Dispatch from Guaymas

San Carlos, Guaymas, Sonora, Mexico

Such beauty should not be so surreal.

Our waitress’ name is Sara Elizabeth. We’ve managed to communicate through a combination of broken Spanish and inference. It is so beautiful here I could die. There is no stamp in our passports to prove we came but there is the mark of the sun on our skins and the photos in my camera. I haven’t felt this way anywhere in a long time.

Now, off to drink Negro Modelo and read 1984 on the sand in San Carlos. I am so thankful to be here and thankful to have a friend like Thomas to come here with.

He says that we can never come back here, and he is right. This place will never be the same, will never exist again quite this way for anyone else. Twenty-three and twenty-five years old, we like to think that we are keepers of a secret wisdom, one that we are slowly unfolding even for ourselves. We are searching for that thing called life that seems to elude all of us all to easily as we go about the business of existing.

What we are experiencing now is worth the bedbug bites. These are a part of life. Everything I have already experienced is in preparation for that which I still must experience. The ocean’s waves are roaring in this place with clear blue water and endless smiling faces.

Leo, the contractor who picked us up, told us about this place and offered us another ride should we find ourselves stranded. Thomas and I are perhaps the perfect hitch-hiking duo, both of us willing to have an adventure.

It seems almost too perfectly Romantic, the two of us here at the ocean, reading Walden and 1984, searching for connection with the kind of reality that existed before the internet. THoughts of it still lurk in my mind even as my distance from it increases.

From now on, I am making a pact with myself to be as close to reality as possible, to use the internet sparingly to communicate, to seek out visions in the places I already live. There is magic that exists in the places far less than 700 miles away.