Catavina
We pull in to La Pinta Hotel just after sunset and get two double rooms. The night air is very chilly, even more so than the Higuera family is accustomed to in San Gregorio. Delia pulls up the collar of the fuzzy gray extra-large jacket we gave her last Christmas. She tries to makes sure Marisol's baseball-style jacket from Tía Annie is zipped, but Marisol resists her and twists away. She has to go to the bathroom and proceeds to step into the hotel's landscaped courtyard and pull down her pants. Delia stops her and explains there will be bathrooms inside. Hand-in-hand, I take Marisol through the hotel lobby to a beautifully tiled bathroom. After, she washes her hands and begins to leave, thinking nothing of her wet dripping hands. There is a hot-air hand-dryer on the wall, so I show her how to push the large flat chrome knob to make it work. Delighted, she later shows her mother how to use it.

She and I have a secret we planned in pantomime, and she is excited. We will sneak the two dogs into our room through the back of the hotel along the open-desert side where no one can see us. Back outside in the chill, Kirk and Nabor unpack the roof of the car, stash the ice-chest and milk-crate inside, and sort the luggage. The Higueras and Kirk carry the bags to our rooms on the far end of the hotel, while Marisol and I carry out our canine caper with success. Our rooms are adjacent. Marisol checks them both and declares whose is which. She is delighted each has a television, and seeing that our room has two double beds, she announces to her parents she is staying with us and not sleeping with her brother. So it is. Dinner at the restaurant is only one experience more familiar to Luis, and the family orders simple foods. While Kirk and I enjoy our well-deserved double Margaritas, the family has orange juices. Back in the room, I close the overly-heavy wood shutters and we all climb into our beds with the television on, but silent. I laugh with Kirk over this unexpected advantage of having a deaf roommate. Some hours later, Kirk gets up and turns off the television, leaving a wide-eyed Marisol to try to go to sleep.

Wednesday, January 3, 2002 In the early dawn, the room is completely dark. Marisol climbs out of bed and opens the shutters looking for the light of day. Lying in bed awake and motionless, I realize she cannot hear the birds which signal dawn. She politely waits until the first redened-rays of daybreak hit the horizon before she turns on the room light and smiles at us. She lets the dogs out and they return within a few minutes.

Another restaurant breakfast at La Pinta, and the family has a hard time ordering. They don't know what an omelette is, or huevos rancheros, or French toast. They order eggs bien cocido, well-fried, which are familiar to them. Luis has three glasses of orange juice, hoping it will help his cold, and I order French toast for Marisol. Knowing of her penchant for both carbohydrates and sugar, I correctly assume she will like it. She devours six half-pieces, slathered with powdered sugar, swimming in maple syrup, and iced with dyed-yellow margarine. She eats a spoon of margarine, and then another, and smiles contentedly. Two-half pieces of toast are left, and I ask the mesero to pack them to go as a snack for Marisol later. When he returns with the now cold leftovers in a see-through snap-tight box, Marisol guards her box as though a treasure.

Kirk checks us out of our two rooms, paying with plastic. Marisol wants to know what this card is, and Nabor, not entirely understanding the concept himself, struggles to explain, signing to her a word for money by snapping his thumb against his index finger.

Driving north in the bright light of day, the Higueras marvel at the spectacular boulder fields surrounding Cataviña. Luis notices the boojum trees and I explain endemism to him. There are few cars on the highway, and it is a beautiful morning to be driving. It occurs to me Marisol must innately feel a need for change. Since Loreto she hasn't slept near her parents.

Highway 1 switch-backs down off the high desert and crosses a long bridge over a sandy arroyo before entering El Rosario, our next stop for gas. Red chiles are spread on the slopes of the hillsides drying, and houses are built up to the edge of the pavement. A few have small plots of nopales surrounding them. Beyond the Pemex station we ascend steeply out of town to rejoin the Pacific farther up the road.

This is my least favorite part of the drive, and I always prefer not to look at anything too closely. Dead dogs hit by cars, without thought, line the pavement edges. Marisol is quick to realize this and becomes agitated and begins to cry. I can't blame her. We pass fields of workers bent deep in tomatoes, and speeding cars pass us on curves and hills. The closer we get to Ensenada, the dirtier the landscape becomes, the poorer the houses. I explain to the Higueras that many people who have dreams of crossing the frontera are thwarted in their efforts. The closer to the border we get, the more over populated it becomes. The road curves inland at San Quintín for our final stretch into Ensenada. There is a brief respite from the poverty as we wind down to cross the Santo Tomás Valley. Marisol notices how we slow for the topes in the road and Luis asks what the trees are - oaks and Peruvian peppers and toyon. As we near Maneadero and Ensenada, Luis comments that the road has more than one lane in each direction. Traffic increases and we can smell diesel exhaust in the air.
Next Chapter: Ensenada