New Map thingy

Cabo Wabo San Lucas

Spring Break 2007!!!

We essentially did the loop of La Paz, Todos Santos, Cabo San Lucas and back to La Paz.

The next day we decided to go for a day drive down to the tip of Baja to Los Cabos but since Josh wasn’t currently enjoying the deafening noise of his broken muffler we stripped mine of panniers and doubled up for the ride. After long and involved deliberations and planning meetings with Humberto and Betty and any other friend/family member that happened along we were told to head down to Todos Santos for breakfast/lunch depending upon departure time, then down to a surf town by the name of Pescadero, then go through Cabo San Lucas for dinner before booking it back to La Paz. What ended up happening is an altogether different story: we left late which is always my fault, we cruised through Todos Santos without even stopping (but we did appreciate its palms and oasis-like character and artsy shops before accelerating out of town), we totally missed the turnoff for the surf town which we could see would have been delightful, we pulled over at some point for a solitary beach walk which ended up trying to be very careful to avoid the multiple RVs parked on the beach, then down and into Cabo San Lucas for lunch and trouble.

A Fancy photo of Josh and I (solely in reflection but at least I’m in color…)

My turn to do a reflection photo but this time we’re all in color.

Josh being pummeled by the waves he once mocked.

Approaching Cabo San Lucas through industrial wastelands.

The Fishing Fleet coming back into port after a terrible day not catching any fish.

We pulled into town in the early afternoon and went directly to the marina and the breakwater entrance for some quick reminiscing before heading to a restaurant. It was twenty years ago that we’d pulled into this harbor and dropped anchor. Our parents went ashore first in order to check in with the customs authorities before coming back to get us to go exploring. But when they came back they didn’t look very happy; they climbed on deck and addressed us all at once. “It seems that we’re not allowed to bring in five people because Mexico is limiting how many people they want in the country. They’ve only given us permission for four so we’re going to have to leave one of you behind. We’ve decided to let you three determine amongst yourselves which one stays here.” At that point Joshua and I, the youngest, were pretty much scared shitless about being left behind. Noah ran off for some thinking time while Josh and I started trying to decide the criteria that would determine which one of us would be voted on by the other two, ‘well Noah and Ian still wet their beds, Josh is a terror most of the time, Ian’s still a baby so who needs him, Noah’s the only one who’s old enough to make it on his own… etc.’ Then Noah ran back into the room and started laughing at us. It seems that it happened to be April 1^st and we’d just been fooled. To this day I think that’s quite an extreme prank to play on your kids: “We don’t want one of you anymore. Decide amongst yourselves which one it is. Then we leave you.” But I suppose it’s really just close to the truth since at one point Josh was put up for adoption when he was younger but it never went all the way through. Obviously.

Showing our dislike of Cabo San Lucas Spring Break 2000-fucking 7!!!

We had some lunch and then walked down the beach towards loud music. As it happened we were there during the height of Spring Break 2007!!!! Woooo Hooooo! Yeah! Tequila shots! All around, all night, alright! We tried to take it but could only handle an hour- impressive, I know – before running away. But the sunset was gorgeous as we ran down the beach and it reflected off of the calm sea and the mountains running into the sea and the famous natural arch cut out of the cliffs at water level.

You have got to be kidding me.

The man in the mariachi hat has two gun straps slung around him full of shot glasses, in his dual holsters bottles of tequila.

My friend Lauren is working on one of these yachts in the bay.

The two of us got separated for a while before we ran into each other again and decided to go to the major club called Squid Row and try to join the Spring Breakers instead of beating them. We ended up having a great time as crazy as this sounds with a young Canadian girl’s* mother who was visiting her daughter for a week. She was so lovingly disapproving of all the kids gyrating close together that she built a giant stick out of four oversized straws and began hitting a young couple to separate them. This went on for an hour as we took turns hitting people that were ‘too close’ together to be civilized; then we found out what the oversized straws were used for and ended up getting quite drunk. Josh and I were merely on a day trip so we had no plans on staying in Cabo for the night but then it was four in the morning and the club was closing and we had to find a place. We jumped in a taxi with a bunch of other kids and went on the rounds dropping girls and boys off at different hotels until it came our turn and we asked the driver, “What is the best place to sleep on the beach?” He told us to get out.

