We played in the Baja desert for two amazing, sun-scorched weeks. Fourteen days total. How often do you get to claim fourteen days as your own? Yes, maybe if you’re 12 and it’s summer vacation, or you’re 65 and retired or, if you’re any age and Australian. Otherwise, there are perilously few chances to take the time to lose yourself.
Our immersion was so complete that three days later, I’m still turning off kitchen lights to conserve energy and swiping my toothbrush though the bathroom sink spicket with lightening speed. How much water do we have left in the pila? Does anyone have their eye on B and is the screen door open? Shall I have chips and salsa for dinner or are we going to wait till the heat dies down and barbeque some fish after the babies go to sleep? Where’s the Pepto Bismol? Where’s B’s purple sunscreen?
These are the questions I keep asking myself and they no longer apply.

Somehow, we persuaded my childhood friend, Rebecca, her husband Pete and their toddler, Henry, to make the giant trek from the northernmost part of Massachusetts to the deep south of Baja. The flights alone merited about 5 days of recuperation time when you factor in a very cute, but very disgruntled child who cried for the better part of the nine hour trip. On our end, we had myself, my husband and B, who also cried during the flight, but you would too if all United had to offer was those stupid $5 snack boxes and that supremely awful movie “Failure to Launch.”

Having all arrived safely, the families settled in nicely and much merriment was had, mostly by way of my father’s pool, which sits atop a high crest and looks out onto the Sea of Cortez. It was by the close of our first full day of 98 degree heat, the mildest one of the week, that we began to understand why my Dad had sent a 9 page “Cabo bible” (basically a list of things to avoid doing) and why it was we needed to take seriously the very obvious: we were living smack dab in the middle of a desert. A true desert. In hindsight, dragging two one-and-a-half year olds to the middle of a desert and assuming this would be your average relaxing, “pass the potato chips please and honey, could you rub a little more lotion on my back?” family-centric, TV sitcom, romp of a vacation seems ludicrous. As my Dad said on his first night with us (we had already survived 5 days without him in his desert palace and he would stay with us for the remainder of our trip) “Most people can’t handle the desert. You have to be vigilant. You have to hope for the best and plan for the worst because something always goes wrong. It’s not the scorpions or the snakes or bad roads that are the problem. It’s the heat. Don’t even think about going anywhere without at least a gallon of water in your car. Worst case scenario is you blowing a flat and having no water. Because without water and with nobody out there to help you, you’ll quickly become dehydrated and that’s when the goofy starts. You’ll make bad decisions and soon you’re thinking you should walk through the arollo to find help and by then, it’s too late. You might not be found for months.” Thanks Dad.

Miraculously, nothing bad happened. B did throw one of his famous head butting tantrums that, through poor planning, resulted in blood and grainy pool tile imbedded in his forehead. But frankly, that’s pretty normal in my world. Oh, and I spent a day thinking I had contracted the flu when really it was just heatstroke and then Pete, perhaps sensing the end of vacation and wanting to maximize his tan, dared to sunbathe in the middle of the day (a huge no, no) thereby contracting the same flu, but in a much more virulent form. Neither of the babies burned, thank god. Neither ran headlong into a cactus. Everyone got along, although I think Henry got a bit tired of B alternating between pinches and hugs.

The highlights:
1. The surreal views—There are places in Baja where taupe desert meets sapphire ocean with no houses, no lights, and no one but the six of us to see it.
2. A daytrip to Cabo San Lucas where we celebrated two for one happy hour at cheesy Billigan’s on the beach because it was literally the closest umbrella and all of us were melting. Imagine four parents and two toddlers surrounded by scantily clad co-eds, a game of “drink this tequila and slam this beer and then run around a post ten times and if you’re the fastest without puking, you win” playing out twenty feet in front of us. Sheer brilliance it was, and a perfect example of when worlds collide.
3. Shrimp, lobster and cabrilla, delivered right to our front door.
4. Tuna sashimi, freshly caught and absolutely delicious (We have pictures of Gramps steadying B on the bloody fish table next to the local fishermen at La Playita).
5. Just me and Rebecca lunching at the Cabo Surf hotel. We left the boys to fend for themselves.
6. Late night cribbage. I won the first night, Dad the second.
7. Henry and B climbing their way up the stairs and the look of mischief on each of their faces.
8. B climbing a utility ladder five feet off the cement floor when his gramps had his back turned, that same look of mischief on B’s face.
9. Our late afternoon ATV ride. We took our walkie-talkie and left B with Gramps. “Big Monkeys to Little Monkey. Come in Little Monkey” Gramps floundered for a bit in his first time as babysitter but soon got the hang of it. When we returned after the thirty minute ride, Gramps fished out the random implements and baby doll that B had chucked into the pool in retaliation for our absence and then he poured himself a well-earned tequila.
10. Fourth of July dolphins. Proving that fireworks are overrated, we lounged by the pool at dusk and watched as two pods of dolphins jumped, shimmied and twisted rivaling any Sea World action I’ve ever seen.


