may, 1993
baja california norte
it’s another ubiquitously blue calee-fornia day, and i’m on the poorly-paved road twisting south from tijuana with the one-day great and powerful, taj mahndayla. he’s driving his appropriately-named small black honda del sol, and we’re slowly winding our way through the mural-painted fringes of tijuana towards the playas (beaches) of rosarito beach. we’ve crossed la frontera (the border) at san ysidro. we’re definitely not in kansas anymore. there are hungry burros on the side of the road, small second world casitas and restaurantes that we gringos like to call “shacks”, lots of taco stands, lots of auto body repair shops, and the ubiquitous brown faces of baja, california. “not mexico”, as in colonial mexico city, san miguel de allende, guanajuato, guadalajara, puebla, no. this is definitely baja. they still take american dollars here and most of the wavering economy is entirely based on catering to los gringos.
taj and i don’t know each other very well even though we look like old amigos. we’re both descended from the same ashkenazy tribe in eastern europe, i’m maybe six years older than he is, and strangers tell us we look like hermanos (brothers). he claims we know each other from chicago where his sister used to dance in a modern dance company with me in the early 70s, but i don’t remember meeting him, even though he finds this an affront to his… tajness. still, we’ve re-connected and bonded recently, over an afternoon of ecstasy, lying on our backs staring up at the cloudless calee-fornia sky from the deck of a stationery sailboat in marina del rey. and today, once again, we’re both up for… adventure, the open road, and… change. he’s lived in a small one bedroom apartment in west hollywood for a decade and i’ve done the same in the flats of santa monica. si, they’ve been rent-controlled and muy barato (very cheap), but the apartment-cluttered west side is homogeniously boring; we like to imagine ourselves living at the beach or in the hollywood hills. unfortunately, our hollywood dreams haven’t either paid off or come to fruition at this point, and then again, we aren’t getting any mas joven (younger).
we’ve heard of this place called the “rosarito beach hotel”, about half an hour south of tijuana, and after crawling through the dusty seaside town of rosarito beach, with its bevy of mexican trinket and t-shirt shops, we find the fancy posada (hotel) at the southern edge of town, a small white palace with a gated entrance. hard-working, local rosaritans are renting underfed, stationery caballos (horses) just outside the entrance way, so that the economic and visual contrast between the interior and exterior of the hotel can’t be more pronounced. inside the gate, everything is painted a clean white stucco. there are bright blue, yellow, brown, and green hand-made mexican azulejos (tiles), both inside and outside the entrance way. we walk under a graceful, round-arched portico and see a titillating and attention-grabbing mural of dancing mexican chiquitas.
just beyond them, there’s a large wiggly-oval mexican bar, stocked with every kind of tequila and mescal in baja. it adjoins a huge, white-table-clothed mexican restaurante, where there are lots of well-heeled gringos sipping margueritas, dipping salsa and chips, some even, smoking cigars. it looks like old hollywood glamour, circa 1940. mexican style. we imagine fat cat studio moguls with their subservient sexy starlets running over the border for a little hanky panky mixed with their tequila.
we each toss down a couple of tasty margueritas, walk out to the immaculately-clean aquamarine pool, and down to the beach where there are more caballos for rent. we look at each other. this place ain’t for us. we hop back into the honda del sol and meander south on the calle libre (free road) to… we don’t know where. but we feel safe wandering here. sort of. sure, i’m worried about the food, the water, “montezuma’s revenge” (the dysentery mexican food gives los gringos for cortez’s rape of the aztec empire in the early 16th century), but just driving south, soaking up the scenery in the comfort of our del sol, hey, what could be groovier? we’re in mexico… i mean baja… and look at all these curio shops along the side of the road. hand-made ceramicos, iron and wood work, magical birds and animales, tiled mirrors, hand-carved bed boards, flower pots and stoves made out of cement and local black beach stones… i want to fill up the car with mounds of trinkets, blinkets, and mexican blankets. unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the del sol doesn’t have a hellofalot of room.
we pass through one dusty seaside town after another, following the signs to ensenada, right next to the ones that say “no tire basura” (don’t throw trash), all along the littered road. we drive down the one horse dirt road towards the beach into puerto nuevo, famed for having the best lobster in baja. there are scores of local touts on both sides of the street, handing us cards to their restaurantes, boasting, of course, “the best langosta in baja”. we pull over, have another marguerita, or two, some cheeeps and salsa, but decide to hold off on ordering our cena (dinner), because just about now, it’s time to pick a place to stay for the night. but… donde (where)?