*This girl had an interesting job as a problem solver/cleaner not unlike The Wolf for a large resort; she takes care of all the issues that come up when one of the guests somehow dies on vacation, i.e. drowning, cliff diving, or alcohol poisoning. Luckily we weren’t staying at her hotel or drinking there…

I’m sorry but it’s true; we went to Squid Row.

I believe this is the equivalent of going to Sloppy Joe’s in Key West.

Our Canadian mother chaperone for the evening and her castigating straw below.

That’s the couple that is dancing too close together and this|| is the straw that pried them apart.

As we were making our way down to the beach we noticed a hotel construction site that looked like it was easy enough to climb the fence and just sleep on the floor of one of the incomplete rooms; Josh hopped over first and I stumbled over second. He had turned on his flashlight and was climbing the first story when I heard a blood-curdling scream and Josh came running back out. It turned out that he had woken the night watchmen/construction worker who was living there who thought we were robbers or trespassers (we were the latter not the former) and had come at Josh with a club. We told him that we were just looking for a place to sleep and hadn’t meant to startle him and of course now we’d leave. He followed us back to where we had climbed the fence and we said goodnight. We laughed a bit as we walked down to the beach and looked for some comfortable spot to curl up on. We didn’t find one but we did pass out until dawn.

This was a very painful way to wake up; still chilled from the night before, sand mixed with alcohol in the mouth, clothes caked with I don’t want to know what, and a nice hangover headache to top it off. Let’s go ride a motorcycle everyone! Josh drove in the morning as I was tending to nod off on the back of the bike before we made it to Todos Santos again and had to stop for some breakfast to soak up the booze and coffee to caffeinate the sleeper on the back of a motorcycle (this is a really dangerous form of somnambulism). After three cups of coffee I was still really tired but decided it would be best if I drove since I wouldn’t be able to nod off that way. Turns out I was dangerously right but right nonetheless.

El Diablo and the Pelicans

La Paz Continued

Late February - Early March?

We’d settled into the apartment next door to the house that we used to live in (and by house I mean garage next to the house) for a few days when El Diablo decided to take us out in his lanchita for a view of the harbor. He wanted to see if we’d remember where the boat had been anchored as well as show us around the giant harbor and get a different perspective on La Paz (which translates to The Peaceful Place). So we went over to Casa Quiroz for an early lunch that consisted of simmered chicken breast marinated with Coca-Cola, fresh tortillas, rice, and jalapenos before we loaded the little tin dinghy into the back of his truck and drove the two blocks to the boat ramp.

Pollo’s Fiery Red Truck that is driven by El Diablo which hauled the lanchita to the harbor.

We launched her after purchasing a couple of Caguama’s (literal translation is sea turtle but it actually refers to the big beers, you know, the big one’s?)* to keep us cool in the midday sun. We loaded the gasoline and mounted the 7.6 horsepower engine on the transom and puttered out into the harbor; we’d made it maybe three hundred yards before El Diablo noticed that the engine wasn’t pissing out water which meant that it wasn’t being cooled which also meant that it was about to overheat and conk out on us. So we turned off the engine and Josh and I grabbed the two tiny oars and began to row back to shore to see if we could fix the problem.

Once she touched the beach we hauled her up a bit and set about searching for some wire to clear the blocked water intake; a local fisherman helped us out and we spent a hot ten minutes trying to jam wire up the engine before putting her back to sea. She cranked up on the first try but still wasn’t pissing. So Josh suggests that he and I just row us around the bay for a while. I suggest that he row us around for a bit. But somehow I have to put my caguama down and start rowing into the wind for the next half hour. Great idea. El Diablo sat in back yelling at his while lauding his new two horsepower engines rowing in the front (dos caballos de caballeros). We’d almost made it to the other side of the harbor when we happened upon one of the anchored sailboats with a lone person onboard who saw our predicament and offered help. “Oh no, we’re just out for a leisurely row. Don’t worry about us,” Josh flippantly replied as behind him I motioned the international call of distress.

El Diablo and his pinché fucking motor.

