The following is a recap of Day Eight of our surfboard run from Houston, Texas to Sayulita, Mexico. If you missed Day Seven you can catch up on that here.
We wandered into the lobby of the hotel for breakfast, and were pleasantly surprised to find it wasn’t a buffet but cook to order. We made our selections and enjoyed our last morning of the trip.
It took some zipping and zagging out of Monterey traffic to make it back on the toll road, or cuota . We were only a few hours from the border, and the morning slipped by without incident. Soon we saw the long lines and guards that signaled the border crossing. The other giveaway was the gobs of people on foot, weaving through traffic and selling everything under the sun. Before you leave Mexico, you can pick up a sombrero, statue of the Virgin Mary, stuffed animals, blankets and all manner of drinks and snacks.
We no gracias’ed our way to the front of the line. There was a brief discussion with the agent about where we’d been and where we were headed, and then we were directed across and into the United States.
Our destination was Houston, but we made a quick stop in Rockport. Edgar had purchased this 40-foot Defever trawler and was doing some work on it while it was on the hard stand. That seemed to be going well, and it wouldn’t be long before it was ready for its journey out of Rockport, into the Intercostal Waterway and all the way to the Houston ship channel. But that’s another story for another post….
The following is a recap of Day Seven of our surfboard run from Houston, Texas to Sayulita, Mexico. If you missed Day Six you can catch up on that here.
We kept a fire going all night long and stayed nice and toasty under our wool blankets. In the morning we got a tour of the rest of the property from one of the employees. Simon and his two children walked us down to the rope bridge, which Kevin had told us about in our previous visit. This time, we had a demonstration. Simon carefully climbed on the rope to show us how it was done… slowly working his way across the water and to the other shore. It looked very challenging, and Simon clearly did not expect any of us to even attempt it, but Edgar decided to give it a try.
No one else was feeling strong enough to jump at that challenge, so we thanked Simon and packed up our rig to head down the road for a tank of gas and a bite to eat.
Breakfast!
Edgar and Marie had tacos from a roadside stand, while I visited the horses in a nearby field. My stomach wasn’t quite ready for tacos, but I am always ready for a little neck scratching. Our morning complete, we headed on to Monterrey. The traffic in this city is ridiculous! It took some fancy navigating and map searching, but we finally found a hotel at a reasonable rate and checked in. We thought we’d order pizza instead of venturing out again, but didn’t think our limited Spanish vocabulary would cut it over the phone. We went back to the desk to ask the clerk for help. She was happy to call it in, and we enjoyed the veggie and meat lovers options.
We brought the leftovers to our new friend at the desk.
Our road trip across Mexico was nearly complete. Day eight would see us head for the border crossing, where all manner of items are on sale, from sombreros to Virgin Marys, and on to a new project on the gulf.
The following is a recap of Day Six of our surfboard run from Houston, Texas to Sayulita, Mexico. If you missed Day Five you can catch up on that here.
Marie and I had good yoga intentions, but I was up all night with some wicked food poisoning and finally got some sleep around 6am. Marie accompanied Edgar to the beach instead while I rested. After the morning surf session we met back up for coffee at Chocobanana, a Sayulita staple. The tables were busy and a local musician entertained everyone with a few Coldplay and Pearl Jam tunes.
Actual musician not pictured, but I bet these two are phenomenal.
It was time to hit the road for the long drive home, so we returned the board Edgar had been using, back to Casa Aves. The drive back toward El Salto was peppered with multiple tolls, some official and some not, and we repeatedly dug into our cuota stash, tucked into a plastic cup in the console.
Here’s another interesting thing about the Mexican roads: vehicles pass in the middle. Really. In a lot of spots, there are two lanes, one in each direction, and huge trucks will pass in the middle. This is as normal as getting leche in your coffee. Other drivers will do their best to scoot over and let them by.
One of my favorite things to do on road trips is to try the local snacks, so wherever we stopped we purchased a few things with little knowledge as to what they were. Most were very good…. and we snacked on candy, nuts, cookies and all sorts of things as we traveled.
We weren’t sure how the timing would work out, but it ended up just perfect for us to stop by to see Kevin again, and to rent one of his big cabins, which had all the comforts of home, including a kitchen and cozy fireplace. (Cabañas “El Arroyo del Agua” on Facebook.) He helped us gather firewood and we got enough to last the night. The temperature difference between the beach in Sayulita and the air up in the mountains was dramatic. We were grateful to see a large stack of wool blankets in each room.
