Perils of Caffeine in the Evening

It occurs to me that I haven’t covered our itinerary in Baja.  Tomorrow, we’ll fly from Seattle to Phoenix to Hermosillo (on the mainland) to Loreto, on the Baja coast of the Sea of Cortez.  Our leader is acquainted with the owners of a hotel in Loreto, and we’ll stage our stuff there and stay there Tuesday night.  On Wednesday, we’ll fit out our rented kayaks and head for Isla Carmen, one of a group of islands in the Sea of Cortez that comprise a national park.  We’ll base camp there and do day trips for a couple of days, then move to a couple of other campsites.  We’ll be on the water for 5 - 6 days in all.  Then it’s back to Loreto for a couple days of mountain biking, then back to Seattle.

We’re supposed to pick Spanish nicknames.  I’ve been mulling this over for several days.  “El Jefe” is a non-starter, a he’ll be the guy any potential abdcutors will execute first.  “El Guapo” is out, too, and not for the most obvious reason (false advertising) - he’s the first one they’ll violate repeatedly with specially textured pinatas.  I think I’ve settled on “Mojito” - a trendy drunk, a modicum of mojo.

Got the passport - everything went swimmingly.  It has been a few years since I’ve been inside a federal office.  Since Oklahoma City, they’ve been scanning everyone at the door similar to when you board an airplane.  I was also taken aback by the ubiquity of George W’s mugshot.  Since I don’t watch TV news, I’m probably more familiar with George W’s face as presented by syndicated cartoonists than I am with actual photographs.  The poor devils in the Passport office were thrice cursed, having to work under the gaze of the unholy trinity of GW, Cheney and Powell.  I’d probably crack.

Also hadn’t been downtown in daylight for some time.  Walked through the Pike Place Market and up First Avenue (no low-flying fish today), home to the venerable strip club The Lusty Lady.  I’ve never been inside the club (my wife reads this sometimes), but they’re most renowned for their two-sided theatre-like marquee on the street that always has some sort of ribald snippet.  For the holiday,  on one side, it read, “Our birds come with no dressing”;  on the other, “Happy Spanksgiving”.

With 12 hours to go before my airport shuttle arrives, I’m starting to get serious about putting stuff in the two duffel bags I’m checking through.