(Note to readers: You’ve heard from Mr. Bones and me, but up to now, we’ve never featured the van, without whom van life would not have been possible. What, you ask, does the van represent? The van is the key to my van life dream and a symbol of whatever your secret dream may be. Are you also secretly “Born to be Wild?”)

After deciding, four years ago, to try van life, I left Washington, DC, and returned to the Hoosier state, Indiana, to find an honest man selling an honest van.

You see, you don’t find a lot of honest men selling honest vans in DC. Many men there sell their own dishonesty, which is a different kind of vehicle.

Everyone said I was crazy, but I already knew that. On the outside, I looked like a typical retiree, but on the inside, I was “born to be wild.” Helmet and all.

When I got home, I ignored the naysayers and began searching my hometown for an honest man selling a van. A guy named Mike, a retired shop mechanic who worked on the assembly line at the International Harvester plant for 30 years, was selling his Toyota van—just what I was looking for. Small and inconspicuous.

Maybe I didn’t seem impressed enough by his factory floor credentials.

“Look, I’ll show you,” he said, holding up his left hand. The pinkie finger was missing. My eyes popped out.

“Got that caught in the metal press on the shop floor one day,” Mike said. “Took it clean off.” I was trying to process that when he spoke again; he had the need.

“You know what that taught me?” he asked. I opened my mouth to answer, but he cut me off. “You got to follow the procedures and do things the right way.”

“Mike,” I interjected, before he could show me more missing parts, “You’ve convinced me.”

Honest Man, Honest Van

I knew it was the van for me when he lifted the hood and showed me an engine block clean enough to eat off. I began to cry; a clean engine will do that to a man.

Mike patted my shoulder and asked me if I wanted a tissue; I shook my head

I asked him about acceleration.

It’s bad enough driving a van; a guy doesn’t want to get his van doors blown off all the time. He told me the XLE six-cylinder model had a lot of get-up-and-go.

I paid him and climbed in. The van got up and went, all the way to Denver.

In Denver, I converted the van into a camper by ripping out the rear seats and adding a sleeping platform and a cook station in the back. From the outside, it would look like a normal van.

My brilliant plan was to do a book tour, boondocking across America, also known as stealth camping. In many cities and towns, it is a violation of vagrancy laws.

After 40 years as a law-abiding adult, I enjoyed being a scofflaw for a change. To me, parking overnight was not first-degree murder; it didn’t seem to hurt anyone.

Besides, a lot of beautiful young people did it.

They posted pictures of themselves looking great in their vans on social media. Everybody who saw them said it looked really cool.

But when I did it and posted pictures, I looked like a fat old man in a van. Fortunately, I had adopted a cute dog. People loved the photos of Mr. Bones.

Now, my dog, Mr. Bones, had a name, but my van still did not.

“What are we going to call you?” I asked my van one day.

“Why are you talking to the van?” Mr. Bones asked me. “Vans can’t talk.”

“Dogs can’t talk, either,” I retorted. “But just listen to you!”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Go ahead. I’d like to hear what the van has to say.”

The previous owner, Mike, had never talked to the van, so it took me a while to coax words out of him.

Once he was ready to talk, I asked him, “What do you like to do?”

“I like to GO!” he said.

“How about if we call you VanGo?” I asked. He nodded; he liked that idea.

VanGo was a real workhorse, hauling ass on the highway, taking me everywhere I wanted to go, never complaining about climbing over mountains or stubbing his tires in city potholes.

But he suffered from vanity, a van inferiority complex.

When a huge diesel lift truck coal-rolled its way past us on the highway, with its loud oversized tires grinding up the pavement, his shocks sank in shame.

I tried telling him he was the perfect van for me, and that lift trucks were just big bullies. And that I could not love him anymore if he were twice as big.

A Man, A Van, No Plan

On a cold April day in 2023, the book tour ended in Fargo, North Dakota.

VanGo wanted to know where we would go next and what we would do; I had never thought about it.

I had assumed fame and fortune would find me quickly, but we never caught sight of either one. (If you run into them, send them my way.)

“Can I have a tune-up?” VanGo said. “Mike tuned me up every 25,000 miles.”

It pained me to say no after 30,000 miles, but I shook my head. “We didn’t make any money on the book tour. We need to keep our expenses down. Sorry, buddy.”

“Ok” he said, his headlights downcast at the ground. “I’m alright for now.”

At that point, he had just under 150,000 miles on his engine. I didn’t realize I had accidentally become a nomad, or that we’d spend the next four years on the road.