But we did notice that the boat was registered in Molalla, Oregon. Now this is quite a coincidence since our boat was built in Mollala and since it’s a tiny, tiny town in the MOUNTAINS of Oregon that doesn’t see much of the build-a-sailboat-in-the-mountains-and-sail-around-the-world-on-it zeitgeist. Our father spent twelve years building our sailboat in a shed near the log cabin we lived in miles and miles from the nearest neighbor (technically our boat is registered as Trout Creek, Oregon because that is the name of the creek that ran by the shed and the cabin and emptied into the Molalla River twenty feet away but that’s neither here nor there) so if someone else had been building a sailboat or even planning a similar voyage then they probably would have known about each other. So we quickly asked him if he was the owner and what the story was but it turned out that he was just watching the boat for the captain and that he wouldn’t be back until later. We vowed to come back at the appointed time. And then we didn’t so we’ll never know. Kinda disappointing, huh?

You can watch El Diablo trying to commune/catch with his bare hands these pelicans.
We loaded up the lanchita and headed back to Casa Quiroz but not before picking up some Tecate. Once we’d put the dinghy back in the backyard and walked into the house Marisol and Betty couldn’t help but laugh and say, “Manos Frias.” “Cold hands,” which refers to one whom is often seen partaking of the pleasures of a cold beverage of the alcoholic variety thus permanently having frigid hands, or an alcoholic. Not the first time nor the last time we’d hear this refrain. El Diablo then invited us to a men’s gathering that evening at a club for Baja 1000 racers. The girls all laughed and warned us not to go but we couldn’t refuse so we headed back to the apartment for siesta and agreed to meet back at the house around seven.

The night turned cold after sunset and we arrived bundled up for the drive to this ‘club.’ First we stopped off for some beer as is customary. Then we pulled up to what looked like a mechanics garage and walked into the back yard where a bunch of chairs and coolers had been set up across from a tent and tables with a smoldering grill being readied for carne asada (roasted meat). Everyone was slowly trickling in and we were introduced around to the fifteen or so gentlemen that were at hand. Some were government officials including the head of Baja California tourism and others were more directly involved in the races either sponsoring or racing. One guy that we met races against his wife who has her own dune buggy while others raced solo or by motorcycle (probably the most taxing way to go) and everyone was quite excited to hear about our trip by motorcycle down to Tierra del Fuego so we got talked up a bit by the government officials who then introduced us to the editor of the monthly Baja Races newspaper. He was so excited about the trip that he called up his lead reporter and had him come over right away to do an interview with us. We waited until he arrived by partaking in some more beers and then the carne asada was ready so every dug in as the saboya, grilled onions, were passed out and the salsa’s were readied for consumption. Everyone fought over the meat like cavemen until there was none left – some scraps were left for the kids that had attended for some sort of mandatory induction into the world of machismo racing.

Finally the star reporter arrived and we were ready for the interview which was mostly Spanish sprinkled with Spanglish as Joshua and I took turns explaining the impetus, planning, and adventures so far. They took some photos and I told him to feel free to use any of the ones on the website and we wrapped it up. We had a few drinks with the author and he offered to translate NTMD into Spanish for free, we said sure. So the next day I bought the domain noeslosdiarosmotocicleta.com just so that we could be an equal opportunity vicarious traveler site. Of course translating how much I’ve been writing for the blog would be an arduous undertaking especially gratis so nothing has come of it. Yet.

Everyone at the ‘meeting’ proceeded to get ever more drunk until the guitars were broken out and a great big banda singing circle was started. One of the gentlemen was the class clown of sorts, a bit of a loco who had been chatting with Josh for quite a while and things had gotten out of hand. He had a slight dislike of Americans as well as the normal Mexican antipathy to homosexuality which Josh had riled up with constant calling of him as a joto or fag which Josh thought funny. It then became some sort of joke in which Josh sold him my ass for 300 pesos which apparently was a bargain. He then came over to me (having no knowledge of the joke) and started pulling out his wallet and trying to grab me. Obviously I was nonplussed. I started protesting and pushing him away slightly violently which only made him more aggressive. I looked over to Humberto, El Diablo, for help and an explanation which he gave by coming over and protecting me from this crazy man and explaining that he’s a crazy man and to take no notice.

The Mexican Gentlemen’s Baja 1000 Club Meeting(with gringo guests).