My only regret is that Rebecca, Pete and Henry (who could only stay one week, not two) never got to Todos Santos. They must be sure to do it next time. As for the rest of us, we decided to go to Todos Santos 1) To escape the heat and 2) to find a nice piece of art.

Todos Santos is easily 15 degrees cooler and though only two hours away, it feels like an entirely different planet. Perhaps it’s the ocean—you go from the warm water of the Sea of Cortez to the crisp, cold, crashing waves of the Pacific, where even the sand is different. And the greenery, God, twelve days in the desert and I had forgotten about the greenery. I loved the greenery. I loved the palms and the bougainvillea and the mangos hanging so low I could touch them. I loved the cool breeze and the surprising sensation that, for the first time since the plane touched down in Mexico, my skin wasn’t slick with sweat. I loved the dead end road my Dad drove us to, hoping we’d find a trail through the washed out palms onto the beach. I loved the sand we nearly bottomed out in. I loved the small, hand-painted signs offering room in B and Bs and casitas. I loved the town center, much smaller than I thought (population 6,000), and the Hotel California and the parrot named “Sparkle Bird” who I met on the corner, and his flamingly gay and super sweet best friend. And most especially, I loved my Dad’s favorite restaurant, Santa Fe, where I had an amazing filet mignon and where the owner had no problem when we changed B’s diaper behind a fruit bush. I loved the red wine and the tiny birds and the small courtyard where B and I walked when he fussed. I loved the dune buggy we found next to that courtyard, and how B instinctively climbed the rails and smiling, pulled himself into the front seat.

But let me backtrack. As I said before, we were in Todos Santos for the weather and the art. For the better part of a week we had teased my Dad for his questionable taste in artwork. His living room painting of a sultry island girl drawn in shades of black and blue was christened “the nipple painting” because, though the artist had long labored on the woman’s left breast—it was rendered with great precision and dead center—the amateurish brush strokes of the remainder of the piece—the garish moonlight, her cartoon legs and her freakishly large “man hands” were a complete afterthought. We all agreed she had to go. As to what might take her place, my Dad and my husband debated good-naturedly while my Dad and I just plain argued. Tired of only seeing myself from my chin and above, I felt strongly that my Dad ought to invest in one of those tasteful full length mirrors, Mexican style . . . perhaps one with Oaxacan tiles or maybe one in metal, or even shells if he were so inclined. Think of the women, I said. Women like to be able to see themselves so they can adjust their wardrobe accordingly, I said. Hah, he said and we left it at that. (It only occurs to me now that my father’s preferable state of a woman’s dress is undressed, as exemplified by said nipple girl.) Both Corey and I were concerned that in the end my father would reprise his role in the “nipple” scandal and again find himself completely sauced at a Mexican dive bar at 3 AM with too much money in his pocket and enough room in the car for two tacky Mexican paintings ripped right off the wall.

But hark, wonders never cease. It was actually the first place we looked in earnest. It was that easy. I walked in, liked the topaz jewelry, the chunky bracelet woven with tiny silver wire, and the general metal vibe, and when I headed for the back where the shopkeeper had stowed the larger pieces, it was the first thing my eyes fell upon. A full-length mirror sheathed in a frame of metal, the frame itself composed of Mexican themes—a turtle, a fish, a lizard, a rabbit and at the upper left corner, a large sun. Some of the metal had been painted tastefully, some left to itself. It wasn’t tacky, it was art. “You’re probably not going to like this Dad but I think it’s really amazing” I said. We roped it to the top of our dusty Nissan rental and headed to the beach.

If B could say more than “duck” “kitty” “doggie” “outside” and “all done” he’d tell you that Las Palmas was the highlight of his vacation. He didn’t have to tell us though, his giggles and bubble blowing and random shouts of glee were plenty obvious. Las Palmas is a bit south of Todos Santos, down the obligatory dirt road by car and then through a washed out palm orchard by foot. The beauty of Las Palmas isn’t exactly the beach itself, though it is beautiful. It’s the mini estuary formed by the Pacific as it hits the craggly rocks and well-worn beach and then flows inland that was the hit of the day. For the first and only time during his vacation, B had found shallow water, water tailor-made for a very small human. B could sit in it and run through it and fall in it and no one feared he might get hurt, least of all B. He could roll around in it and dig his toes into the soft, forgiving sand and chase the fishies and watch the waves ripple without getting knocked down or pulled out by the undertow. B was in nirvana. He could climb on the rocks and collect the random bottlecap that had been caught in the crevices and flirt with the sexy teenager that floated by on her pink plastic inner tube. And because the estuary allowed B to try out his water moves, he wasn’t clinging to me in fear as we walked along the beach, heading to the Pacific. He took his daddy’s hand and mine and he tiptoed toward the foamy Pacific water. He kicked and giggled and sprayed. And then when he’d decided he was ready, he let go of our hands. . . And a rogue wave promptly knocked his feet right out from under him and he belly-flopped headfirst into the froth. His Gramps laughed like hell and B valiantly shook it off. If B could talk he’d tell you it was a lovely vacation.