back in the US of A

Leaving was, indeed, sweet sorrow. A gang of us went to one of the newly remodeled palapa restaurants at the pier and had fish tacos and shrimp cocktails. The two dogs came along. As we walked home, the retired rocket scientist (believe me, you're not aware of how many times people say 'well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist' until you have one in your midst), anyhow (another thing a lot of the male long-winded story-tellers say a lot), anyhow, as we walked home the retired rocket scientist pointed out the space station with the shuttle in its wake. That was awesome.

More people pounded on my trailer door to say goodbye. A nice Italian woman came over to thank me for introducing her to the concept of wearing skirts - can't beat them for warm climates and when you've had too many fish tacos.

In the morning as I was getting ready to pull out (and dreading having the dogs follow me out of the park) my neighbor went for a walk on the beach. I asked her to take the dogs with her and with some coaxing they followed her and I was able to leave guilt-free for leaving Osita.

Highway 15 north is a bitch. All that truck traffic has made the road majorly potholed. They are working on repaving and so there were smooth sections here and there. I dreaded opening my trailer door and seeing what kind of damage was done. At the border I unlocked the door for the customs' inspector and sure enough my trailer was trashed. We could barely get in. Limes rolled across the floor. Soy sauce had tipped over and spilled over the contents of the fridge. A shelf in the pantry came undone and let loose with silverware and canned goods and olive oil. Baskets of jewelery had tumbled open. All my clothes had fallen off the hangers. It was one fucking mess.

Which was probably a good thing when it came to the inspection. With all that mess the inspector ventured in only as far as the kitchen. She opened the fridge and barely glanced through the rest of the trailer. I could've had people or cigarettes or plant and animal life hidden all over the damn place so if you want to smuggle any of the above, I suggest trashing your trailer first. Of course it didn't hurt that her dad had a vintage Airstream and she loved their "retro" look.

At The Home of Dashed Hopes I retrieved my mail. The Jailbird's son reinstalled my shelf and we went out for burgers and his conversation disappointed the hell out of me. This beautiful young man who had been so the opposite of his dad was now spouting hatred against Mexicans and those damn illegals and how he turns them in now whenever he sees one. And how one old lady 'jewed' him out of some money. And how the whores in Mexico rip him off every time he goes there. On and on he went and it made me cry, literally. Needless to say, the meal did not go well as I said "I can't believe you're saying those things. You sound worse than your dad."

Anyhow, I've got laundry to do then I'm hitching up and heading to my new town where I will meet up with friends for a week's vacation before I start the real-life job search. Thanks again for all the bon voyages and safe journeys and junemoon's pink bubble (your record is solid).