we roll south into the tiny, one-street seaside town of la mision. we see the “hotel de la mision” at the north end of the street. it looks too… que (what)? white, classic, stiff? not… mexican enough. so… we roll a few hundred yards further south… to a sign that claims… “best restaurant in baja”. in english. clearly catering to gringos. that’s us. we park. get out. wander through a round terra cotta portico crawling in bright red bougainvillea and enter… another world. what first? maybe the smell? seaside ocean air mixed with… que? fried tortillas? rotting geraniums? broiled langosta? it’s strong, odd, and deliciously inviting. then… the colors… burnt bronzed mexican brown, bright pumpkin orange, bright halloween purple, tasty lime green… who painted this place? clearly an artist or a madman. then… the jungle of plants and vegetation: hordes of overgrown red geraniums in stone and concrete pots, a cacophony of hanging green succulents, tall saguaro cacti in terra cotta pots. like a dry desert rain forest, even though that’s an oxymoron. then… a maze of winding paths and signage: down to the dark sand playa and the roaring ocean below…
…to the two decks of rooms above and the jigsaw puzzle of casitas built into the steep hillside below… of course to the officina , bar and restaurante… and then… our favorite sign: “please come in and seat your beautiful selves”.
we do. the smell gets stronger and immediately more recognizable, as we see a peasant-attired mujer (woman) standing at a simple counter, rolling freshly-made, hot-steaming tortillas at the front of a large kitchen stocked with floppy, white-hatted cocineros (cooks) preparing large slabs of red meat, white fish, and a slew of the celebrated and still-moving, long-clawed red langostas. nice.
naturally, we walk over to the bar and seat our beautiful selves. it’s a weekday and there’s a smattering of other laid back gringos sitting around the oval, straw-roofed bar. “hola, amigos,” the white-toothed, brown-skinned bartender smiles at us. “what would you liiike today?” naturalemente, we order yet another marguerita, as he places a large basket of still-steaming, freshly-made cheeps and a large bowl of colorful salsa (not steaming, but with gobs of red tomatoes, white onions, and green cilantro) on the bar. then out of the magical mexican blue, two hands appear on each of our shoulders. we turn. and there he is…
dmytri. “how ya doing, gentlemen?” a tough-looking, round-faced, mostly-bald, white-haired, 60 year old man smiles down on us. he’s wearing white shorts, white sneakers, and a torn blue t-shirt. he has strong legs, muscular calves, and the natural-born, boundless energy of a circus showman. or in this case, of a perfectly-appointed hotel proprietor. he has a clearly-american accent. “where you from, gents?” “LA,” taj smiles, about five margueritas down the road. “great. how long you staying with us?” we haven’t checked in yet, but clearly, dmytri assumes we have. quick at the stick, i pick up the ball, “maybe two, three days. we haven’t decided yet.” “make it three, four, boys. what’s the hurry?” we smile all around. and that’s how it begins. my love affair with “la fonda”….
“inn”. or “cheap roadside restaurant”. that’s the english translation. “la fonda.” but to me… it means… “romantic getaway”. “delicious and bountiful restaurant overlooking the pacific ocean”. “home away from home”. it means “baja calee-fornia norte”. not “baja calee-fornia sur”, a thousand miles further south down the skinny peninsula, full of bare-breasted, cabo-wabo college co-eds and spring breakers. nope, this is northern baja, the place where smart, frugal california gringos buy inexpensive retirement homes, invest in little pensiones as close to the beach as they can afford, and try to live out their golden years on a mexican budget.
and here in la mision, 50 miles across the san ysidro-tijuana border is “la fonda”, where a greek orthodox-russian jew- san diegan-canadian-LA-new yawker (who knows where he’s really from and what does it really matter?) – named joe dmytri (simply “dmytri” to his friends and patrons) has built a little piece of gringo paradise out of what is rumored to have been a 1950s mexican whore house. better yet, he’s turned it into one of the most wonderful, delicious, peaceful and gregarious, all at the same time, vacation getaways on the planet. careful… don’t tell too many people about it. you might spoil the magic!
