ “Hotel California” over and over. You could buy a muscle shirt that said “you can check out but you can never leave” for five bucks. If you had plenty of pesos –no credit cards accepted – and were in town from 11 to 2 in the middle of the day, you might be lucky enough to find an artisan shop open that would sell you something that bespoke raw talent but little polish.
Realizing what the thriving tourist industry has brought to this town was the worst part of my day. Today, the Hotel California has a fancy new paint job, a fancy front desk, and a huge bar and restaurant suggestive of a Mexican Macroni Grill. A busload of tourists brought in from Cabo had just arrived when I walked along the portillo this noon, and the restaurant was crowded with guayabara-clad retired Yanquis and large women with gigantic costume jewelry. I felt like I’d stumbled across a Tex-Mex restaurant in Oklahoma City.
Dozens of tourist hotels and shops now crowd around the handful of surviving artisan galleries. The shops all sell the same wares – ceramics from Puebla and Guanajuato, painted figurines and cheap knock-off weavings from Oaxaca, and silver jewelry from Taxco. Once upon a time, you could only buy a Bronco’s tee-shirt if you went to Denver and you could only find fine Talavera ceramics in Puebla. Is something of value to regional culture lost when you can’t tell one part of a country from another because all of the once-local crafts (or sports-franchise tee-shirts) have become commoditized across the continent?
There are more jobs in Todos Santos now, and the town’s official population count – well into the thousands - can’t keep up with the in-migration. Local people have more choices and more opportunities. Tourism has brought many things we take for granted in Seattle within reach here – including those things they can now buy at Home Depot and Best Buy. There are more and better doctors in town. (Probably more lawyers, too.) The roads are being improved so that the September rain doesn’t cut Todos Santos off from the flush visitors coming in from La Paz and Los Cabos. It’s not the place it used to be. That is all good. Except for academic anthropologists, aging locals who can’t keep up with rising rents, and nostalgic travelers like me.
Hot and tired of the dusty streets, sticky air and crowded tourist shops, I decided to head back to the hotel only a couple of hours into my visit. Libusche (the owner of my hotel) had told me that I could find a taxi at the pueblo’s main park. But, no taxi was to be found. An old man peddling sugary popcorn from a ped-cart offered to ride off to find me one. But, given the heat and his skinny frame, I couldn’t allow him to burn off energy solving my high-class problems. So, I walked up the street to a prosperous-looking jewelry store and asked if they knew where I could find a taxi.
“Hagame el favor de decirme, donde se peude encontrar un taxi?” I asked.
“There are only three taxis in town,” said a healthy-looking young man, stringing silver pendants on an earring tree at the counter. Nine times out of ten, whenever I ask a question in Spanish at an establishment aimed at Gringos, I am answered in English. I’m practicing my Spanish, they’re practicing their English and everyone is trying to show off a little. “Everybody here has a car already,” he explained. “Where are you trying to go?”
He had never heard of the Posada La Poza, where I am staying, but offered to take me, if I could tell him how to get there. I thanked him, but said that was asking too much. He had a business to run and I couldn’t let him do that. I would just go back and wait at the park for a taxi. Perhaps after lunch and siesta, someone would show up looking for a fare.
I went back to the park corner and sat up on the crumbling stone wall surrounding the weed-chocked gardens and thought about how prosperity may have arrived, but it hadn’t bolstered enough civic pride or tax receipts to provide for a nicely manicured park or decent sidewalks. My fascination with Third World travel was wilting in the grime, heat and humidity, when the man from the jewelry store pulled up in front of me in a brand-new American-made SUV.
“If you know where the hotel is, I can take you,” he offered again. Thinking quickly that this could be the stupidest thing I had ever done – hopping in the car with a stranger without a license to chauffer and possibly no other way to be traced should he decide to rob me and leave me stranded along some dusty Baja highway – I threw judgment aside, doubled down on my faith in my fellow man, and jumped in. The truck was even air conditioned! I thanked him for the air conditioning, and he looked at me with resignation. What was I expecting? A horse and buggy?
Fifteen minutes later, I asked my benefactor if I could possibly pay him for the ride, but he refused, and I hopped out at my hotel entrance.
Other than that, I have little to report for today’s adventures. I swam a bit in the cool saltwater pool, read half of a new Ann Patchett novel in my hammock, cleaned up for dinner, took a picture of the beautiful red sunset (“red skies at night, sailors delight,” my grandmother used to say), and checked in with my husband by e-mail.
