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An American in Baja: Getting there

[A new monthly column on the characters that weave the tapestry of life in Baja California]

The words that follow are not “The Great American Novel.” I am no Hemingway, folks. These are observations, vignettes, and moments from a brain slightly addled by today’s spectacular sunrise. Included here are far more questions than answers and far more silliness than brilliant truisms.

It was that damn bus trip. It was the promise of two days in San Felipe, Mexico, free burritos and margaritas and an overnight away from removing the ticky-tacky wallpaper put up at home by the former owner.

Excuse me, but when did Home Depot start selling “super-glue” as a wall adhesive? But I digress. Ah, yes, the bus trip. It was a sunny, windy morning at the San Diego Airport when a nice looking fellow, clipboard in hand (which always says to me that this guy must know something I don’t), asked if we were going to El Dorado Ranch. Where? I told him our name and asked if we were on his list. Affirmative. With no back-up plans, we got on and got comfortably settled in our seats.

I reminded Dan, my husband, that as a former Realtor, I knew something about the set-up. Some Realtors would schmooze us, soften us up with food and drink, then try to sell us acres and acres of worthless land where we would get bitten by snakes, die and be eaten by coyotes. “WE’LL NEVER SEE OUR CHILDREN AGAIN!” So, here’s my plan. First thing we tell these guys is we’re not buying anything. We’ll offer up some scintillating conversation in exchange for their hospitality, but WE’RE NOT BUYING ANYTHING.

It’s a beautiful half-acre.

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