The crazy man that was trying to buy me for 300 pesos. 300 pesos!

*Reference to Noah Baumbach’s Kicking and Screaming.

Dulce Doctorcita Daniela Sing-Along

Querétaro Continued

We spent the next few days being chauffeured around by Doctorcita Daniela to various municipal offices taking care of official business. What would normally take an hour usually ended up taking six which is par for the course down here. At one point the power was being turned off every ten minutes because some electricians were fixing the lines for the office; this meant that we had to wait three hours for one document to be printed and signed. Luckily our insurance covers third party liability so the car that I hit was paid for but unluckily enough I have no insurance for myself nor the motorcycle and needless to say the other car had no insurance so I’ll be paying out of pocket. On the day of determining culpability we were supposed to meet with our appointed lawyer at eleven on a Monday but after we arrived on time (big mistake) the woman in charge of the proceedings asked if we wouldn’t mind waiting three or four hours since they were kinda busy at the moment. This turned out to be alright since our lawyer didn’t show up until four hours later.

What’s left after the fire in broad daylight.

My knee did that!

El Changa’s car in the huesero.

We hung out with the three guys that were in the car as they had been waiting even longer than us for some sort of closure and an estimate on the damages that the insurance was going to pay for. One of the guys was nicknamed La Chango which brought up a few jokes about him being a transvestite since for some reason he took the feminine form for the word monkey. He even had a belt buckle especially made for his hermaphroditic nature. We finally finished all the paperwork and were ready to head to the coche huesero, or car graveyard, to pick up the remnants of the motorcycle. But it turned out to be an hour drive away so not today.

El Changa is Angry! He’s about to smash my foot.

Instead it was the weekend of Semana Santa, Easter to the non-Mexican, and so Daniela and Tania invited us to their parents place in Texco which was about an hour and a half drive out of town. We loaded up the car Saturday morning and made the drive on the same dangerous libre roads that the accident happened on but other than a few crazy close calls (for some reason Mexicans prefer passing on blind corners) we made it to their hometown in the early afternoon. Their father and mother, Benito and Olivia, were waiting at the house to greet the two anachronistic gringos who had shown up somewhat randomly into the lives of their family. They immediately welcome us into the family just as their daughters had and we settled in quite quickly.

Each weekend the family of twenty one cousins and their parents get together for a giant lunch at grandma’s house and games of football, poker, dominos et. al. So after sunning for a while with the girls as they did their nails next to the indoor swimming pool that the mother had decided needed to be drained years ago and the father had decided that it might be a good place to install a well-stocked bar in the deep end we all headed over to grandma’s for the feast.

The Entrance to Grandma’s House.

The Bar at the deep end of the drained pool.

The Table is ready to go (notice the bottle of Coca-Cola as centerpiece… it’s a new marketing ploy that pushes for Coca-Cola to be a part of dinner that’s been pushed pretty hard)

The Sangria being made by Daniela’s Aunt and Uncle.

The Paella that our household brought over; we ate leftovers for the next week.

After three courses of different types of ceviché, (shrimp, octopus, and fish) the main course of Paella came out in deep, deep dishes. We sat at the overflow table, aka kids. After dessert and coffee a very competitive game of soccer began that devolved or evolved into daughters versus mothers. Surprisingly the mothers kicked ass after being quite hesitant about playing. The daughters came off of the field with bruised egos and bruises.

Mothers versus Daughters in the Thunderdome!

For a six-year-old he was awesome and actually one of the leading goal-scorers.

A big game of Texas Hold’em was started while the parents played dominos and the girls discussed plans for the night (after playing tug-of-war with the garden hose). [For some reason I was the first one out of the Hold’em game seems I’m a bit rusty or it’s hard to bluff beginners, either way it was slightly embarrassing.]

Me losing at Texas Hold’em.

Impressions by La Guera.

After some more drinks everyone decided upon a late afternoon siesta so we headed home to get ready for the evening in the plaza.

