April 18, 2007
Barstow and Las Vegas
We’re coming, Carly!
We departed Casa Beddow at La Salina DelMar approximately 8:00 am this morning, fueled by a pot of coffee prepared by Patti. A fortuitous conversation with the neighbor while I was packing the spare tire revealed that the new highway to the Otay Mesa border crossing was now open. Four lanes of super highway and no more winding around through Tijuana.



Last evening featured the finest dinner of the trip (separate category for the caravan tour!) It was a veranda/beachside table at La Fonda , a few miles up the coast. Scrumptious bacon-wrapped stuffed calamari for me and wild salmon for Janice (its wildness attested to by our waiter, “eets wild, yes.”) A nice sunset (we missed any possible view of the ‘green flash’ as we were busy chatting). A strolling guitarist in the background. Great ambiance for our final night in Mexico. We’ll be back to this place, someday.

Finished the evening at the LaSalina Cantina, a short walk from Casa Beddow. We sought border crossing instructions from “Paco” the bartender, but the net result of the conversation was that while he might have some valuable information on the topic, his English shortage and our Spanish shortage ruled out any reliable communication.

Reaching the promised super-highway, it lived up to expectations. This was cut through massive mountains, but there was ample elevation change to provide a roller coaster of giant hills followed by steep drops. The concrete was obviously poured by the lowest bidder, providing a bumpity-bumpity on what should have been a smooth ride.
The amount of new housing on the Mexican side of the border is just amazing. New projects in every direction. Looks like government housing, a definite step up from some of the squalor hanging on hillsides and along river ravines. They may be positioning the troops for the invasion.
Finally at the border, we joined a couple hundred cars queuing to escape Mexico. We were the only RV, which made me wonder whether we were in the right place (we were). A couple of rag-toting caballeros went from car-to-car, seeking (very) short term employment washing car windows. Few takers for the smeary mess they produced. A 5-year-old boy juggled tennis balls, hoping for an audience that would pay a few pesos for his show. As we reached the gateway, a man with no arms engaged in casual conversation with a man on crutches with a shrivilled leg, which he would swing back behind him, catching it with his hand. An old man hunching in a wheelchair sat off to the side eavesdropping, also hoping for a bit of charity. It was a Tijuana day at Otay Mesa.

We were sent to secondary inspection, where we expected a search of every compartment, the toilet and under the bed for the load of illegals we were smuggling in. Instead, the inspector removed the two shiny red apples in our refrigerator, waving off my objections that they were ‘Washington apples.’ “Doesn’t matter.” It was over. No requests for batteries. Nothing. We weaved our way back into traffic on the 905 and headed up the road. It felt good to be back in America. Real good.
The rig responded nicely to the 905, welcoming back the familiar pot-holed surface of California freeways. But, no dust or topes. There were wide shoulders on this highway, and signs we could read. Soon we were winging it up I-15, then the 215, then back on the I-15. We filled up with some of that pricey $3.24 gas, and felt good about it, seeing signs for considerably more $$ across the street.

Our vacation was over. This was now a mercy mission to rescue Carly before Julie went over the edge, pushed by Carly’s insistence on spray painting her light carpet with brown stripes. Stinky brown stripes.

There was desperation in the e-mail received last night from Julie. "Carly really wants to see you badly. Can you come now?” Carly wants to see us? I’ll bet a Las Vegas 5-spot that Carly has forgotten the folks who dumped her in Las Vegas nearly 50 days ago. And, if she does remember us, she is probably bitter that we missed her 13th birthday on April 15. (Julie even made cupcakes.) So, we made a mid-course correction, abandoning plans to meet Julie in Calico, and high-tailed it for Las Vegas, via Barstow.

(A visit to the vets failed to reveal the cause of poor Carly’s affliction, but she seems to be responding to antibiotics. She'll be ready for the ride back to Sacramento.)

Reaching Barstow, we dumped the rig at the Shady Lane RV Camp (yep, “camp”), a well-worn park east of town on Old Highway 58. The majority of rigs hadn’t moved in many years, with their slumping tires graying and cracking. A fine dust was blowing. Janice asked, “Is it always windy like this?” The owner, a 70ish fellow who was glad to see somebody with their own teeth, said, “No, it’s usually windier.” We piled in the Honda and headed for Las Vegas, hoping the rig would be OK at the Shady Lane.

. . . . .

We are motoring to Las Vegas now, a strong tailwind behind us, Janice at the wheel.
Julie sounded VERY happy on the phone. ‘That dog’ would soon be gone. No more walks three times a day. No more dog hair on everything. And no more poop!