I wasn’t making enough to pay for costly car repairs, but I didn’t tell him.

Who Needs Money?

My book continued its slow death online; a sensible person would have quit.

But I had come up with the brilliant idea to spend only my monthly Social Security check on the road. As long as I could forgo creature comforts, we could travel indefinitely.

Finally, I decided to give up writing books. Instead, I began to write a blog people could subscribe to for free. I was every dreamer who started something new with no idea how to make a living at it.

I’m not the only dreamer; maybe you’re one. You know you’re a dreamer if you open a gas station and put up a sign that says, “Free gas! Donate what you can.”

I was one of those aging hippies who had always thought money was overrated. Honk if you think money sucks.

Van “Dammage”

We kept going month after month; the odometer kept ticking up. But just like an old man, an old van can’t last forever.

By the end of our fourth year on the road, I had racked up 115,000 total miles. I am a safe driver; we’d never had a traffic accident. But VanGo took a beating in other ways.

I tried to drive poor VanGo to the bottom of Copper Canyon in Mexico. On the way down, his brakes failed. I had to drive into a cliff, or we’d have all died.

It hurt him like hell when his front grill hit the rock wall.

”Hey,” he said. “You just broke my nose!”

“Sorry,” I said, “It was that, or we’d go over the cliff and explode in a ball of fire.”

‘OK,” he said. “I get it. But go easy on me. I’m trying to maintain my good looks.”

That wasn’t the only injury he suffered.

In July 2022, meth-heads in Montana rammed a pick-up truck into the rear end of my van after midnight, just for fun. As we drove through Leon, Mexico, something or someone pulled the bumper off the back of the van.

The insults and injuries went on and on.

After driving 1,200 miles from Mexico in June to the U.S. Border, a mechanic looked him over and said, “Don’t tell him, but his old shocks are shot.”

VanGo had been asking me for new shocks for a long time. What could I say?

The Van and the Man Are Not Getting Any Younger

Look, I’m 68; I’m easily two-thirds of the way through my useful lifespan.

With 215,000 miles on the Odo, VanGo is not going to live forever, either. He’ll be lucky to make it to 300,000 miles before he needs an engine rebuild or a new transmission.

I don’t know which will go first, but I can’t afford either one.

Where am I going to get that kind of money? After a year of working almost full-time on the blog, it’s only generating about $100 a month in subscription income.

I hardly know where to spend all the money! But who needs money? I prefer being poor and having the freedom to write what I want once a week.

People who love money just can’t understand it. (“Money, it's a hit
Don't give me that do goody-good bullshit.”)

I also like publishing on Substack. It puts my work in front of readers, without forcing me to go through agents and publishers who reject me over and over.

And 5% of the people on Substack choose to pay for a subscription, probably the same people who put money in the donation bucket to help pay for the free gas.

My kind of people.

Life Is Like Cheese

When I started out, actress Brie Larson, who starred in the Captain Marvel movies, had just announced she was getting into van life. She was very excited. The Nissan Corporation was very excited too, because Brie Larson looks like this.

Nissan gave Brie a new van, and paid to customize it. She drove it to the beach, and posted a picture of herself, showing how happy the van made her.

Brie instantly had one million followers, which made me think that finding a following was as easy as spreading Brie on a baguette.

At the time, I had no followers and didn’t even own a swimsuit, so I stayed off the beach; there are laws about that kind of thing.

But if she could identify as cheese and get a million followers, I figured I could, too. I rebranded myself as Camembert, that other soft, ripe, round French cheese.

I was ready for my free van.

I wrote to the chairman of Nissan in Japan and let him know I was a French cheese, and asked for my free van. But I never heard back and never got the van.

I also wrote to the head of Toyota, telling him how great VanGo was, and offered to do free publicity, including posting pictures of myself in a bathing suit.

I haven’t heard back from Toyota, either.

Don’t Let VanGo Become VanGone

I’m not waiting any longer for a free van from Nissan or Toyota.

Now, I’m looking for an honest, tender-hearted Toyota mechanic who will cry upon reading this story. If you know such a mechanic, please share this story.

Encourage him or her or them to donate free labor for VanGo’s next major overhaul. I’ll accept the first legitimate offer.

To the kind-hearted mechanic: be gentle with VanGo, please.

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We met at the Baked Potato, the oldest continuously operating jazz club in LA, to hear Banned From Utopia, which turned out to be a Frank Zappa cover band.

That meant we were in for a wild musical ride, of which Cranky-Frank himself would probably not approve. If he were still alive. Which he is not.

