Back to Cabo
November 12, 2005

Steve is asleep, Matt is on the radio, and I am trying to polish off a few details before we head for beautiful Cabo San Lucas. I am always planted wherever I am, so leaving town entails a frenzy of diversionary activities. I pay bills, buy stuff I don’t really need, anticipate every possible malady and pack to best conceal the ravages that time and food have inflicted upon me. It is a lost cause.

I am taking along a few books to immerse myself in- as an alternative to the working out that Steve will grind through, and that I know I should do, too. But there are only 2 treadmills, and gym shoes take up so much space…I will just double up when I return. Maybe I will hit the beach. Maybe I will swim. Maybe I will tango until I collapse. But probably I will plop on a chair and accept the tropical drinks and shrimp cocktails that glide by. I will try to limit myself to one helping of guacamole and chips per afternoon. I will eat fresh fruit, even when it is not hanging on the side of a glass. I expect to return home with tons of self-hatred and pounds to add to my “to lose” list. I know it will be worth it, though.

The Baja peninsula is really different from the other side of Mexico, because it has less Mayan influence. The peninsula is isolated from the mainland by a long and arduous drive. It is 1000 miles to Tijuana and then a few thousand more, including two mountain ranges, to get to the Cancun area. The topography discouraged much foot traffic in the bad old days, but the Californians know a good thing when they see it, and they have infiltrated the culture in countless ways. Cabo seems like an artist’s paradise, kind of like Maui. The restaurants, especially, are reflections of extreme creativity. The hotels are beautiful, the people are warm and helpful, and the climate is consistently beautiful.

I had only ventured as far as Rosarita Beach on the Baja coast before our trip last year.

Some 24 years ago, a wild and crazy drinking and DRIVING IN MEXICO (a very bad choice) took a five and a half month pregnant Janet over the border. Tijuana was determined not to let tourists pass by their charms, and so they had deposited mountains of dirt on every highway. Mish-mosh dogs roamed in packs. Undaunted, Steve toddled on, recounting childhood haunts. In the evening, we stopped at a lovely roadhouse where a full mariachi band serenaded the 10 patrons. Some danced. We ate. I had lobster, freshly caught. It tasted fine, but it was too much, so Steve finished it. Off we went, back to San Diego, where Garry Meier awaited us.

When we arrived at the hotel, I noticed that I was shocking pink. Then my face blew up like a jellyfish, and I started having a hard time breathing. At that point in my pregnancy, I was a bit concerned, and so I called the OB first thing. He ordered me home. Steve, of course, had business, (I cannot remember what it was, but I saw pictures, and there was a lot of confetti, liquor, and someone in a cat costume- not your usual business meeting) and so he just stayed on. He put my Big Janet body on a plane where my deformity caused people to look down. In pity, the airline upgraded me to first class, where my appearance offended a richer class of cabin inmates. As it turns out, I was just having an allergic reaction to kelp, which fresh lobster apparently feeds on, and to which I had become sensitive in pregnancy. All was well with little Pat- this was not the biggest hurdle in utero. 6 weeks later, WLUP fired Steve’s ass, (maybe they saw the pictures) and little Pat had to endure the occasional plum wine sipper to get Mommy’s blood pressure down. I have no aversion to lobster OR plum wine, and that is a mercy!