Once we dropped off our things, we headed into the city to find a cash machine and a restaurant. The latter was no problem, but the cash was tricky. We finally spotted an ATM but it had a line outside. Sayulita folks are used to seeing Americans, but in this town, not so much. We drew some curious looks as we waited our turn, and then again when we entered a small family restaurant for a bite. The manager or owner’s kids were all helping to wait tables while doing homework, and they kept looking over and giggling at us. I felt like we were the talk of El Salto.
This super-sized Sprite tasted amazing.
Back at the cabin we settled in to do our own giggling at an Adam Sandler movie dubbed over in Spanish, and eventually turned in.
On day seven, it was time for the feats of strength! Who among us would be brave enough to try the bridge made of rope, and would they make it to the other side?
This is a recap of day three of our surfboard run from Houston, Texas to Sayulita, Mexico. If you missed our run-in with the cartel on day two, you can read about it here.
Day three began with free breakfast at the restaurant next to our hotel. We carried on an animated conversation with the waitress, her side all in Spanish and ours mostly in English. She was sweet and trying to help us, but looked around the restaurant a few times, obviously looking for a coworker who spoke English. We understood each other well enough to settle on eggs, beans and bacon, and a dish we didn’t recognize, but ended up being green sauce over tortillas and very good.
Even if you’ve never traveled to Durango, you’ve likely seen pieces of it. It was a big destination for the film industry beginning back in the 1950s. The vast desert and cheap labor drew many productions to this Hollywood of the South, and there are ribbons of super-sized film above the main drag as a reminder. According to a 2003 article in the Washington Post, John Wayne, Clark Gable, Rock Hudson and Rita Hayworth all shot movies in Durango.
We wanted to stay longer to explore, but we had set our sights on checking out the big fish of El Salto. If the internet could be trusted, this town in the middle of no where had some of the best large-mouthed bass fishing in the world. We couldn’t drive this close and not just have a look, so we headed in that direction.
The tricky part is, we couldn’t tell exactly where it was. We stopped just shy of the city at a gas station, and wandered in. There was a woman working the register, and a couple other folks having a snack. We used our rough Spanish to ask where we could find the pescado with the grande boca. They pointed and gave us directions, but it seemed to be for another place where we could stop and ask. We admired her bottle of tequila with a large scorpion inside of it, which was then offered, no gracias, and we hit the road in the direction we were given.
A few miles down the road we found a turnoff for a camp site that looked promising. The first resident we encountered was an old man who was deep into a rock-painting project, and being monitored by a friendly dog that looked part lab, part pyraness. The painter didn’t know about the fish and sent us up to the office. The girl inside said they had fish there but they were very small. She showed us with her fingers. She said she’d get her husband who spoke English. Kevin spoke perfect English, having grown up in Arizona. He showed us around the fish farm, where they were raising trout. These were not the trophy bass we were after, but were interesting to see anyway, and Kevin and his wife were very nice and obviously proud of the place. Kevin said what people come to do here the most is relax but sometimes they also walk the bridge made of rope and make bets on how far their friends will go.
We got some information about the cabins and made tentative plans to return on our way home. Our fish search had to be set aside as well, since our goal was to stay in Chacala that night.
On a previous trip, a local had told Edgar about a secret wave south of San Blas. We had that on our minds as we made our way toward the coast, and caught our first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean.
We got on the road to the secret break, passed by the outdoor restaurants and pack of stray dogs and rumbled through the jungle a bit. The swell turned out to be small, so we moved on to Chacala.
This is the “road” to the secret surf break.
Chacala has exploded in the past couple years. There were more tourists on the streets than we’ve ever seen before. We found a hotel with rooms available, and made friends with the clerk’s daughter Alice, who was about three and lugging around a baby doll. She and her father helped us find a place to park, and then we walked to a beachside restaurant for dinner.
Nearby La Cruz is a popular starting point for sailboats making long trips across the ocean, so we saw many bobbing around just off the beach. We dined on shrimp (Chacala translates to “where there are shrimp”) with avocado and chips and guacamole, and then went to bed dreaming of waves.
On day four, we finally pull into the driveway of Casa Aves, only to realize we can’t stay.
This is the story of our surfboard run down to Mexico. If you missed day one you can read about it here.