taj and i do check in. for four days, like the man says. dmytri gives us a hand full of keys and smiles, “take any one you want, gentlemen.” we wander around the sprawling, maze-like grounds, ogling one off beat, day-glo painted room after another. the upper level rooms and their matching second deck partners, all have eye-popping ocean views with ginormous geranium-strewn patios down below, little pot belly stoves for the cold, foggy baja evenings, and cold water showers. no tvs. no phones. forget internet, this is long before the age of smart phones, folks. like i said, this is a “getaway”. there are many more folk-arty and elaborately-built casitas down below, tucked right into the hillside, some with stone pit fireplaces and large ocean-viewing wooden decks , but they are a bit mas caro (more expensive).
so we take room number 11, painted burnt sienna orange with two twin beds, facing, but set back from, the only road in baja. fortunately, and no doubt by design, it’s happily separated from the calle by a desert jungle of parking lot, where on this tuesday afternoon at 3, the del sol is the only car parked.
taj and i find ourselves immediately transported into other-worldly baja heaven. we can hardly believe our good luck in having blindly stumbled into this place. it’s so… “us”. i can right away imagine myself retiring down here, laying out on the lower patio’s funky wooden chaise lounge with a marguerita or two, cozying up to my laptop (yeah, i think they had laptops in ’93), writing my long-anticipated novel, my new solo performance piece, my next literary travel essay for the gringo gazette or the baja times. a little medical cannabis (i know they didn’t have medical cannabis in ’93), for my degenerating right hip and for my reluctant creativity, what more could an artist-clown ask for?
no doubt, taj is having gringo fantasies of his own, but together, we are as happy as two peas…. i mean two mexican jumping beans… in a pod. we hang out for the next day and a half, doing… absolutely nothing. there’s no pool, no hot shower or upscale amenities, no gym or spa, just… la fonda and the pacific ocean. so… when in rome… i mean, when in la mision…. we… take long strolls along the seaweed-strewn beach, where the green-rope algae has been washed up on the dark, ungroomed sand in long, bulbous, six foot strands. we can’t resist stepping, or rather jumping, on the squooshy green bulbs, popping hundreds of them over the next four days – like 5 year old kids in our own mexican amusement park.
there are volcanic mounds of black rock jutting out into the ocean, separating one section of beach from the other… the la fonda beach from the public la mision beach, just a few hundred yards south. no problema. we climb the rock barricade and explore south like… lewis and clark? like cortez and pizarro? never mind. there are large, beautiful, and well appointed custom-built homes on the bluffs above, probably belonging entirely to los gringos, and all we can do is imagine ourselves living there one day in our palatial but barato, gringo abodes, overlooking el pacifico.
we collect shells, buy hand-made woven bracelets and cheap-silver trinkets from the local artisanos, and even lay out on the naked (mostly-unpopulated) beach… like full-blown baja tourists. but mainly, we hang out upstairs… at la fonda… in our room and on its lazy lower adobe patios, at the delicious restaurant with its ever changing menu displayed on long black, hand-written chalk boards, at the straw-thatched bar where we get to know all the bartenders by name, and best of all, with el hefe himself, senor dmytri.
he brings us into his “private” officina, tucked away in a corner of the bar under another round adobe portico… where… he curls his meaty index finger at us, beckoning us to share from a large keg of home-made tequila… then from a sacred bottle of mezcal from oaxaca, that naturally has a sexy but repellant worm (or “snake” as dmytri like to call it) at the bottom of the bottle. “salud, boys,” our perpetually-charming, domed-topped host grins, as we clink our three shot glasses together in the well-known south-of-de-border ritual of male bonding and virile camaraderie.
taj and i throw down our whole tumblers like we’ve seen clark gable and bogey do in the movies, but we immediately spit it back up, like we’ve been bit by the snake. “easy, boys. you have to sip it… like fine wine. swish it around on the back of your tongue and then press it forward to the back of your teeth. it’s like a beautiful woman, gents. taste her. savor her. what’s the hurry?” we sputter, smile, and try again. after a few more shots, we start getting the hang of it. or… it starts getting the hang of us. “si, like a bee-yoo-tee-fool wo-man, senor dmytri.”
