Literary Killers

Summer has definitely arrived to Todos Santos. Literally, the day Ais and Finny left, heat rushed in to take their place. Not only did the heat rush in, but it appears the bugs are rushing in. I've had a new dilemma of late...which author's book makes the best tool of death? Sunday night I encountered a scorpion on my bedroom wall. No, it couldn't be in the kitchen or in a room absent of guests....no sir, it had to be on the wall beside my bed. Where I sleep. With the lights out. I was a little excited about the first scary visitor. I mean, I've been shaking out my Uggs for four months now thanks to Jody's constant warnings in January. I have looked for a scorpion in bags left unattended; in shoes unworn. Who knew he'd be there on the wall. And a big bugger to boot. His body outstretched the length of a fly-swatter and I couldn't find the scorpion-swatter. So I decided a book would have to be the main instrument of death. One of us was going to have to get bludgeoned with a book if I was going to get any sleep...better him than me. So I went to my shelf and looked around. Henry Miller? No, too French. The Sabbath? Too Jewish. Jack Kerouac's The Road? Perfect. He's been to Mexico, he must know how to kill a scorpion. And with one swift underhanded toss, Keruoac and I landed the bastard. He was squishy too. Saucy, in fact. I got a couple follow up shots in to be sure. It was gratuitous violence at best, but I need my beauty rest. The night continues. Next up: the cock-a-roach. Not just a cockroach, but a cockroach as my mother would say, "the size of Lassie". I prefer to call it a water bug. It's so much more friendly and clean. He's just big from the water, that's all! This was the third Lassie sized visitor I've encountered. Experience has taught me to to carry the same look in my eye that I see in friends who have children that get up very early in the morning - a dull reserve that says, this is probably not the first or last time this is going to happen, so there is no need to react. But again, in order for me to sleep, he would have to die. Who then to kill a cock-a-roach? I pushed through to the "unread" shelf to find Bill Clinton and Jimmy Carter. Not your standard beach reading, but the primaries were firing up as I left and I had just seen the Carter documentary. Presidents Carter and Clinton are both Southern bred and notoriously Mama's boys. They have no doubt killed a cockroach or two in their lives. But regardless of your political leanings, it seems a little disrespectful to call on the past leaders of the free world to kill a roach. Even if Carter is fluent in Spanish. There must be someone better. Larry Brown! Now that's the man. His hardback volume of Joe shined as Larry looked down from heaven, half lit with a cold beer in his hand and said, "Well hell yes, let's get it." And so we did. Unfortunately, not all varmints can be easily handled with books. Before the night ended, I found another scorpion and decided he could be had with a scorpion swatter after all. I'm telling you, they're juicy. Who knew. "Scorpion" has such a desert ring to it. Then in the corner of the room, a spider the size of my hand. My full hand, as in spread out wide like I'm in a hand size comparing contest. I wish I was kidding. I counted his legs. I apologized. Even with the good fun of matching up the perfect literary death, I don't like to kill. But a girl has to sleep, so he got the feathery end of a broom, again with far more force than necessary for his death...but just the right amount to let me sit up in bed and read Joe until I fell asleep. Sweet dreams.

FINNY JACKSON IN THE HOUSE

Finny Jackson

How does it get better than Finny Jackson in my house, at my breakfast table, in the ocean, in the pool, in the sand, in my Van, on a surfboard, on a boogieboard....I mean seriously. Monday and today Finny took surf lessons with Mario. He stood up on his first wave! Of course. He's an athlete! I've never seen a kid so unafraid of the ocean. In that precise moment, just before we began cheering and high-fiveing, genetics got the best of me and....well....yes, it's true...the Curse of the Crickett....my camera ran out of batteries. So you'll have to take our word for it - he stood up almost every time! Here are some pics from today's lesson. Also Ais got up on a wave! Yesterday we hit the pool with Dierckson, Matea, Kelly and Carmen. Today was lots of beach fun - swimming and body surfing in an unusually cold ocean. Tonight dinner at The Hotel California -with a continuous game of the Funny Game. Finny always wins. I can't help but laugh at the dancing. Life is even more beautiful than usual here in Todos. Finny is brighter than the sun.

Machete Day

Surely, a woman's life must be divided into two distinct time periods - the days prior to the purchase of a MACHETE and all the days that follow after. I am now the proud owner of an orange plastic-handled machete. I would have liked something a little more wooden and old-school, but I guess I'll have to search the second hand stores for that? Maybe machetes are like stationary bicycles and I can find one at a Mexican garage sale? I of course got a sharpening tool. What is a machete if it's not sharp?