Our hotel had free breakfast, so we dined on biscuits, eggs, sausage and potatoes and then hit the road for the border. The line was long coming out of Mexico, but going in was a breeze. We cruised right through and were so pleased with our progress we missed the turn for car permits, a critical stop before going on into the country.
The turn was tricky. We knew we needed to be in the far left lane, but it appeared to have traffic going only in the other direction, away from the car permit place. We made the turn and found ourselves on the wrong path, headed to the checkpoint back into the United States, and right into the lanes jammed with traffic. A concrete wall was to our right, so we couldn’t swerve over into the appropriate lane. We slowed as we considered our options, and saw a man in a yellow vest motioning to us on the side of the road. Our official position is that Edgar and I don’t speak Spanish, but I must say I was considerably impressed when after a quick back and forth with the man Edgar said, “This guy will let us in for twenty bucks.” I did understand when the man shrugged in that “what can you do” sort of way, and explained it wasn’t his doing, it was the jefe. Uh huh.
We were in no mood to argue, having seen the line to go back into the states. We knew $20 was worth it, so we gladly paid our first mordida (“the bite” – i.e., everyone gets one) of the trip, and followed our new friend as he moved some orange barriers and let us cross an empty lot, and merge into the appropriate lane. The alleged “jefe” was a very quiet, older man, who didn’t give off the jefe vibe exactly, but hey, we were across, and headed to get our vehicle permit, so we got over it in a hurry.
The process of getting a car permit involves a number of steps, but if you plan ahead and have the right documents, you can follow the procedure and get it done. Part of that procedure is checking in when you leave the country, to cancel the permit. We had not done that when the Land Cruiser cruised on out of Mexico last year, so we were sent back outside, to go into another line to cancel our vehicle permit. Thankfully, that was a little drive-through area that came with no charge, and we ticked that box, peeled off our old sticker and got back in line. We showed our registration and title, and got our new sticker, good for 180 days in Mexico.
After a few minutes on the road, we had a need for a bathroom and a craving for a diet coke. Even though we knew better, we stopped at a gas station not too far from the border. As soon as we did, we were reminded why it’s not a good practice. A car pulled in next to us, and the passenger was making aggressive gestures before we even shut off the vehicle. He made an exaggerated motion to roll down the window. I didn’t see it at first, as I was busy counting out pesos for the diet coke. He made the motion again and Edgar gave him a hard look. The driver made a more gentle motion, and Edgar rolled down the window.
Passenger: (in English) “Where are you from?”
Edgar: “Where are YOU from?”
Passenger: “We’re from the cartel around here.”
It’s at this point that I made slow motion moves to slyly place the money I’d been counting under my seat.
I don’t know if you’re from the cartel, if you actually say you’re from the cartel, but clearly they had some sort of ill will in mind. Edgar didn’t say a word – just gave them another look like, “and..?” and the driver decided this wasn’t going to be worth the trouble. They tossed it in reverse and took off. A few seconds later we did the same. There was no sense sticking around at the border, when there were such nice places inside Mex to explore, and they were likely to have diet cokes as well.
We ticked off happy miles and not so happy tolls. You have two choices for most routes across Mexico: the toll road, or cuota, or the libre, the free road. The toll road has just that, tolls every so often. But it gets you to your destination a lot faster than the free road, and it’s better maintained, so if you’re not familiar with the area the toll road is the way to go. Just resign yourself to the fact that the tolls do add up. The amounts very from 30 to 270 pesos at each stop, so by the end of the trip we’d paid more than $200 USD in tolls.
Now, here’s another interesting note. Most of the toll plazas are manned by official-looking men and women in uniform, collecting a set amount listed on signs and digital displays. But in a few places, there are no uniformed staff, and the booth is manned by what appears to be locals from a nearby village. Dozens of people stand at the gate, and one is designated as the one to push out an orange barrel, usually on a rope, to stop the approaching vehicle. Another, usually a young girl, is enlisted to step forward and ask for the toll. The amount seemed a little arbitrary. At one stop the girl asked for cincuenta pesos – 50. When Edgar asked again how much, she said ciento – 100. He corrected her that she had just said 50, and she looked back at the group, unsure. An older man stepped forward and immediately showed off his conversational English, “What’s the problem, man?” Edgar explained there was a discrepancy with where we landed on the toll amount. He told the girl that 50 would be fine and we paid and went on our way.
More miles, more tolls. Beautiful country. We snacked on oranges from our pack, and offered some to the attendant when we got gas. All the gas stations are full service, so we learned and practiced the words for “fill it up!”