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but now, on this first trip south with the wide-eyed taj mahndayla, we hardly notice the gate to the gringo community, as we start climbing the rugged cliffs along the pacific, not too unlike their sisters far further north along highway 1 at big sur. except here, the calle keeps taking us inland, away from the spectacular ocean views, into the dusty, unpopulated hills, strewn here and there with a junk yard of abandoned tractor trailers, an occasional vineyard, and an uncountable number of ceremonial statues of the virgen de guadalupe …which are covered in ornamental flowers and strange offerings worshiping the dead.
we stop, snap some photos, and drive on. definitely not in kansas anymore, toto! the roads through the hills are getting windier and mas peligrosa (more dangerous). they’re surrounded by sparse, ancient cacti and other dry desert flora, and word on the street has it that you don’t want to be driving here at night, when many vacas (cows) are sleeping on the sun-warmed roads, and many banditos are waiting happily for unsuspecting gringos all along the calle libre. pero, no problema, it’s a hazy-sunny thursday, and as we roll out of the bandito-less hills, we see the sprawling port of ensenada glistening below us.
like los angeles’ twin port cities of long beach and san pedro, ensenada handles big cargo ships with containers full of machinery and produce from all over the world. hoy (today) the harbor is full of these container ships, along with one passenger-full cunard cruise ship. it reminds me of the time gino cumeezi, my clown character, once “worked” one of these “cruises to nowhere” from san pedro to ensenada on the fancy “princess” ship when i first got to LA. but not today… when we are, ourselves, first time touristas.
hearsay demands that we stop at “hussong’s”, the infamous ensenada bar and cantina, where everything from local weddings and quincineras to… robberies and bar brawls have all been well-recorded in local lore. we quickly have a drink, get married, have a bar fight or two, and make our way down the line. whereas towns like la mision and rosarito beach just to the north have been developed primarily as tourist attractions, ensenada is clearly a blue-collar working class town. plumbers, welders, seamen, auto shop mechanics, hard hat construction workers, roofers, store owners, fast food servers, workers of every stripe and color… are all bustling in the streets. traffic is slow. there are far too many red lights and alto (stop) signs, and it takes forever to get through the city and out its southern alimentary canal.
but we follow signs to “la bufadora” and soon climb back into the local hills, as the road twists back around a small cove or estuary running inland from the pacific. there are… trailer parks, funky tourist beaches, many taco and tamale stands, a few local restaurantes, and best of all… collections of roadside stands selling freshly-jarred green olives and red peppers. we buy some of each, along with a couple of tacos y tamales, and we pull off the side of the dusty road at its peak, overlooking the ensenada harbor in the distance, dotted with pleasure boats in the foreground and large cargo ships on the horizon. bonita (the view) y deliciosa (la comida/the meal)!
“la bufadora”, the “blow hole”, is a natural geological phenomenon just south of ensenada, created by the incoming ocean surf – crashing – just so – into a rugged rock formation (la bufadora) that magically re-blows the briny water out its “spout”, high up into the air, like a geyser… to the happy astonishment of the hordes of gringos and locals who have gathered for the show… which rain or shine… occurs about every 60 seconds! it’s a great display of nature’s unpredictable originality… and absolutely free!
unfortunately, you have to make your way through about half a mile of t-shirt and sombrero shops to get there….where… the salesgirls, the heavy set, python-wearing hombres, and the local touts are muy aggressivo. just look their way, or worse, dare to ask the price of a little trinket, and they will follow and harass you for hundreds of yards. “special price, meester.” “just have a looook, meester.” just like any, and every, tourist trap in the second or third world. and probably the first too. “morning price, meester”… even though it’s two in the afternoon.
but here, at the bufadora “boardwalk”, not only can you buy cheap mexican silver, colorfully-striped mexican panchos and blankets, delicious mexican clams stuffed with lobster and bacon, but you can also buy mexican… drugs. not the hallucinogenic, mind-altering types (which you can probably also buy with a little behind the scenes bargaining), but i’m talking about pharmaceuticals…. penicillin, amoxicillin, doxycillin, any “cillin”, along with uppers, downers, chill pills, and a vast array of viagra and cialis, all for pennies on the american dollar. and of course, best of all, without a prescription.