Once the girls were showered and dressed we walked to the plaza and hung out at grandma’s pharmacy on the corner as the family gathered slowly. We went over to the church and listened to mass in the overflow tent that was set up at the entrance before looking for some street fare (gorditas, vampiros, quesadillas, and tortas) was partaken. Then it was decided that we should go to the only bar in town which wasn’t in town but ten minutes outside so we all piled into a giant SUV and scarily began to drive at night in Mexico on a holiday; you are pretty much guaranteed that every driver is speeding, angry, and drunk. We get to the ‘bar’ which is really a converted mechanics garage with some speakers and lights set up around some tin fold out tables and chairs. You can either buy a box of beer or a bottle of rum and the girls always chose the latter. By the time all the cousins trickled in we had become quite a large and boisterous group of about twenty.

The cousins gather for some underage drinking if there is such a thing in Mexico.

One of the cousins by the name of Aldo is prone to fights (probably protective of his hot girlfriend) so he went over to another table and started punching a guy repeatedly into a wall. The guy didn’t like this. After a rush to separate them the other guy was taken outside and word got back to our table via his friends that he’d gone to get his gun from his car. Since we are with the family of Aldo, aka the target, it was unanimously decided that it wouldn’t be good to hang around behind him nor would it be a good idea to stay at the bar so everyone was rounded up and escorted out to the cars. Luckily the other guy was nowhere to be seen and so it was decided we’d had enough ‘excitement’ for the night and headed home.

The next day we awoke for a day excursion by panga through the local reservoir. We trespassed on an exclusive bungalow hotel island for a little while and then got the boot after the manager let us know that it costs 75 dollars per person per night. Then we made our way back to the boat launch where we ran into the friends of the guy that Aldo beat up who were idling around the tienda drinking beers twelve hours later. They bought a couple of six-packs and we all chilled in the shade and shot the shit about the night before. Turns out that Aldo and the other guy regularly get into fights but it’s quite irregular that the other one goes for his gun. I guess we just bring the good luck with us.

Being kicked off the private bungalow island hotel-thingy.

Josh is funny.

NTMD really becomes NOT The Motorcycle Diaries

Well, Not The Motorcycle Diaries has had a bit of a hiccup en route from Guadalajara to Puebla (I’m a bit behind on keeping the blog up to date in real time). We’ve been trying to cut down on costs so we’ve avoided the autopiste and stuck to the libré roads which are notoriously more clogged and dangerous… dun dun dun.

Leaving Enlaces Mexico (aka our friend Jody’s business) in Guadalajara.

En route to Puebla after the second time in two hours Josh’s bike broke down.

The hailstorm was so intensely loud on the tin roof we could shout and still not hear eachother.

We’d just experienced an intense hailstorm which we had to get off of the road in order to shelter from. It went on for about half an hour as we waited it out in a mechanics shop and then we got back on the road for a while and hit some traffic. We were thinking about turning back for the autopiste but instead we rode the shoulder for quite some time. Josh was riding ahead of me about a mile. The traffic was jammed as far as the horizon with tractor-trailers turning off their engines to wait out what we later came to know was actually quite usual. I was going about 25mph when a red 1990 Jetta pulled out of nowhere perpendicularly in front of me. Apparently a truck had made room for this car to get through and make a turn after having been traveling in the opposite direction of me. I applied the brakes and tried to swerve right in order to avoid him but he was traveling at too fast of a rate and I was hit by the front drivers side of the car. This sent first me through my windshield and then the bike airborne for about 25 feet. The bike and I separated from eachother and all I could think was, “This isn’t normal” as I flew through the air looking down at the ground as things I recognized spiraled away from me and then landed five feet from the motorcycle.

What’s left of the motorcycle after the crash.

What’s left of the 1990 Jetta that hit me. The black streak is from my left handlebar.

Probably my favorite photo from the trip so far…

Where I went through the windshield. Notice the dent in the gas tank.

That’s where my knee went into the tank before I took flight.

The realization and the pain start to set in.

The damage to the left cylinder and carb/fuel injection from the fire.