At one of the stops I had to visit the bano, and was about to let the attendant know they were out of toilet paper, when I remembered the fee. A lot of places charge you to use the restroom, and I found this contraption at the entrance. I gladly put in my 5 pesos and hurried back inside.
We made good time to Torreón so decided to push on to Durango. We arrived in town around 8pm, or what we thought was the town, but we more on the outskirts. We found a gated hotel and got checked in. The place next door served us a delicious meal of shrimp and boneless wings, and we saved room for an incredible apple crisp dessert. There were turtles at the restaurant, and I’m assuming they feed the turtles instead of feeding the turtles to guests, by the way they all swam over to me when I visited.
On day three we left Durango in search of El Salto, and the tales of a world-class bass fishing village. You don’t want to miss our efforts to communicate this to random gas station attendants and customers.
When I told my friends and coworkers I was going to vacation in Mexico, they nodded in an understanding way and asked, “Where in Mexico? Cancun?” Well, not exactly.
This was a vacation with a mission. A misscation. Edgar has some… let’s call them “extra” surfboards that he wanted to take to his rental house in Mexico, where guests could use them. The airline wanted $150 per board to fly them down there. We did the math and a new plan emerged… drive the boards down to Sayulita.
Houston to Sayulita is about 1,139 miles give or take, so about 21 hours of driving. That’s an average, but we were going to take Edgar’s 1992 Land Cruiser, and although it’s very reliable and roomy, it’s no speed demon. It’s a cruiser. We planned for three days down and three days back. We wanted our trip to be tranquillo, so we loosely planned out the stops without making a firm booking. After all, this wasn’t our first Mexico road trip. Edgar and I drove a baja bug down from California to Baja Mexico and across on the ferry to the mainland last year. (You can read about that journey here.) Edgar took his motorcycle down on one journey and back on another, and the Land Cruiser spent some time there over Thanksgiving a couple years ago. This wasn’t new territory, and what’s more, it sounded like fun to us, so we packed up a backpack each, and filled the rig with boards.
We left Houston on a Saturday morning, planning to spend the bulk of the day in Rockport, Texas, working on Edgar’s boat. He recently purchased a 40-foot trawler, and it’s been pulled out of the water for some TLC.
We spent a few hours working in the engine room and driving around town for parts. We paused for lunch at a place on the water serving chips and queso and oysters. (not combined) In the early evening, it was time to make our way to Laredo, which feels as much like Mexico as any city can, without the visit with the federal agents. We’ve done our research over the years, and always cross the border at daylight. We found a place to stay and a restaurant down the street. The order of mango habanerowings looked great, but when I took a bite I shot hot chicken habanero sauce directly into my eye, and it burned like fire. I had to rush to the restroom to rinse out my eyeball before I could get back to my meal.
After dinner we settled in for a good night’s sleep, our last one for a while on this side of the border.
On Day Two, we cross the border, hand out our first mordida of the trip, and run into a couple of dudes who claim they’re with the cartel.
We’re taking a look at some of our favorite photos over the past few months. What’s in store for your next adventure? Whether you’re going across town or across the country, share it with us in the comments.
We’ve received some great feedback on the “Baja Down the Baja” posts. Thank you all for your comments, and for coming back week after week for the next day’s adventures. We’re working on the final leg of it now, and have some great information and pictures to share with you this weekend.
The comments on the TSY page and the Facebook page have given us good insight. This community enjoys interesting vehicles, and particularly Volkswagens. This was also extremely evident during our trip, as people would honk and hoot and photograph the bug as they saw us roll by them on the highway. So we’ve decided to feature a different rig weekly, and would love some participation from the tribe.
I’ll go first, but if you see a cool ride, please snap a photo and tell us about it. If you have a special connection to your personal mode of transportation, we’re interested in that story too. Maybe it has a name. Maybe you remember your first car, your dad’s truck, the plane that dropped you in the Amazon, or that bike you always wanted and finally got. It’s great to see how folks get around, and hear the stories behind the ride.
The first rig we want to feature is the “love bug”. We found this flowery ride cruising the streets of Bucerias in Nayarit, Mexico. It appeared to be a daily driver for the man behind the wheel, who was not afraid of expressing himself.
The Rig: 1960 something Beattle
The Location: the main drag of Bucerias, Nayarit
The Driver: a sensitive stranger
The Special Circumstances: We were in a bug, when we spotted this bug, and appreciated it along with a guy driving behind it, who was also… in a bug. Random VW parade.