Yet despite the intense, high-energy music, which had the slimy walls shaking and the ginormous potatoes baking, I could barely keep my eyes open.

My friends, Mark and Steve, were nodding along with the music. Even my dog, Mr. Bones, was having a good time, but I couldn’t stop coughing. I kept nodding off during the show. My friends gave me concerned looks when I woke up.

I felt like I was getting sick, but the thing is, I don’t get sick. I’m not allowed to.

Later, when I got into bed, my mind started to rewind. Where and when did I pick up a bug? I mentally retraced my steps for the past week. And the last four years.

Normal people get sick. For four years, I haven’t gotten sick.

When I got into van life four years ago, getting sick wasn’t an option. It was just me and my dog on the road. If I got sick, who would drive? If I had to go to the hospital, who would feed my dog and take care of him?

I couldn’t let them take my dog to another shelter where he’d be miserable again.

So, for four years, I never got ill until I had an emergency case of appendicitis last summer. They had to helicopter me to a medical center. I had to leave my dog with someone. I couldn’t die, because I had to come back to get my dog.

Sometimes, I push myself too hard for too long; a lot of us do. It’s called Life in America. We rest when we die.

I had made it to the workshop despite encountering a heat dome, wildfires, and flash floods on the way there from Mexico. At the workshop, I met other aspiring travel writers; we sat together in small meeting rooms and confabulated.

A lot of hot air was released at the workshop; maybe a few bugs got loose there, too. The workshop ended on Sunday afternoon. I headed to LA, still feeling fine.

I drove six hours south to LA to visit my old friend, Steve. He and his wife lost their house last year in the Eaton Fire. I had been on my way from Joshua Tree a year ago to visit them, but high winds and dust storms on the road forced me to detour to San Diego.

That night, he told me the Eaton Fire was headed their way. The next morning, I got a message: they were safe, but their house was gone. It was not a time to visit.

A year later, I felt a need to go see him. When I got to his house, Steve smiled bravely, and I finally got to give him a long overdue man hug from a year ago.

Soon after, we got in his car and drove to his old house up in Altadena, an old LA neighborhood that sits high up on the slopes of the San Gabriel Mountains. As we drove along, he pointed out where the landmarks used to be, but no longer are.

As the sun was setting and the evening light was fading, we visited his old plot of land, on which I saw that nothing of the original structure remained.

He posed for a proud picture in front of the new foundation; they are rebuilding their home, more fire-proof than before.

It was silent and windy as night fell in the empty neighborhood. Sadness and helplessness about the tragedy of the Eaton Fire overwhelmed me.

But this too wasn’t where the bug got me, so I kept looking.

Thursday was a busy day, trying to track down another LA friend, Joyce, who had also lived in Altadena. She had also lost her home. Online, I read that she had since relocated to Angel’s Gate Cultural Center in San Pedro, a historic seaside neighborhood of LA.

I couldn’t reach Joyce by cell or via email, so I felt an urgent need to see if she was okay. It took an hour to get there through LA traffic.

Arriving late, I rushed into the first building I saw, a gallery, and asked about her. The two women staffing the gallery looked at each other, and then at the floor.

“Oh, no,” I thought. “Bad news?”

One of them took a deep breath and told me that Joyce had passed away some years ago.

Stunned, I protested, “But I saw her just two years ago, and she lost her house last year!”

The two women looked at each other again. “What is Joyce’s last name?” they asked. When I told them, they said, “Oh, that Joyce is actually fine. We meant another Joyce.”

‘So my Joyce is still alive?” I asked. “Yes,” they said, “but she has already left here.”

I’m still trying to locate her.

Friday morning, on my birthday, I expected to wake up feeling great.

But when I woke up in my dingy motel room, I had a head full of wet cement; a fire burned in my joints. My glutes ached as I staggered to the sink to splash water on my face.

When I tried to wet my wild-looking hair and drag a comb through it, even my hair hurt. It hurt even more to look at it.

“Fiends from hell,” I thought, “Am I sick? I’m not going to let a dumb cold or flu ruin my birthday. I am a van lifer. We don’t get ill, especially when we are off the road, relaxing in LA.

Zut alors! Alone on my birthday!

All my human friends in LA had jobs and had to work all day. My dog, who is not otherwise employed, except for licking me, was happy to help me celebrate.

So, I took Bones out for a nice brunch at the Park Bench Café in Huntington Beach Central Park, a lovely location on a perfect summer day. But by the time we got to the café, I was coughing furiously. I told myself I must have something stuck in my throat. I ate a small cinnamon bun to soothe my throat.

