we interrupt this resounding silence
Thursday 20 December 2007 | 3 cookies in the jar
…to let you know that the Brujo and I have just up and decided to up and go to Baja again this winter; for about twelve days; leaving tomorrow morning.
I had naively imagined that I’d spend the next couple of weeks puttering domestically around in sweatpants, blogging and sewing; but instead, we won’t be back in Arizona until January 3, goddess willing and the hurricanoes don’t rise. His Xmas present to me last night (which had me scampering around our house’s foundation in the dark, turning over damp boards, crestfallen to find…exactly nothing, so far): a hot-pink mini blacklight so I can hunt Centruroides exilicauda energetically around the campsite in Cataviña. Fluorescing brilliant green! Possibly due to a mucosaccharide and protein complex in the exoskeleton! I honestly can’t wait to spot one.
Of course Baja has many other (less articulated) attractions, including the infamous melt-on-your-tongue sea bass tacos (with their mysterious green sauce—aguacate?) from the $1 stand in Báhia de los Angeles; brown pelicans cresting translucent green waves; giant agaves which look exactly like two-foot-wide artichokes; waking up at sunrise, finally warm, and peeping out of the tent flap to see the Brujo, peaceable in gray hooded sweatshirt, sitting down by the shore drinking coffee out of his Nalgene bottle; and getting to speak my own made-up romance language, some ineffable horrible combination of Italian, French and butchered Tex-Mex (”Spanch,” the Brujo calls it fondly). And eating Morsas for breakfast—kind of an evilly delicious Mexican substitute for Twinkies. And doing Nothing.
Pyewacket and Fiona don’t know what’s going on yet, though they both sniff suspiciously at the enormous heap of camping gear which dominates the living room (temporarily converted into the staging area). We provision ourselves with an inflatable air mattress and a new tarpulin, with canisters of butane and rolls of duct tape, with almond butter and vitamin C; I even braved the State School’s health center to obtain precious anti-nausea patches, which will, we hope, mean I can actually eat on this trip (besides the Morsa breakfasts, and bites of the Brujo’s corn tortillas, and sips of Sprite). The PA who prescribed for me was predictably boneheaded and horrid.
“Have you tried riding in the front seat?”
“Yes, I even drive the car—it still doesn’t really help.”
“Well, but have you tried riding in the front seat?”
“Um…well, I usually drive from the front seat, don’t you?”
I emerged fuming but clutching my script doggedly. Cost of 12 motion-sickness patches: $100. Amount paid by my touted teaching-associate insurance: $5. Not having to gnaw on roots of ginger for hundreds of miles, smiling wanly at my traveling companion as I keep a sharp eye out for conveniently gravelled pull-over places: Priceless. Or so I hope. I’ve never actually tried these things but feel hopeful they’ll be better than nothing.
What I’ve learned, though, after years of traveling through different stages of nausea, from crippling to just severely distracting, is that it’s always, always worth it. I’ve been sick in Paris and Italy, sick in England and Scotland, pale and clammy in Nevada and Colorado, prostrate and ghastly in Maine and South Carolina. I’m always happy I went and I always want to go again. If I can travel and not be squiffy? Shoot, I may never stay in one place again.
And then there’s Vaejovis littoralis, a tiny guy who allegedly lives in intertidal areas, making his seasick home among the algae of the “littoral wrack zone” of Baja Norte. Supposedly at a density of 8-12 every square mile (according to their faithful documenter, who perished tragically in the line of duty). Will I get to see one? If Ms. Hot Pink has anything to say about it, I will.
Photos and stories to come; I look forward to a nice long spring semester of procrastination by blogging (with probably some quilting and sewing and craftiness thrown in). Anyone reading, please have a blissful solstice and new year. And don’t behave yourself.
there is a crack in everything
that’s how the light gets in
(leonard cohen)
3 cookies in the jar
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I am afraid to use my blacklight—I find enough scorpions in my bathtub.
Enjoy your trip, and I hope you find your elusive scorpion.
And from the stories, I am very happy I have my own doctor and don’t have to rely on the campus health center.
Hope the patches are little miracles and that doing nothing is perfect, that the arachnids are mellow (did I ever tell you about the scorpions in our house in Austin? one day frustrated I had been stung, our son had been stung twice, Raven threw one he caught into a garden spider’s web just outside the window of the living room and the whole family sat and watched them battle it out and cheered when the spider won. We had a notch system for tallying scorpions killed that summer, but were nervous of using chemical means of fighting them off). Anyway, will carry images of unnarrators peering out from tent flaps and coffee in nalgene bottles and morsas and waves until January, and you will be missed, which is a nice thing about going away, isn’t it?
Have todos los funs!