Note: This is a recap of Day Four of our journey driving a ’68 bug from Sacramento, CA to Sayulita, Mexico. You can catch up on day three here.
Do you ever eat a dinner so delicious, you wake up thinking about having it for breakfast? We greeted the two ladies in the kitchen on Day Four and used our poquito Spanish to explain where we’d stashed our leftovers, and to request they crack an egg on each one for breakfast. Smiles and nods confirmed they understood, and they threw in some tortillas for extra measure. We drove away munching happily on lobster tortillas, and knowing we needed to get some surf time in pretty quickly before our travel pants wouldn’t button.
It was time to fill up when we reached San Quintin, and since we were told there was no gas station for a couple hundred miles after that, we filled up our gas can too. We ran into a few other Americans and Canadians at the gas station, and fielded some questions about the bug. We did some rough math, and figured we could make it to Guerrero Negro if we took it easy. The gas station employee advised Edgar to keep his foot out of it. (Even if he had suggested a max speed limit, we couldn’t have adhered to it. The Green Meanie doesn’t have a speedometer. You gotta drive by ear and feel.)
Before the trip, we’d scoped out a few surf spots we really wanted to see on the way down. One of them is called The Wall. The internet will tell you that this beach is remote. That doesn’t really do it justice. We drove and drove and asked around everywhere we stopped, and at a couple friendly-looking security military checkpoints. (We were never searched, or even paused more than a few seconds just to ask where we came from and where we were going. Eye contact, smiles and polite greetings go a long way, and are always recommended when speaking to men with tactical rifles.) Some of the roads south are great, and you can clip along at a speed that sounds to be around 60 miles an hour. At other times, a swarm of potholes come at you out of no where, and at other points, that swarm contains bees. Real ones. Lots. We smacked into them and left an interesting group of smudges on the windshield, and a group of live ones buzzed right into our open windows. Luckily, they did not appear out for revenge. For some reason they were drawn to the gear shift, and one after the other crawled up the shifter and onto Edgar’s hand. We devised a release method. When the bee got on Edgar’s skin, I would hold us into fourth gear, as the car was still slipping out, and he’d keep one hand on the wheel and use the other to set the bee free. We repeated these steps a few times until the remaining bees had been sent on their merry way. We thank them for their non-stinging cooperation.
Our bee kill-and-rescue mission and our search for The Wall nearly had us forget our need for a gas station, but signs for Santa Rosalillita brought us back into reality. It was a neat little fishing town with a couple of stores and homes. The first shop lady we spoke to didn’t know about The Wall, but she did know her neighbors sold gasolina just down the road. Sure enough they did, out of jugs stored in their shed. While Edgar got that handled, I made sure all the dogs in the neighborhood didn’t miss out on a good scratching.
Gas station, Baja style
An American pescadora who happened to be doing her shopping was familiar with The Wall, and explained the possible routes to get there. “Is that your bug out front?” she asked. We nodded. “Oh, take the coastal road. You can go anywhere in that.”
This was a refrain we heard a lot, but knew to take lightly. The bug has some great tires, and a lot of heart, but she is a ’68. We gave the coastal road a good once over and decided it was indeed the way to go. It was sandy, bumpy and seemingly forgotten. It traveled along the beach, through some ravines and a little inland. We saw some tire tracks, and got a chance to get up on three wheels, but we didn’t see any other vehicles in the action. We did see what was later confirmed as The Wall, but it wasn’t working because of two much onshore wind. What we didn’t see, was an exit.
After bumping along for an amount of time that was just beginning to be concerning, we spotted a camper in the distance. We cruised up to it and were greeted by a man with a beard, hat, open bottle of red wine and purple teeth. He put out his hand and introduced himself as Fibber McGee. He said it like it meant something, but he could tell by our faces that it didn’t click. “Fibber! From Fibber McGee and Molly in the morning!” Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell. Fibber told us he was part of a very popular radio show in LA, and that he’d been on the air for years before they let him go over “something stupid”. He offered us wine from his bottle, and a plate of the chicken and potatoes he was cooking. “I’ve been here six months,” he informed us. “I pay a local $100 a month and I live in paradise.” We declined his kind offer, and he was visibly disappointed, but agreed to point us toward the way out. Literally. “You see that feather ridge, over there?” Fibber pointed at a spot about two miles away. “Take a left.”
