On a dark desert highway. Actually, it was bright.
The bus had dropped Tim, Craig and me off in what appeared to be the middle of the barren desert. Tim used his horrid Spanish, telling the driver to drop us off at, or near, Todos Santos. The bus stopped at this arid spot, the driver indicating we were to disembark. No town in sight. “Dónde está Todos Santos?” Tim asked. The driver impatiently pointed through his window toward the barren road perpendicular to the highway. Cactus, sand, hills…no town. No cars or busses. This didn’t look right.
Passengers in the back hissed and made it clear we needed to make up our minds. We reluctantly descended the metal stairs of the bus with our packs and our tow-headed, one-year-old son, Craig.
It was hot. It was early afternoon. The roads, in all three directions, seemed to waver, a mirage in the intense heat. The bus was lifting off the pavement in heat waves as it disappeared from sight. There was no cool wind in my hair. No, it was stifling hot. A large billboard advertising a cold Coca-Cola provided the sole respite from the sun’s rays on our pale skin.
“Where are we, Tim?”
“It must be down there,” Tim wistfully declared as he pointed down the line of asphalt. However, up ahead in the distance, I saw NO shimmering light. No town. No Todos Santos. Not even a sign claiming our destination. How did we know it was there?
Keeping his role as the family’s perpetual optimist, Tim instructed me to load up the pack, my heavy pack, to start the walk. Really, what other option did we have? He put his heavier pack on and lifted Craig on his shoulders. I was truly thinking to myself, “This could be Heaven or this could be Hell.’ We started.
Gearing up for yet another adventure, I sang the Eagles’ song in my head, timing my steps to the beat.
“WEl-come TO the HO-tel CAL-i- FORnia SUCH-a LOVE-ly PLACE- (Such a LOV-ly PLACE)-uh PLENTY-of ROOM at the HO-tel CAL-if FOR-nia AN-y TIME of YEAR, Any TIME of YEAR you can
FIND it HERE…’
I stopped. A truck was slowing down. A dusty, battered, rust colored old Ford creaked to a stop. A mustached, middle-aged, chocolate skinned man with a wide brimmed grey hat smiled.
“No hablo Español. Todos Santos?” Tim asked.
Scanning the cab, my eyes landed on the Virgin Mary figurine on the dash, a cross hanging from the rearview mirror, and a child’s plastic pink pony. Signs that the driver was a family man with scruples? We had read that a child traveling with his mamma in Mexico was the best protection possible for traveling gringos. “If you don’t have a cute kid, borrow one,” we had read when planning our Baja trip. The driver pantomimed directions to come into his vehicle. Craig and I were to sit in front. Tim and the packs in the truck bed. We hesitated only a second. The alternative was heat exhaustion.
“Gracias,” Tim and I said in unison. As if to prevent any lingering doubt on our part, the driver took out his wallet, proudly showing us a picture of his wife and three young children. He asked, “cuál es tu nombre?”
Through awkward introductions, we learned that this kind fellow’s name was Ángel.
The following half-hour drive illustrated the accuracy of the advice from the travel book. And how apt the name of our driver. He eventually stopped at a roadside gathering spot that appeared miraculously in the long stretch of road and motioned us to sit on one of the picnic tables under the large tent provided for travelers and shoppers. He returned shortly with three ice-cold bottles of Jarritos and a sweet chewy candy for Craig, refusing out attempts to pay for the treats. We greedily slurped the sodas down as we watched the throng of people shopping for trinkets, homemade tortillas, large bags of chips, colorful hats and so much more.
After the much-needed break, Ángel motioned us toward the truck and we continued the journey. This time, there was less hesitancy as we climbed into the truck. After another fifteen minutes, we saw gleaming white buildings in the distance Ángel smiled and said, “Todos Santos!”
We passed palm trees, white mission-style buildings with archways along their length to open up views for the windows and doorways, and throngs of people in the clean streets.
“Hotel California?” Ángel asked.
“Sí, gracias!” I gushed.
Ángel pulled the truck in front of a white building with large letters spelling, “HOTEL CALIFORNIA.” Startled, we laughed as Ángel sang in perfect English, “Welcome to the Hotel California. Such a lovely place!”
And it was lovely. Not the prettiest building in town. Not the newest building. But a welcoming refuge. Our refuge.
We said our farewells showing extreme gratitude to Ángel, “Gracious so much!” Shaking his head with a smile, we heard plenty of words, but only understood, “De nada.”
We told our toddler to wave to our friend and Craig gleefully raised his pudgy hand, even blowing a kiss. As Ángel drove off, I regretted not asking for his picture or address, knowing that this would be one of our special memories. He was truly an angel to this unwitting family.
We checked into our vibrant orange room. A large welcoming bed was covered with a colorful quilt. Vibrant paintings on the walls. A gold gilded mirror dwarfed the maroon bathroom. The double doors to the balcony overlooking a quaint courtyard with the pristine pool curving into private corners. Large pots of flowering plants and trees. We donned our bathing suits and found our way to the pool.
Soaking in that refreshing cool water in the shade of an aromatic eucalyptus plant, Tim and I watched Craig joyfully splashing in the pool and appreciated just how lovely a place this Hotel California was, and how lucky we were!
Author: Lucinda Hauser
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