Ignoring the persistent cough, next, we went to Dog Beach, where Bones had a great time sniffing dog butts and private parts. By then, it was mid-afternoon, and I had four hours to kill before the show in LA, but then I remembered it takes hours to get across town. We started driving before rush hour.

Slowly, painfully, I hacked my way across LA.

Still coughing in Hollywood Hills. Shit. Not getting sick on my birthday. No!

About 5 p.m., we arrived at the Baked Potato. I found a prized parking spot on the street. My head felt warm, so I took a nap in the van. About seven, I approached the front door and asked the bouncers if they allowed dogs inside on the patio.

The smiling bouncers said yes, and in we went. Since it was my birthday, I ordered my favorite cocktail, a Negroni, and sipped on it while I waited for my friends to arrive.

Instead of making me feel a pleasant buzz, the Negroni almost knocked me out.

My friends drifted in and the night dragged on. I couldn’t focus on the music or on what they were saying. Somehow I got through the show and went to Steve’s house to sleep.

In the morning, over breakfast, I was lamenting how miserable I felt when it occurred to me for the first time that it might be COVID.

Steve’s eyes opened wide in alarm. He pulled a spare COVID test kit out of a drawer.

I was sure it would be negative like the other times I’ve tested. I did the nose swab, swirled the Q-Tip in the reagent, and inserted the test strip to get a result.

Ten minutes later, I saw a telltale pink line. It was positive. I stared at the test strip, then looked up at Steve, who was also curious. I showed him the strip.

I felt guilty, like a Trojan Horse, for accidentally sneaking the virus into his house.

“I’ve gotta leave, Steve,” I said. “I have to go self-isolate.”

“Sorry!” he said. “I wish I could help.” I knew he meant it.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said; I hoped he wouldn’t.

He gave me an N95 mask as I headed out the door to weather the storm. How bad could it be, other than a slow, agonizing death? But I hoped dying was unlikely.

After multiple vaccinations over the past six years, ChatGPT told me I only had to watch out for four serious warning signs, four hoarse men: Blue lips, difficulty breathing, chest pain, and confusion.

If I avoided those, I’d make it through. If not…

I ran out the front door with my dog, and we drove to yet another cheap motel. Where else could I go? I was thinking, “I better stock up on some food, and fast.”

On the way, I stopped at a grocery store, put on the mask, and got enough microwaveable food for a few days of hot meals: Chicken soup, chicken pot pies.

COVID in, chicken out.

And I got cold meds. Night and day.

The Motel 6 room wasn’t ready when I got there. I went across the street to a lavanderia that had no AC. To pass a couple hours, I forced myself to do my laundry in the sweltering heat and humidity under slow-turning ceiling fans.

I didn’t mind so much having to get through it alone; alone is how we live on the road.

But I hated having to wait extra for a god-damn cheap room. It was vintage Motel 6: scuffed floors, garish curtains, and the sickly scent of cleaning supplies.

And the fancy coffee machine in the motel lobby didn’t work. So no caffeine.

On Saturday night, my dog and I climbed into the big bed with the bad pillows and slept for 12 hours, something I never, ever do.

In the morning, my dog’s nose felt a bit dry to me. I felt bad for him; he was already exposed. Fortunately, he was perky; his appetite was normal.

Sunday was better. No blue lips. No confusion. No cement-head or fire-legs.

The day dragged by as I stared dully out the big picture window at people getting on and off the third-floor elevator. Going places I couldn’t go, doing things I couldn't do. Enjoying a freedom I didn’t have. I had put myself in prison and couldn’t unlock my cell for a few more days.

Monday morning came, more of the same.

Self-isolating sucked, but what could I do? I gritted my teeth and heated up another can of salty chicken soup, slurping it up from the paper bowl for lack of a spoon.

My dog fixed those big, brown, pleading eyes on me as the bowl emptied. “Aren’t you going to share any of that?” his eyes said. “I’m starving!”

“OK, here,” I said, laughing. “You can have the last of the soup and noodles.”

He slurped it up happily.

So, here I am, four days later.

The last symptoms diminished. I met the criteria to end my self-isolation and ventured back out into the big, wild world, wearing an obnoxious N95 mask.

Two days of half-suffocating in a hot, itchy N95 mask. It’s got to be done.

Now in San Diego. Finally making sense of it all. I had fallen ill after the adrenaline rush that propelled me to California from Mexico ebbed away.