It was thinking seriously about dark when we finally saw telephone poles, and then a paved road. It was at this point we realized Fibber’s nickname wasn’t entirely accurate. We turned south once again and set our sights on Guerrero Negro. The bug was really hitting its stride when we hit a stretch of mean potholes – swerving away from one just meant smacking into another, and we heard a dreadful noise that sounded an awful lot like a flat tire, less than an ideal situation for 9pm on a Mexican highway. We found a turnout and grabbed our flashlight for a look. The tires held up, but the fenders took a hit on both sides. Thanks to our stash of zip ties, we were able to zip them back on temporarily, and roll into town. The Halfway Inn had rooms and a restaurant that was open for 15 more minutes. The waiter explained this when he met us in the parking lot. He also recommended the surf and turf, which was pretty good, and we turned in with a plan to get up at a decent hour and spend an hour or so “mechanicing” our little hearts out.
Miles traveled on day four: 285 road miles + 30 on sand dunes and dirt + 40 yards on three wheels
On day five, we survived the north road (but didn’t get a sticker) and were introduced to a tiny green Mexican candy.
Note: This is a recap of Day Three of our journey driving a ’68 bug from Sacramento, CA to Sayulita, Mexico. You can catch up on day two here.
We had a nice breakfast with our Philippino friend and innkeeper, and headed to the bank to get some cash. We were surprised to find a bank south of San Diego didn’t offer withdrawals in pesos, which we normally would have ordered in advance. No matter, we got USD knowing we’d find an exchange place closer to the border.
There are a few tricky things about taking a car into Mexico from the US. You need Mexican insurance and a temporary vehicle permit if you plan to go to the mainland. It’s not required for Baja, so some travelers might be in for a surprise after driving around Mexico for a while, then deciding to cross on the ferry or drive around. Permits are required, and you’ll need to be near a border crossing to get one. To save yourself some hassle, look up the nearest temporary vehicle permit office to your border crossing city. Check their hours too, as you don’t want to get stuck arriving just after closing.
Once you find the office, you’ll need to turn in your paperwork. You’ll need originals of your title and registration, and then copies of your driver’s license, passport, and tourist visa, all in the same name as the person responsible for the vehicle. You’ll pay a fee and a deposit to have your car in the country. This deposit is refundable when you take the car back out of Mexico within 180 days. The office will give you paperwork on this, so it’s best to read and make sure you understand the agreement.
We found out that this vehicle office used to give the individual temporary visas too, but stopped doing that at an undetermined time, which apparently took place prior to our arrival. We were directed to go to the Tijuana airport to receive those. I’m referencing those little sheets you fill out on international flights, and that are checked at customs. Just because we didn’t fly in didn’t mean we didn’t need them, and the airline would need to see this when we flew out.
We headed to the airport without really knowing where we would go when we arrived. We asked a couple of folks and got pointed in the right direction. The paperwork required a small fee, of course, but we paid it, showed our passports and were on our way.
Edgar had received a recommendation for lunch at Hotel Rosa in Ensenada. It was another gorgeous setting, with a breeze off the water, an infinity pool, and a bountiful supply of chips and guacamole. With a locale this pretty, I couldn’t help getting into a few poses, and even got Edgar in on the action.
Our bellies full, we headed to the car… which again would not start. We checked the wire that had given us trouble the day before, and it was holding solid. Edgar did a little more investigating, and then I noted that it was making a clicking noise when he tried to start it. Once he heard that, he grabbed a hammer and had me try to turn it over while he hit the starter — boom. Success.
We were headed to San Quintin, but stopped short when dusk fell and followed a sign toward a beach hotel in Camalu. The road was bumpy and littered with stray dogs and a few horses. No hotel in sight. Just when we thought we should turn around, we spotted a large 2.5 story building (the third was in progress) with one lone dog out front. Tell me, does this place look open for business?
Well, we were wrong and it was warm and inviting, with lights on and music playing when we opened the door. Emmanuel recommended the lobster with vegetables. He even allowed us through a back hall and into Room 12 so we could select our own. Check out my plate — this was just my half!
I stuffed myself silly but couldn’t finish it. We asked Manny to put our leftovers in the fridge. We found a “parking spot” under the balcony and settled in for the night.
Miles traveled on day three: 195 (with a few hours paused at the border)
On day four, we drove through a swarm of bees and met an old radio DJ named Fibber McGee, who just happened to tell us the truth….
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