Yesterday, David and I went up to the Casa de Campanita and I got to swing my machete firsthand. Well, let me say - I got gypped. They sold me a short, tiny girl sized machete and a tiny little girl sized sharpener to go with it. It didn't take long out on the land to realize that the size of your machete does matter. Strength and precision of swing are helpful too. I didn't have any of these skills to offer. But I was great at picking up hacked off limbs and hauling them to the side of the road. In the span of just a few hours, we were able to get started on a short driveway and clear out a camp site. It was perfectly overcast and David was a burly, manly man chopping the hell out of the desert growth. I need to return and hack away at it myself for another few days. We walked around and decided how we wanted a car to drive in - and curved a little path down and into the land for The Van. David has graciously loaned me his machete and it's manly sharpener. In the meantime, I am scouring Mexican garage sales for a better machete of my own.

April and May Highlights

Tomingo in Todos

Propiedad Privada

Two years ago, I purchased some land outside of Todos Santos in a little area called Las Playitas. I have photos from the day we first hiked up to our plot. There was no road other than the one straight dirt path that ran up hill from the beach. Walking north or south required ducking under cacti and around other really sharp plants. It was exhilarating and I knew I was on the right track. Buying land in Mexico is as unpredictable and as unlikely as hearing back from the guy who says, "I'll call you" at 3am. Right. "My land" sounds good...but does it really exist and could it ever be something? Today I got a little closer to finding out. With two of my new TS friends in tow, Elizabeth and Zandra and I took The Van out the 7 miles from town -- 7 miles that feel like 20 as you try to continue conversation like business as usual while your teeth chatter and the dashboard rattles to the point of a loud hum. From the main road, we traveled up the hill to find that the road has gotten better. And now there is a road that turns north from it - a nice left turn onto the street that will be my street. My land. My street. Nice.
It was late in the day and we were prepared for a sunset fiesta to celebrate this momentous event: sunset on my land. Of course we had beer, tequila, lime, chips & guac and baby smoked oysters in tow. We know how to throw a sunset party - on a deck or out in the dirt.
From atop The Van, we took in the sunset and our snacks. It was an incredible feeling to be surrounded by nothing. As in, no thing. In the past 3 months, I have fallen deeply in love with the subtle beauty of the desert. I never took the time to understand or enjoy it before. I moved too fast to notice...it was just landscape on the way to something else....San Fran, Vegas, Palm Springs, Mammoth. Framed on one side by the Pacific and on the other by stacks of mountains, including the Sierra de la Laguna, the desert here is is large. All caps, LARGE. It is quietly, subtly large in one glance and overwhelmingly powerfully large in the next. Instead of the vast emptiness that I once saw, now I feel an energy from it that overtakes me and makes my heart beat fast like a big set of waves. It scares me and endears me. It is Large. It is stoic. But it is there for me, supporting me. It is holy.
And in the midst of this great vast holiness is a little plot of land that I will now call my own. It will first be my personal camp site, then home to my personal garage, then before I know it - it will be a neighborhood that asks to be included in conversations about turtles, ecology and other local concerns. I started in the music business with a $4 an hour job in 1991. In 2001, I flew on a private jet with Tim "and others" (as we always laughed we'd be listed after a crash) from London to Philadelphia. It was a moment of absolute astonishment that 10 years had made such a radical change in all our lives. I see that hope of possibility as I stand in the desert with my new friends. On my land.

Shannon visits

Great time in Mex this week. Shannon is rocking Todos Santos and meeting all my new friends. Hike today, beach yesterday and Cinco de Mayo in La Paz. Off to the East Cape today where it is very windy. If only Jody and her kite were here to join us!