After six years, the COVID virus had finally gotten to me, yet it wasn’t a fatal blow. A raucous night LA club didn’t give me COVID; the ghost of Frank Zappa probably did not try to curse me for falling asleep. I got COVID elsewhere.

Considering the options, a fellow writer likely infected me unawares. My fellow writers and I weren’t immune; even the inspired can expire from COVID.

Question: When was the last time you pushed yourself too hard and got sick?

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Hey, everybody,

I’m turning 68 this week. Even if time isn’t running out, I see it heading for the door. I was supposed to be a famous author by now, but my words have not found a massive audience. This birthday is hitting hard. Dreams denied, you know.

My words better hurry up. Verbs, get going! Nouns, name things!

Will I make it as a writer? I think I have a few good years in me after all the bad ones. Once, I thought that no one would ever read anything I had written.

After four years on the road with my dog, I’m glad a few people read me now. The blog just passed 500 subscribers, a major milestone and a rewarding feeling.

In the words of the Beatles, you could almost say, “I’m a paperback writer…”

“Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book? It took me years to write, will you take a look?”

That’s all I want from you; just take a look.

***

As a music nut, I think songs explain life. But songs, like other things, can betray you over time. Or maybe show you a new truth. In 1971, Neil Young released a song about his relationship with his father, titled “Old Man.”

“Old man, take a look at my life/I”m a lot like you were…/it doesn’t mean that much to me, to mean that much to you.”

As a young man, I sometimes saw my Dad that way. He thought he was right about things, with the benefit of his years. I often thought he was wrong; I’d show him. I didn’t need his approval; now, my two kids don’t need mine. Surprise!

When you get older, songs from your youth often come back to bite you, as do the prideful dreams you once had, such as my notion of becoming a famous author.

Not famous in a big way, just famous enough that enough people would read my book about Africa, consider what I was saying, and realize Africa actually matters.

Because it does, to me, at least.

Dream Weaver (or Dream Fever?)

Or maybe I’m just feeling some regrets after my first book, My Two Centuries in Africa, published in May 2022, died a slow, painful death on Amazon.

I tried to resuscitate it by doing a national book tour. I gave myself six months to drive to the lower 48 states and visit independent bookstores.

I was sure they would want to feature my book; they did not.

There I was, driving all over the country, refusing to give up on the book tour, even though I had learned early on that it was doomed. I had told everyone I would do it, so I had to finish it.

Then I went into the desert like a guy named Jesus, who saw things in the sand.

Me and Jesus Out in the Desert

I don’t hang out with Jesus much, but one day, in the desert, I might have caught a glimpse of something, like the way that guy Jesus saw things way back when.

In February 2023, out in the West Texas Desert, as I was driving along trying to finish up the last five states on the tour, I had an epiphany. A great revelation.

What the hell? I don’t get revelations. Inspired, yet mystified, I shouted, to no one in particular, “I’m Home Free!”

If you see it, say it!

My dog gave me a puzzled look: “What the heck does that mean?” he asked me.

For a moment, I didn’t know what it meant. I was not sure why I said it. Or how the words popped into my head; then the thought began to crystallize in my mind.

“I am Home Free,” I repeated. “Don’t you see?” Now, it shone like a diamond.

For the first time on the road, I had a name for what I was doing. I was claiming the freedom of not having a home or a mortgage.

Being home free was not the same as homeless. Not at all.

Unlike virtually everyone I knew, I didn’t have a mortgage or monthly rent. I had gotten rid of all my possessions by this point; it made me feel liberated and light.

My mind had created a phrase to replace homeless, the only word in English for someone who did not have a home. We all called home the American dream.

Home Free. A term to change our view of the world: if the road was freedom, maybe mortgages were slavery, and the old dream had become a nightmare.

Not for me, thanks.

At that moment, I realized I was hooked on the nomadic life.

It was not a habit I could kick; I had become a nomad. In that moment, a thousand ancient ancestors emerged from the bush and marched into my mind.

They welcomed me as a new, modern-day nomad. Off we went.

***

And yet.

Who the hell leaves home at 62 in a mini-campervan to drive all over the country promoting a book? Was I crazy, as my family and friends thought?

Does anyone else do crazy stuff? (If you do, please identify yourself. Maybe we can be friends.)

Lost and Found

When my career ended, and my job title fell away, I didn’t go to an office and achieve things every day. Suddenly. I was just another anonymous old man sitting at home silently.

Bored, I wanted to run outside and scream, “I’m mad as hell, and I won’t take it anymore,” but people frown on that sort of thing; the neighbors might call the cops.