I wish all of you were here, as I am more and more convinced, the older and older I get, that travel is better with friends (or husbands), with whom to share the good and the bad. Perhaps by reading this, you’ll make me feel less alone.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Todos Santos Dia Uno
November 5, 2007
Todos Santos, Baja California Sur, Mexico
The day started well with an on-time trip to the airport (thanks for the ride, Ben) but while sipping my Starbucks in the Alaska Boardroom, I got a call from Deb, who was supposed to meet me there for our flight to Todos Santos. Deb forgot her passport in Yakima. She couldn’t get on the plane, and so I’m going alone.
I am disappointed, of course. The most unfortunate thing about that is – okay, two things – are that it doubles the cost of the cab rides and the hotel room for me, and that I will be picking up a game of golf by myself, always an intimidating experience for a high-handicapper, aka shitty golfer. But, otherwise, I’ll be fine.
I’m staying at the Posada La Poza, which is isolated out on the coast, a mile or so from Todos Santos. I was glad my cab driver from the La Paz airport knew where he was going, as I would have given up on the 15th or 20th turn down the dusty dirt road from town to the coast and I would never have made it.
The owners of this boutique hotel, Juerg and Libusche, are gracious, and I hope they stay on the light side of obsequious. He is Swiss, and she is Czech. She says she speaks seven languages, and I’m not qualified to test her on that, so I’ll take her word for it. His English is better than hers, and from what I could hear, his Spanish is too. I’m sure she excels at Czech.
My room is large and generally pleasant, except for the Botero-like mini-sculpture on the desk, which makes me want to skip dinner for the next five nights. I have my own patio and Jacuzzi outside my room. If it doesn’t cool off considerably, I’m afraid the Jacuzzi will be a waste, but the patio is serene.
From my room, I can hear and feel the pounding Pacific surf, even though the droan of the air conditioning unit behind the building is working hard to drown it out. If I could leave the surf-side door open, it might help, but without any security latch on the screen, I can’t do that.
The grounds, however, are gorgeous. The bookcase is stocked with several books, including a bird guide, as the garden attracts hundreds of hummingbirds and song birds. Without appearing highly groomed, the landscaping is dense enough to create privacy, but random enough to evoke the desert outside of town.
The saltwater pool’s irregular shape and muted color nearly fool you into thinking it’s a lagoon instead of a man-made pool. Across the real lagoon, on the other side of the pool from the hotel, is the beach, which runs two miles south and “almost endlessly” to the north, according to the hotel’s brochure. I’ll have to check that out tomorrow.
I am taking seriously the hotel’s warning to keep away from the ocean and the surf. Ten years ago, when Ben and I were here on a Backroads trip, I happily rushed into the surf with a beer in hand, and was promptly knocked on my ass, losing my beer, my sunglasses and my hat in an ignominious display of Midwestern naivete. I won’t make that mistake again.
Dinner at the restaurant tonight - $20 before tip and taxes – was excellent, and that’s a good thing, as I think I’ll have to eat there every night, given the distance into town and the early sunset (about 5:45). A young couple from Montana, who sat at the table next to me, said they have eaten here every night on their stay and were never disappointed. There’s something nice about being able to have a glass of wine and relax over dinner without worrying about the logistics of getting home – or back to the hotel. Also, I was able to buy a bottle of wine – much less expensive than wine by the glass – and the waitress will cork it and keep it for me to finish over the week.
I saw little of Todos Santos on my way in. But it does seem much bigger than it was when Ben and I rode our bikes through here 10 years ago. People told me it had grown a lot, and that’s apparently true.
Stay tune for my next exciting tale, likely to describe sitting by the pool, catching up on weeks of NYT Book Reviews. It’s bound to mesmerize.
Nodding off, I am happily in Mexico again.
Todos Santos, Baja California Sur, Mexico
The day started well with an on-time trip to the airport (thanks for the ride, Ben) but while sipping my Starbucks in the Alaska Boardroom, I got a call from Deb, who was supposed to meet me there for our flight to Todos Santos. Deb forgot her passport in Yakima. She couldn’t get on the plane, and so I’m going alone.
I am disappointed, of course. The most unfortunate thing about that is – okay, two things – are that it doubles the cost of the cab rides and the hotel room for me, and that I will be picking up a game of golf by myself, always an intimidating experience for a high-handicapper, aka shitty golfer. But, otherwise, I’ll be fine.
I’m staying at the Posada La Poza, which is isolated out on the coast, a mile or so from Todos Santos. I was glad my cab driver from the La Paz airport knew where he was going, as I would have given up on the 15th or 20th turn down the dusty dirt road from town to the coast and I would never have made it.
