I am in Mexico.
Hubby, Ruby the Wonder Spaniel, and I drove down Saturday to our tiny condo on the beach in Puerto Penasco (or as I like to call it, Heaven). All is the same as when we left it in October. The majestic osprey perch on their post overlooking the ocean, venturing out to fish at sunrise and sunset. Pelicans fly by in (mostly) groups of odd numbers, and the ocean waves roll in and roll out, just like always. Small pods of dolphins play just beyond the reef, and vendors walk slowly by pedaling their silver jewelry with tired smiles. The sun shines brightly over the beach, making diamond patterns on the surface of the sea.
We’ve been doing this trip for many years. I first visited this beach when I was 13 years old, and it was love at first sight. Lucky for me, Hubby feels the same way, and every chance we get, we make the four-hour drive to our favorite place. Each time it goes like this: We unlock the front door, I jump up and down for joy a few times, we unpack the car, take off our shoes, open cold bottles of Mexican beer, and walk out into the warm sand.
One thing I love about visiting this beach in January is how deserted it is. There are a few “regulars” who quietly read on their patios, waving shyly from afar. Look east. Look west. Nobody on the beach. Not one soul! This weekend it seems there are fewer visitors than usual. Ruby and I took a shell walk and to my chagrin, she took a HUGE poop. She looked up at me happily, but I was mad. I hadn’t brought a bag with me because she’d already pooped twice today: once in Gila Bend and once in Ajo! There’s nothing a dog enjoys more than pooping in unfamiliar territory.
Anyway: We were a good five-minute walk from the condo, so lucky me, I see Hubby appear on the patio ready to come down and join us. I wave my hands and get his attention. I yell “BAG!!!” but the wind carries my message away. Hmmm, this was a tough one. I think hard and begin spelling out B-A-G with my hands and body. “Good thing the condos are all empty,” I laugh to myself. Hubby shakes his head, hands in the air. I decide to reverse the letters. Again I spell B-A-G, this time with more emphasis. Still he shakes his head. I point at Ruby, then pretend to scoop something from the sand. THAT DID IT! Thank goodness, because my next move was squatting in the sand and pretending to do the deed myself!
And well, golly, that’s when I noticed several people out on their patios, hands shielding their eyes to get a better view of this chubby blonde woman doing what must have looked like some strange sort of interpretive beach dance. Oh, well. Hubby brought the bag, Ruby felt lighter, and I did not have to walk all the way back up to the condo.
Last night we had a yummy dinner at Flavio’s on the fish wharf. How weird to be some of the only Americans out on the town on a Saturday night! It occurred to me many people might be participating in the Women’s March in Phoenix that day, but also Google weather forecasts told us to expect rain (only sun with weather in the seventies). Today Hubby flew his two-stringed kite, requiring me to wade into the chilly tide pools to help relaunch after many crashes. (If that’s not true love, tell me what is.) Ruby is all smiles, though her bad hips prevent her from chasing the birds as she’d like to. I missed the cats so much in the night that I balled up my sweatshirt and placed it between our feet at the end of the bed and slept soundly pretending they were with us.
If there was a better weekend to escape from the world, I’m not sure when it would be. But after all that’s happened in our country in the past few months, isn’t it nice to visit a place that seemingly remains the same? I’m trying hard to not feel abject terror about recent changes in our great country, and every day it feels like an awkward balance of getting along, being heard, deciphering news, and taking care of business. It’s important to just get up each morning, put your shoes on, and place one foot firmly in front of the other. I’m realizing as I write this that lately at home I’ve been doing a strange sort of interpretive dance, and it’s not a happy one.
With Love and Hope,