On the Road in Mexico

The cathredral in Mazatlan. Not much Baptist influence.

The cities along Baja, all few of them, have a Mediterranean feel, Mexico being a Latin country. Always the malecón, a cement boardwalk along the shore, restaurants where you can eat dead shrimp over a leisurelymichelada, which is an improbable drink made with beer, Clamato, Worcestershire sauce and some other things. In particular I recommend La Paz and Loreto.

The exception to the general pleasantness is Cabo San Lucas, which is the geographic equivalent of prostate cancer, mixing the charms of Atlantic City with Lauderdale during spring break, and a yacht basin full of very pricey boats owned by people who should be made into dog food. It’s the kind of place where you expect to see the Clintons. Go somewhere else. Anywhere else.

See? What I said.

Having reached the US border, we crossed into the continental side and droe murderously long hours home. I guess we were vacationed-out. At one point we encountered one of those bad roads I mentioned, twenty-four miles at fifteen miles on roads where the government had definitely stolen the  the treasury. It goes with the territory.

The dogs were glad to see us and we, them.

(Ok, OK: speed bumps, not  topless beaches)