Tres Mercados

I spent the first month and a half completely transfixed on exciting new food items every time I went to the grocery store or any market in Mexico. They sell pre-toasted bread for chrissake. And who doesn't want to try out all the cookies produced in another country? Nowadays, shopping is a different task entirely. I still get overwhelmed, so I bring a list. My list for today looked like this: avocado, tomato, lettuce, shrimp from shrimp guy, Jesus candles, lighter, milk, eggs, chicken?....and so on. It's not a whole lot different than when I'm in Venice actually, except for the lack of fishmongers and less of a need for Jesus candles. Of course no one store has everything. It takes multiple stops that piece together like a puzzle - milk at the last stop because it's hot might mean buying it at the store that always smells like rancid meat...hot milk vs. rancid meat...what to do. One store, the store Jody and I affectionately named, "the store where no one likes us" has the best tortilla chips, kitchen things and canned goods. My special stop there included the purchase of a kettle. The 'government store' has the best wine and personal soapstuffs. Water can be had at any of these places, but I like to get it at the market where no one likes me because they get so annoyed when I carry it up front by myself. "You know we have someone to do that for you?" she grimaces at me in Spanish. But since she already doesn't like me, it's my little joke. They just shake their head and call someone who puts it in my car. I say thank you, far too many times - especially for a place where no one really says thank you so often. Then, one of my other stressful moments - how to be polite upon departure. They say, "que la valle bien" -- which is I think similar to "safe travels". Though, she clearly couldn't care less about my travels, so I have to believe she does it just to watch my absolute inability to conjure a reply. "Thanks" is what I say, but again they just shake their heads because only Whitey says thanks that much. My favorite market, Mercado El Sol II (NOT Mercado El Sol I, which is on the south side of town) will always hold a special place in my heart. I remember the first time I visited Todos Santos, we passed it at night on the way to a friends house. I thought it was damned far out in the middle of nowhere and we should probably stop in to get some more beer because anywhere we were going certainly could not have enough to last us through getting back. I can almost see it from my house now. It's my own personal Seven Eleven. Some say it has the better selection of wine. But I still like the answer given to me by a local musician when I asked, "Where's the best place to buy wine around here?" She gave me a dull monotone, "Cabo." Check. Also on the stop today was the organic vegetable store - which has both nice people and good, cheap vegetables. Who knew? How did this place come to be? My bill was $5. And she even struck up a conversation with me as if there was a possibility I would understand. These are the people I want to hug. At the end of my rounds, I swung back around to look for the guy with the coolers full of seafood in the back of his truck. He parks in the same spot on Fridays. I just caught him and found out that the going price for a kilo of shrimp on the street is $7, but I got it for $5 and change because I didn't have any smaller bills and couldn't find my change fast enough. I can't tell you how many times these men just shake their heads at me...like they can't decide if I'm stupid because I'm white or because I'm a woman or both. My stage fright of basic math skills on demand continues and the funny money doesn't help. I am solid on the big bills, but I have yet to figure out the change I get back. My final stop was El Sol II, the only place that sells half and half, where a big horsey white woman in front of me was rattling on in a mix of English and Spanish to the 19 year old cashier, "Oh no! I thought you were going to give me a bunch of CEN-TAHH-VOS." The girl looked at her with a blank stare and then at me. I tried to make it clear that I wasn't claiming her white ass as part of my race either. A little more stressful than Whole Foods, but barely. At least I know I don't speak the language here.

Wash Day

You get a line, I’ll get a pole, Honey
You get a line, I’ll get a pole, Babe.
You get a line, I’ll get a pole
We’ll go fishing up a crawdad’s hole
Honey, babe of mine.

This is what I sing when I hang clothes on the line. Up until today, I’ve really never hung clothes on the line except an occasional wetsuit or a few fine handwashables. I’m not entirely sure what inspires this special version of the song, but this is what I’ve got to offer Paradise today. I remember the first time Aunt Jean sang it, I looked at my mom like “Is that right?” No. But definitely a lot more fun to sing. I am thinking of Aunt Jean today and even moreso, Aunt Martha who is moving into her new apartment back in Indiana. Aunt Martha’s neighbor had one of those clothesline spheres. Like a baby blue plastic umbrella turned inside out, stood up in the backyard. I can just see her waving at me from her perfectly pressed dress and apron. Line drying clothes is fairly common down here – even Whitey does it. Air from the sky dries clothes too, what? But I know, as I hang each piece up on the line that somewhere Aunt Martha is laughing at the fact that I am not doing it right. There has to be a better system than the one I’m using. And by the way, I’m not completely comfortable with the “jog bra” on the line for the gardner to examine. I know it’s a perfectly platonic piece of athletic underpinning. But does he? A clothesbasket would be another good start. I dropped a couple of clean items. Which means, they are not clean now. Annoying. And I have to say, better clothespins would seal the deal. And why in God’s name would there be ‘cheap’ clothespins? Kind of cruel, no? “Well, don’t you know how to hang clothes on the line?” I can hear Aunt Martha asking me. No, not really, but I guess I’ll learn.