I sat down and wrote a book about my 40 years fighting AIDS in Africa. Malaria, too.

But, as the question goes, so what? Who cares? I thought people would, but they didn’t. A slap in the face: People don’t care what a random old man used to do.

Fame and fortune never followed.

I swear I could hear them laughing in the distance, as they worshipped celebrities, athletes, the young and the beautiful, but never the elderly.

Like many retirees, I was easily lost and had difficulty trying to find myself.

The Boxer: A Punch in the Face

The philosopher Mike Tyson once said, ‘Everybody has a plan, until they get punched in the face.” No kidding.

Another famous fighter, Paul Simon, who had a gift with words, put it this way:

In the clearing stands a boxer/And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders/Of every glove that laid him down”

As a young man, I didn’t understand that. Why would a man go into the ring if he kept getting punched in the face? Then, one day in my sixties, I looked in the mirror and saw the scars from every blow that landed on me over 60 long years.

Those old song lyrics really began to hurt.

Finding Freedom

Although the first six months had disappeared in a high-speed haze, and my first book had died, I had found something valuable I wasn’t looking for: Freedom.

A freedom I had never known.

A wake-up-and-smell-the-dog-breath-in-your-face freedom. A smell-the-spicy-scent-of-the wild-grass-on-the-plains-in-the-morning.

A look-out-the-van-window-and-see-the-sunrise-and-the-big-blue-sky-above-you.

Not only could I wake up each day and go any direction, drive as far as I wanted, stay as long as I liked, and do what I wanted; now, I was good friends with the four elements: earth, sky, wind, and water.

If it rained or snowed or the wind blew or the sun baked, I was out in it, hoping for the mercy of the elements, but they showed pity to no man.

Freedom is great, but we have been taught to mistrust its seductive power.

“Freedom,” Kris Kristofferson sang, “is just another word for nothing left to lose.”

Hold on a sec, Kris, I call bullshit.

Maybe a hobo riding the rails has nothing left to lose. But for me, the freedom to roam is a pure aphrodisiac for the soul. We are built to wander; wander I must.

But what the hell do I know? All I can tell you is, I was lost, then I found a man-inside-me-I-didn’t-know. He knew me; he kept saying, “Keep going! Don’t stop.”

After that, the road kept calling me, and I never stayed in one place for long.

My Way (Or the Highway)

Van life went on as I imagined it during the daylight hours. I showed the world a brave face. I posted beautiful pictures online showing exciting aspects of van life.

As we flew along the highway, I could sing my own full-throated version of Frank Sinatra’s My Way. It was my anthem.

But if you listened closely, I was off-key. Even my dog said so. Besides, as the years passed, the lyrics insisted, ”..now the end was near… the final curtain.”

That curtain went down on me every night when the sun set. I could not avoid the truth that whispered to me in the silence of my sleep.

At night, inside the dark van, strange dreams took me back to key moments of my past life, to a time when I was still many marvelous things that had long since slipped away: a husband, a father, a career person, doing a job that felt important, that gave my life more meaning and made me feel proud and productive.

At night in the dark, when the dreams came, I was alone, with nowhere to hide. When I woke up, disturbed by the dreams, and looked around, once again, I was just a lonely old man in a van in an otherwise empty parking lot.

Somewhere.

In the morning, my dog would look at me and say, “Dude, you look like shit.” Really?

I would drive to a gas station to take my morning shit and get a cup of coffee. The dirty mirror in the men’s room usually showed me that he was right.

If he was wrong, I sure didn’t want another guy in the men’s room to tell me so.

Time Keeps on Ticking

So, as my 68^th birthday fast approaches, here it is.

You can’t stop time; my face proves it. I hear the clock ticking day and night. The second hand never stops; neither can I. Where would I go if I got off the road?

Another year, here I come. Until I turn 69, I hope the van holds out, and I do, too.

On Monday, my dog, Mr. Bones, and I arrived in the Bay Area, a week early, after driving 2,200 miles. I came here to attend another travel writing workshop.

What kind of van lifer puts himself through all that to attend a workshop?

Me.

But in a shocking development, circumstances forced me to attempt murder. I realize this may come as a shock. And I didn’t attempt murder once; I attempted murder every single day.

But please don’t report me to the police, because I didn’t kill anybody. Just time.

You see, I had a lot of time on my hands. Each day, I ran the clock down. The next day, the clock started all over again.

The other major question was where to sleep.

I am still living the van life. Everywhere I go, I have to find a safe place to park at night, avoid being ticketed or towed, and avoid being attacked by ne’er-do-wells.