I instantly got up and looked around at all my things and pieces of the bike strewn across the little ravine we had landed in. Then I noticed that the motorcycle was on fire after the dizzy lights in my vision dissipated and started yelling to the people whom had already gathered around for water. “Agua, agua!” everyone began to yell as the flames got bigger and bigger. One of the guys that was in the red car started walking towards the bike with a liter of water and I stopped him long enough to warn him about the dangers of an explosion. A woman then came up and told me to lie down and relax and that she was a nurse. Joshua was still a mile away and I could see that he had stopped and was waiting for me so I began to yell his name somewhat frantically since I knew at some point he’d probably end up being my EMT. I was lying down by the time he finally skidded to a stop five feet from me. I had just noticed that blood was seeping through my left sock and so I tried to reach down and take my shoe off when I noticed a pretty sharp pain up near my right shoulder. I still managed to get my shoe off and then the nurse that happened on the scene took off the sock for me. The top of my foot was pretty much split open. I sat still as Josh checked me for a concussion and vital signs as well as any other damage (a pretty deep bruise on my right thigh where my pen had skid along with me until it exploded) before checking on the motorcycle which had luckily been put out.

The sweet nurse called an ambulance and the police had recently arrived. They asked some questions as I lay immobile and the three guys from the car tried to help as well. “Lo siento, lo siento,” I told them and one of them replied, “Le Valle Madre, lo que es importa es que tu eres bueno.” –It doesn’t matter, what’s important is that you’re alright.

The ambulance finally arrived thirty minutes later. They cut me out of my clothes as they bandaged my foot wound and put me in a neck brace and restraints in order to transport me to the hospital.

The paramedics said it would take another twenty minutes before we made it to the hospital and offered me a drip for the pain which I declined (don’t really want a needle stuck in my arm in a moving vehicle on Mexican roads). But now my foot is really starting to hurt and the ambulance is going at a very slow rate due to the fact that my situation isn’t ‘grave.’ As I stared at the lights on the ceiling of the ambulance it reminded me of the only other time I’ve been in an accident and funnily enough it pretty much happened the same way: I was fifteen and riding my friend David Smith on the handlebars of my BMX on the way to soccer practice when we were waved across a four lane highway by a motorist. But it happens that I can’t see beyond the car that has stopped and I start to cross the road and lo and behold we get hit by a car. I went flying for about thirty feet doing a couple of flips and land on my head while my friend David scratches a little bit of his elbow. I refused to allow the doctor to give me stitches since I’d never had any and wanted to keep it that way. This time I was the one asking for stitches to be done sooner rather than later.

We arrived at Los Angeles Hospital and I was wheeled out and introduced to the doctors and given an assessment by the paramedics. They cut off the rest of my clothes (except the red star Che shirt which I respectively and painfully asked them to take off of me without cutting me) and decided that some x-rays needed to be taken. As the young attractive Doctora was taking down my information it came to whether I was married or single and I answered, “Why?” with raised eyebrow. Always a good line. She somewhat gruffly answered, “Because we need your information.” Then I explained that it was a broma or joke and she thought that was pretty funny from a guy with a broken clavicle and wide open foot. She and another doctor wheeled me through some gently slopping corridors which brought me back to another dream I’d had before embarking on this trip which was strikingly similar (slowly being wheeled through a sterile hallway and only being able to look at the ceiling and unable to move) in which I am forgotten in a hospital after having x-rays taken. So I start to get a little worried once I’m wheeled into the x-ray room and everyone leaves the room. Luckily the technician kept coming back to adjust the machine to take more x-rays but after twenty minutes of x-rays I started to get a little anxious about the large open wound on my foot and asked my doctor if she knew that I had a large gash on my foot since it was all covered in gauze and a cast. She looked somewhat startled and disappeared for a bit and then asked the x-ray technician to finish up.

They wheeled me back to the ER and took the cast apart and realized perhaps it was time (about two hours later) to stitch me up. Josh turned up at the hospital before the local anesthetic was stuck into my open wound with a big needle. He’d been at the scene collecting my strewn luggage for some time and dealing with the authorities regarding insurance and carting of the motorcycle to the impound before being given a ride to the hospital by a bystander at the accident by the name of José Luis who just happened to own a motorcycle shop. Josh was just in time to shoot this video of the local anesthetic being applied and then the stitches sewing the gash back together and although he said he had to return to José Luis and our baggage I could tell that he was getting a bit squeamish from his hurried exit and the words, ”I can’t stay here anymore.”