Tony Eaton: Muse

In my little mythic world, Tony Eaton is my muse. Or maybe he’s just the Chorus. I’d like to believe he inspires me to change and grow, but I’m afraid he is just clarifying the obvious that I’m too blind to see or too scared to admit. Take, for instance, one night when I met he and Lauren for dinner in Venice. I was living in Nashville and traveling back and forth to LA quite a bit. My head was full that night, so they were my first sounding board for a statement I needed to hear myself say out loud, but hadn’t had much practice in doing. “I think I’m going to make a move back to California.” The words were like passing a gallstone. I knew it would bring relief but I was afraid of the fallout damage it might cause. I feared only slightly less literal an ass tearing. “Yeah dude!” he said with smiley excitement. Later in the night, after red wine, beef and more practice in airing my thoughts on leaving Nashville, Tony was still smiling, offering up “Yeah dude, you would do good in this neighborhood. This is a great place for you. You should live right here.” We were at Hal’s that night. Six months later, I moved into a place about 3 blocks from there without even knowing it. Tony was right. It’s a great neighborhood for me.

Now onto the next big wave of Tony the Chorus. One day I rode my bike up to meet him in Venice for coffee. “Dude,” he told me in a tone most reserve for life saving advice, “You gotta get rid of that bike. It’s a piece of shit.” Yes, great to see you. I’m well, thanks. You’re right, smoking does cause cancer. I’ll give that some thought. “No dude. I’m not kidding. Buy a mountain bike. Buy a Specialized. Today. Do it. In Culver City.” My favorite thing about Tony’s advice is that -though he may be right – he doesn’t seem to take into account the it’s not always easily done. Even if he does follow it up with “Duh?!” to make sure you know how retarded you would be to do anything differently than what he’s just suggested. I shrugged him off. Yeah yeah, now you ride, so everyone has to buy a bike. But annoyingly, he was right. I hated my bike. My first mountain bike got stolen and I bought a hybrid thinking I’d get the best of both worlds. Instead, I got nothing from either world that I liked. I had a two-wheeled, heavyweight compromise. It was a piece of shit. But like the simple, “move to Venice” – which took all of my courage and most of my money to execute….his suggestion was not cheap or easy. Yeah dude, I’ll just go buy a new bike.

Today I returned from a ride up through the hills of Todos Santos. The sun was making its way upward into the sky as we climbed the sand, dirt and rock path along the side edge of a lookout. Palm trees, cacti, pacific and the stripes of tomato fields stared back from every direction I looked. I am not a great mountain biker yet…constantly forgetting which one “makes it easier” to peddle. The reference to gears that are “high” or “low” is so ridiculous for someone who struggles with “left” and “right”. So I bump along these days, trying to remember to look up and take in the scenery; praying that my lungs will catch up to the climbing altitude and mumble to myself constantly “thumb makes it easier…thumb makes it easier….” I did buy a Specialized after test riding everything else. I searched Craigslist for a bargain. There’s a woman in the valley who got a mountain bike for Christmas but wanted a cruiser. So I rolled away on her bike. And I’m riding. I am riding. Tony was right. I need to buy a bike, dude. So we can ride. I’m coming back. And maybe I can even keep up after riding down here for the summer. Can’t wait to see what my muse has conjured up for the next leg. Or maybe he’ll just sing out more truths that I already know are coming.

Lots of Photos!

Here are a few slideshows of places we've been so far. Enjoy!

April 7 - Dos Palomas House

Tuesday in Todos

Ok, so I admit, my idea of blogging constantly has turned into me writing constantly at home and never getting it up on to this site. Oh! And then there's the issue of photos. I have a ton and can't seem to figure out where to put them for all to see. I could go the Facebook route, but that would leave out all the grownups over 40. I'm working on that. Hold your breath!

Jody left on Thursday and I have to admit it was an exciting mix of terror and adrenalin that rushed through me as I headed back up the Mex 1 toward my new home. It's all different when you're alone. I have met two new friends. And get this -- one is Mexican. Who knew it'd be so hard to meet Mexicans in Mexico. White people are everywhere down here - particularly Candidans, Italians and Americans from Washington and California. I have spent most of my time since Jody left getting the old place clean and my bags packed to move.