My goal was to park for free or pay very little, not easy to do in the Bay Area.

***

Why did I arrive so early this year, you may ask?

Last year I got appendicitis a week before the workshop and had to be helicoptered to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy. After surgery, the hospital refused to discharge me unless I promised not to drive for a week. But I had to be

So, I lied. I didn’t want to lie; they made me do it.

So, this year, I arrived early in case any other vital organs conked out on the way. When you are 68 years old, you think about these things.

But I didn’t think ahead about where to stay. I avoided thinking about it. It’s an exhausting, endless quest. My main sources of stopovers were well-known: Harvest Hosts and Hipcamp, plus state and national campgrounds.

And cheap motels and hotels. But I avoid them; they insist on charging money.

Monday evening.

Desperate, I turned to a dog-friendly website called Bring Fido. It found me a cheap room at Solano Inn in a town called Vallejo, in the northeast Bay Area.

I had never heard of Vallejo. But I end up in a lot of strange places. When I reached the motel, the office was locked, so I approached the check-in window.

It was dark, so I tapped on the glass. While I waited for the clerk, I read the sign in the window, which stated the rules. One of them was: NO DOGS ALLOWED.

“What?” I sputtered. “How can they say that? Online, it said dog-friendly!”

An angry-looking young man materialized behind the glass and glared at me.

“WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?” he barked.

“My problem?’ I said. “Online, you advertised dog-friendly.”

He repeated, “No dogs allowed.” His face added, “If you argue, I will punch you.”

What fuckery is this, I wondered, and what could I do about it? Clearly, this fellow would be no help. After a lengthy phone call, I got a refund on the room.

I hoped Tuesday would be better, but I never know in a strange town. When I am on the road, all the towns are strange, and so are many of the people.

***

Tuesday.

Most of the day disappeared; soon it was afternoon.

I had made dinner plans with two van life friends from my trip to Mexico, Big Dan and his wife Ellen, who live in San Francisco. They seemed like the original Flower Power hippies: big hearts, little money, no worries.

Luckily, she had inherited a house in Twin Peaks.

We met at Little Shamrock Pub, on Lincoln Street, across the street from Golden Gate Park. The woman tending bar smiled and said, “Welcome!” to me and my dog. My friends arrived shortly after me, and we caught up on each other.

After dinner, they gave me a walking tour of Golden Gate Park, a lovely bit of the frozen Arctic. After an hour walking around in my short-sleeved shirt in the frigid breeze, I begged them for warmth, so I could try to revive my shivering limbs.

Plus, I needed to find a place to crash for the night.

Dan gave me a hot tip on a cool spot, next to the ‘Best Taco Bell in America.” He said, “It’s the only one that serves cocktails.” It was ten miles south in Pacifica.

I drove down there and spotted a lot with multiple campervans, including some in serious disrepair. The lot might look scary to some, but it looked like home to me.

I opened the van windows to smell the sea air. In the breeze was a smell vaguely like a wastewater treatment plant. I quickly shut the windows again.

‘Ah,” I said, “The sweet smell of shit.”

My dog looked up in surprise and said, “Hey, I like it, too!”

It was bleak, but after being surrounded by insane wealth in the Bay Area, feeling like a bum in my old road togs and my beat-up 2014 van, I felt more “at home.”

Also, it was only about 40 yards from the beach; even through the closed windows, I could hear, and even feel, the surf pounding on the dark beach.

About 10 pm. I saw a bright flashlight beam bobbing around in the dark, and heard a loud pounding on metal van doors. I knew my friends, the local police, had arrived.

“Drat,” I said to my dog, “What if they roust us out? We’ll need to find another place to sleep.”

When the cop got to me, he asked, “Do you know why I am here/?” Wisely, I resisted the smart-ass urge to say, “You’re looking for donuts?” I just said no.

He told me, “Sir, you can stay the night, but in the morning you have to leave and not come back. They will begin to ticket and tow tomorrow.

Another nice boondocking spot, busted.

***

Wednesday morning.

I got up early to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito up in Marin County. As we were leaving, I saw the surfers out on their boards in the cold fog.

I got a cup of gas station coffee and headed north through the thick morning fog. It made me slow down, but it seemed to make some of the local drivers speed up.

I arrived in Sausalito, a houseboat haven, and met Marika, a friend from DC, who lives on a houseboat belonging to her brother, who inexplicably does not live on it.

She said I could boondock in the parking lot of the dock, inexplicably named for a martial arts master. I will call it “Chuck Norris Dock.” It did not beat me up.