Definitely check out the videos (kinda gory but still fun)

They finished stitching me up and went away for a while leaving me alone to ponder what the hell I’m going to do now that I’m maimed and my motorcycle is destroyed. Well, the trip must go on since this is just the first country we’ve made it to. I need at least three weeks of recuperation. The motorcycle is totaled and it would cost more than I paid for it to fix it and that would take upwards of two months to fix so that’s not an option. I could hitch-hike and take buses for a while but somehow I don’t think I could afford that either. I guess I’ll just have to focus on getting better for now because I don’t like where this slippery slope is going.

I know, I know, I do look good in scrubs.

The head doctor, Dr. Vargas, came back in and explained my predicament: from the x-rays I have a 25% fracture of my right clavicle that will take about three weeks to heal with an upper body brace and I’ve received twelve stitches in my left foot which will need to be taken out in ten days while in the meantime I wear what looks to be a snowboarding boot to protect it. And now for the fun part, payday! Josh has returned and is helping me pay and figure out how to get to the hotel that he has sequestered our things in when my Doctora offers to give me a ride in her car since she’s getting off soon anyway.

We head to the hotel that Doctora Daniela, lo mejor doctorcita en Mexico – as she insists we call her, has never heard of in her town of Querétaro. She and the security guard help me up to the room as Josh heads to the pharmacy for some meds (not any fun ones just an anti-inflammatory, a muscle relaxant, and an antibiotic). Daniela tucks me in and leaves her phone number so that we’re not totally lost in some city we think we’ve never been in before and says goodnight. I dose off as is my want usually when things go wrong or right. Josh wakes me up with pills and food and I gladly partake. We watch a bit of television and turn off our brains for a bit since they’ve been fried by a day of officials and the gravity of hospital situations. The television then scrambles into indecipherables.

The next day I wake up and Dr. Daniela Juarez Moran is standing in the doorway as Josh mills about the room. He’d called her after she’d offered to show us the old town of Querétero. They hustled me out of bed and I hobbled through the lobby and folded myself into the passenger side of her car not knowing quite what to expect (normally the day after something like what had happened to me I stay in the fetal position in bed for twenty-four hours). As we approach the downtown a series of connected arches come into view and we start to drive parallel to them; turns out its an ancient aqueduct that Daniela tells us a monk built to deliver fresh water to the nun he was in love with. We scoff in a sort of disbelief but then Josh remembers having had our picture taken in front of similar arches many years ago. We get out of the car and walk around the cobblestone streets (a bit difficult with my big slippery boot thing) and sit at the puppy fountain for a while before looking for a bite to eat. Josh orders chamarra which turns out to be the calf muscle of pigs/cows depending on the place. This place being luckily the latter. Turned out to be quite delicious and we all ate a bit of his before heading back to meet up with Daniela’s sister Tania at a bar that they frequent by the name of Rumi’s.

Pretty happy to be alive and pretty happy about my doctor.

Me, My Doctor, Her Sister, and The Blond.

Joshua holding himself back from climbing los arcos.

All of the girls taking care of my bandages…

Joshua and I enjoying the sights of old town Queretaro.

This is perfect since it just so happens that these girls love Bacardi Rum and are on their way to becoming rummy’s. Diana, another sister of theirs, is waiting for us along with an assortment of friends including a cousin and her fiancé and the ever present La Guera or The Blond (real name Brigitte and apparently being known as The Blond in Mexico doesn’t have the same connotations as in America). Daniela also comes from a family of four siblings which almost mimics our family of four brother’s ages. We take the party back to the one and only hotel we’ve stayed in for some drinks and a game called Castigo which literally means punishment and involves domino’s and booze and punishment. I believe Josh had to do 70 push ups and I did dance along to Ricky Martin for a bit and La Guera did some sort of leg thing but I don’t think it was part of the game.

La Guera striking a pose.

We wind up the night and Tania and Daniela invite us to stay at their house since we can’t afford to stay in the $100 a night hotel so the next day I once again am woken by Daniela and Josh milling about the room packing up my stuff (please notice the trope). We moved in the next day and had quite an eventful week… which I’ll post next and which won’t be too long in the making (please give me one or two days, my clavicle kinda hurts.) That’s right I played the clavicle card.

So, in closing of this momentous post I’d just like to thank everyone that has supported us on this trip so far and as you can see the adventure will continue - albeit I’m not entirely sure how right now but I have faith in the fact that things always turn out right. They have so far.