with the busloads of tourists being shipped in to la bufadora, and only a handful of them lingering around the actual geological “blow hole”, i’m wondering if it’s the pharmacies and the sombrero shops that are really the main attraction here. then again, you can do the same in tijuana; it’s just not so comfortable, sexy, and geologically well marketed.
anyway, we’ve purchased enough cosas mexicanos, and i’ve even had the buena suerte (good luck) to have my black and silver, star sapphire ring polished for 5 bucks. costs $75 in silver lake, near girffith park in LA. the ring was my 50th birthday present to myself. i bought it in taxco, the colonial center of fine silver making near mexico city, and i still try to keep the “star” in the “star sapphire” sparkling, alive and well. happily, the discounted bufadora silver maker puts the star back in my sapphire… as we carefully retrace our winding tire tracks to el norte and drive back to… la fonda.
dmytri is still holding court when we get back in late afternoon. new guests have checked in and they have all “seated their beautiful selves” in his dining room overlooking the ocean, much the way taj and i did… just two days ago… though it seems much, much longer. the rhythm of baja norte, and especially of la fonda here in la mision, has seduced us, taken away our sense of gringo time, caught us up in her sense of suspended magic, beach, beauty, food, language, intoxication, culture…. and timelessness. who wants to go back to calculated, and calculating, LA, city not of “angels”, as her spanish name deceptively proclaims, but more… city of “angles”, where more pernicious spirits abide. ones such as ambition, vanity, dissemblance, deal-making and breaking… all sometimes mixed with downright outbreaks of cheating, lying, and outrageous acts of moral turpitude. no wonder one “crosses de border” with such anticipation and need.
but back to LA we go. however… not without the compulsory 3 hour crawl at the border… where between avoidance of the ragged and sad beggars selling trinkets, blankets, bed boards, and every other kind of mexican sundry all along the 3 hour line of backed up autos, we manage to buy yet more mexican memorabilia… until there is hardly any room left in the del sol… for the two of us.
it’s been just over 4 days, but we have been… transformed. not just by baja herself, but by the shared experience together. we never really knew each other well before this trip. taj was donna’s older brother from chicago, i was his younger sister’s dance teacher and director. now… we were suddenly bonded by baja… by la bufadora, by ensenada, by rosarito… by too many margueritas, by just the right snake-bit sips of mezcal in dmytri’s private office, by the delicious lobster and cilantro all along the dusty road, by… la fonda herself.
when we arrive back in town, “brothers in arms”, there is a message on my phone’s answering machine from our mutual friend, big charlie. “hey, man, i just drove through the echo park hills and saw a place i think you might want to check out. it’s fabulous, has a view of the hollywood sign, and 2 garages, neither of which is big enough for my buick convertible. but take a look. here’s the address and number.” turns out taj has gotten the same message, but i make it over before he does. turns out, it’s not a competition at all, because on the ride back from la fonda, we’ve talked about moving in together… out of our decade-long, 1 bedroom bachelor pads, into something “closer to the beach” or “in the hollywood hills.” and now this. serendipity. synchronicity. dumb luck. la fonda!
within a month, we’re the new happy tenants of “lucretia gardens”, a 3 bedroom single family residence, high in the echo park hills, a stone’s throw from elysian park, LA’s 2nd biggest. we have 7 levels of terraced garden down below, a 350 day-a-year view of the sun setting over the pacific ocean, a second hand jacuzzi, the shimmering hollywood sign right off our back deck, and…. a new friendship…. that will last the rest of our lives.
thanks, dmytri. thanks, la fonda. some trips… are worth taking…..
ps. over the next 11 years, we go back to la fonda… many times… with girlfriends, fiancées, wives, childhood friends, parents… and more. and each and every time, dmytri is the perfect host…. enthusiastic, gracious, gregarious… and always with a bottle of snake-bit mezcal for us in his office privado. until 2004 that is, when, just before the financial recession which hits baja like a sledgehammer… and the mexican drug war which also gives baja a major scare… senor dmytri, the ubiquitous but savvy host, sells la fonda to some willing, but unprepared gringos, during which time la fonda attempts to live off its reputation… but fails miserably… until 10 years later… 2014… the merry month of march… when senor dmytri repossesses la fonda… due to lack of payment… and taj and i start heading down there again.
in between, lots of other stories…..
You can no go to my podcast, also called “e-travels with w. trules HERE.