The owners of this boutique hotel, Juerg and Libusche, are gracious, and I hope they stay on the light side of obsequious. He is Swiss, and she is Czech. She says she speaks seven languages, and I’m not qualified to test her on that, so I’ll take her word for it. His English is better than hers, and from what I could hear, his Spanish is too. I’m sure she excels at Czech.
My room is large and generally pleasant, except for the Botero-like mini-sculpture on the desk, which makes me want to skip dinner for the next five nights. I have my own patio and Jacuzzi outside my room. If it doesn’t cool off considerably, I’m afraid the Jacuzzi will be a waste, but the patio is serene.
From my room, I can hear and feel the pounding Pacific surf, even though the droan of the air conditioning unit behind the building is working hard to drown it out. If I could leave the surf-side door open, it might help, but without any security latch on the screen, I can’t do that.
The grounds, however, are gorgeous. The bookcase is stocked with several books, including a bird guide, as the garden attracts hundreds of hummingbirds and song birds. Without appearing highly groomed, the landscaping is dense enough to create privacy, but random enough to evoke the desert outside of town.
The saltwater pool’s irregular shape and muted color nearly fool you into thinking it’s a lagoon instead of a man-made pool. Across the real lagoon, on the other side of the pool from the hotel, is the beach, which runs two miles south and “almost endlessly” to the north, according to the hotel’s brochure. I’ll have to check that out tomorrow.
I am taking seriously the hotel’s warning to keep away from the ocean and the surf. Ten years ago, when Ben and I were here on a Backroads trip, I happily rushed into the surf with a beer in hand, and was promptly knocked on my ass, losing my beer, my sunglasses and my hat in an ignominious display of Midwestern naivete. I won’t make that mistake again.
Dinner at the restaurant tonight - $20 before tip and taxes – was excellent, and that’s a good thing, as I think I’ll have to eat there every night, given the distance into town and the early sunset (about 5:45). A young couple from Montana, who sat at the table next to me, said they have eaten here every night on their stay and were never disappointed. There’s something nice about being able to have a glass of wine and relax over dinner without worrying about the logistics of getting home – or back to the hotel. Also, I was able to buy a bottle of wine – much less expensive than wine by the glass – and the waitress will cork it and keep it for me to finish over the week.
I saw little of Todos Santos on my way in. But it does seem much bigger than it was when Ben and I rode our bikes through here 10 years ago. People told me it had grown a lot, and that’s apparently true.
Stay tune for my next exciting tale, likely to describe sitting by the pool, catching up on weeks of NYT Book Reviews. It’s bound to mesmerize.
Nodding off, I am happily in Mexico again.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Packing up
So, I'm getting ready to go to Todos Santos for some sun and golf and sitting around talkin'. Deb Holbrook is going with me. She's Diane Gamache's sister. Diane and I met at Expedia, and she's now doing her own thing, managing SOX compliance for small companies. Deb is a dental technician and she lives in Yakima, center of the Yakima wine viticulture area (AVA).
You can find out what we're doing everyday by reading this new Viajesdelacostachica blog, written by me, La Costa Chica, herself. It's easier than writing longhand, you see. And it encourages stream-of-conciousness writing - or uncontrolled regurgitation of unconsequential thoughts - which is the same thing.
I hope that I will get to post many more such viajes blogs over the next year, although the threat of a real job looms. I'd say "ominously looms," but I think that's redundant.
My loving husband promises to read this blog. If anyone else happens to tune in, be sure to post your responses to my blathering. They will doubtlessly be more interesting than this blog itself.
If you want a postcard from my viajes, send it along. I promise to oblige. In fact, then everyone can start sending everyone else postcards, and we won't have time to waste on that silly game of golf anymore.
Hasta luego, amigos!
You can find out what we're doing everyday by reading this new Viajesdelacostachica blog, written by me, La Costa Chica, herself. It's easier than writing longhand, you see. And it encourages stream-of-conciousness writing - or uncontrolled regurgitation of unconsequential thoughts - which is the same thing.
I hope that I will get to post many more such viajes blogs over the next year, although the threat of a real job looms. I'd say "ominously looms," but I think that's redundant.
My loving husband promises to read this blog. If anyone else happens to tune in, be sure to post your responses to my blathering. They will doubtlessly be more interesting than this blog itself.
If you want a postcard from my viajes, send it along. I promise to oblige. In fact, then everyone can start sending everyone else postcards, and we won't have time to waste on that silly game of golf anymore.
Hasta luego, amigos!
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