Yesterday I made the big move into my 'new' rental house that will be home until the end of June. It's much more along the lines of what I had pictured than my first place. It's smaller and in the heart of a neighborhood. People walk by outside the fence; dogs bark; Mexican radio blares.....did I mention dogs bark? Dogs bark that syphillus crazy Mexican hungry dog bark all night long. And when they stop, the roosters begin. With the start of daylight savings in Mex (we are now an hour later than California), the Roosters must be confused....they got vocal last night at 3am. We'll see how tonight goes. I'm hoping the dogs get to bed earlier. Speaking of dogs, there's one dog who was sleeping far too soundly to bark. Guess who. Pictured here - photo courtesy of his aunt Jody, who he misses greatly. As do I! More to come. And pictures too!

Where Are You Going and Why?

Everyone has a different idea of where I should spend my travel time. It's been great to hear all the suggestions. Travel across Europe. Rent a house in Spain or Italy. Mainland Mexico. Costa Rica. Panama. Brazil. Bali. Indonesia. Japan. China. Each person reveals a little of themselves and their own dreams as they tell me what I should do. It's been hard not to doubt myself on this - there are a lot of places to go and a lot of places I've always wanted to go. So why Baja California Sur, Mexico and why now? Most easily put, it's just what I know I'm supposed to do. It sounds a little too self-righteously zen, I admit. In all of its honest deepness, it even sounds ridiculous to me. So intellectually, I dug up some evidence to understand my motivation.
Traveling Baja is something I've dreamed about since I was a teenager. My first love was California. I don't even remember being sad that we left Indiana when I was 12. I just remember thinking I was going to meet Scott Baio and see a lot more of the ocean, which I already had a crush on from trips to New Jersey and Florida. My gut was right. I loved California. It was more than a crush. It was founded. And it loved me back. The year we moved to LaJolla, I went on trips down to Tijuana with my Uncle Stan. We stopped for tortillas and bolillos. (Most of my best lifetime memories include starch.) He helped me with my first year Spanish lessons as we ran errands across the border. Visiting Mexico was like meeting California's grandparents. I was in love with the language and Mexico right off the bat - and that was only Tijuana! Our neighbors and family friends Andrei and Olivia encouraged me through another 5 years of Spanish and made fun of me often enough to ensure my accent wasn't horrible. God forbid I sounded like some stupid gringo. Olivia relayed stories of her childhood trips to Mexico - which were wrought with indulgent riches. Olivia has always been quick to make sure I understand all the facets of Mexico, both rich and poor. Andrei helped school me in the positive qualities of margaritas. In highschool, I had a lot of friends who's families vacationed in Baja. I was intrigued by their stories - fishing for dinner; camping on the beach; taking two cars in case one broke down. Each family had their own secret spot and family traditions - from the time of year to the route they'd take to the same little cart where they'd get their fish tacos. As I got older the stories included big cheap 20 oz beers and lots of ocean time. It sounded like heaven. My family would have sooner vacationed, literally, on the moon. So needless to say, I have always wanted to explore the Baja. LI have always dreamed of driving the peninsula from top to bottom and living down here. It's been cool to put a face to all these places I've read and heard about - from Mulege to Loreto to La Paz and all the little hidden spots in between. Two years ago, I took my first trip to Todos Santos with Andrei with the prospect of buying some land. I have been wanting to come back ever since. Then, in late January, Jody and I took a long-planned vacation to the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula....basically everywhere but Cabo. After about 2 days in Todos Santos, I knew I needed to come back and live here.....soon.

El Viejo

YooHoo at La Esquina

Hello Friends & Family

First a big hello to everyone and many thanks for all your thoughts, prayers, text messages and well-wishes. I'll admit the idea of blogging makes me nauseous. I've always seen blah blah blagghing as the self-indulgent rantings of the young and mighty self-entitled GenY'ers. "Oh my God, I've been an assistant for twenty minutes. When am I going to get to be the boss! This is so uncool. It's all good, though." But while me and all my GenX friends fight our way through therapy and the travails of being the generation who raised ourselves poorly, why not join in and jump on the blog train. Besides, I find that I am answering a lot of emails and repeating myself like an old woman....wondering, did I already tell this person about our stop in Mulege or was that my mom I emailed? So I'll warn you: pieces of your emails may find their way on to this blog...but only the impersonal Mexico parts that try to answer a repeated question. More to follow on where and why I'm here. In the meantime and hello and much love.