The cove was quiet. The evening breeze conveyed the scent of brine. I noticed a certain boatside Bohemian brio. The overnight boondock was a sleeping success.

No nefarious knocks in the night.

Thursday

The quest for a safe place to sleep continued. “Where should we go?” I asked. My dog said, “Why ask me? I’m a dog.”

True. But we needed somewhere to go and something to do. Dan had told me about a fabulous place called Point Reyes.

I drove up to Point Reyes National Seashore, with its life-saving lighthouse. A great place to visit on foot, but not to visit at night in a boat because of the dangerous waves and rocks far below.

I saw an enormous whale skull on display and wanted a picture with my dog. I asked a guy in a bike helmet to take the shot. His name was Henrik. He was a Danish guy who had just spent two months cycling across the US solo.

I said, “Can I tell you a secret? We Americans don’t really want Greenland.”

He laughed and said, ‘That’s good, because we won’t let you have it.”

The diplomatic ice broken, he opened up and told me his biggest challenge was not riding but finding a place to tent camp at night. I didn’t tell him that, in van life, I also had a hard time finding a place at night. It seemed like he wanted to commiserate with someone, but not to compete regarding his challenges.

Then it was time for both of us to go, he on his bike, I in my van.

From there, I drove 50 miles north on narrow, twisting Route 1 past the coastal cows of California to Bodega Bay, the last cool camp spot I could find on the coast in the endless heat of the California summer.

About 25 miles south of the Bay, I ran into thick smoke from the Woodside Fire, glowing orange in the afternoon sun. The overpowering burnt-wood smell forced me to close the windows and turn off the AC.

Luckily, when we got to Bodega Bay, the ocean breeze was blowing the smoke back up onto the mainland, so we were able to sleep easily through the night.

Friday

When I awoke and peeked out of the van, most of the smoke had blown off. I drove into Bodega Bay searching for caffeine and found Roadhouse Coffee.

A smiling, happy-faced guy named Dave from Kansas City walked by and said hi to my dog. I invited him to join us, then his whole Happy Family arrived. Families almost never join us, but they all did. Families are never all happy, but his was.

They surprised me by asking me about my writing, and then as a family, they listened to what I said. It almost made me cry, but I put on my big boy pants and got through it OK. They seemed to be on a mission to spread joy in America.

After a nice chat, we said goodbye and shook hands.

They said they were heading north. I warned them that Route 1 had been closed due to the Woodside Fire, and to drive inland and take Highway 101 north.

In return, Dave suggested that, as a writer, and my dog, as a dog, might enjoy seeing the Jack London Historic Site in Glen Ellen, south of Sonoma. I agreed^. We took a twisting, turning route there and encountered little smoke on the way.

But on arrival, it annoyed me and my dog to see that the State Historical Society had made the museum off-limits to dogs. This, in the former home of a man who was famous for writing about dogs.

My dog looked at me and said, ‘How ironic.” The visit killed half of the afternoon.

We murdered the rest of it looking for a spot for the night. All I could find online was another cheap room in my favorite East Bay town, Vallejo. Oh, Lord.

Saturday morning, about 7 a.m., a young guy in a hoodie, standing outside my motel room, started shouting for someone named Daniel, who did not answer. He kept shouting for about half an hour. Good morning!

His insistent shouting made me wonder if he might just possibly be on drugs.

I thought of opening my door and telling him, “Hi. I’m Daniel, what do you want?” Then I thought, what if he actually wants to kill Daniel? From an unfortunate encounter, I knew that people on meth can become violent.

I hate it when people kill me, so I didn’t say anything.

Thanks to him, we were up and out early with a whole day ahead of us and nothing to do. Mr. Bones said, ”Hey. How about going to a dog park?” Great idea.

I found out one of America’s best dog parks is at Point Isabel. There, my dog ran loose. Other dogs dove in the bay. My dog always tells me, “A terrier is a land dog.”

Later, I spent an hour online trying to find a parking spot.

After running out of luck, I called Dan, who, ever helpful, told me about a brewery on nearby Alameda Island, the site of a former naval base, so I drove over there.

I poked my head in the door of the brewery and asked them if it was dog-friendly. It can go one of two ways. People have the prohibitive Power to Say No, and the pleasant Possibility of Saying Yes. Which would it be?

The bartender looked up and said, “We only allow service dogs. So, if I ask you, tell me he is a service dog.” I can’t lie, but I can follow instructions.

He didn’t ask; I didn’t tell.

I found a cool spot under a shade sail at a picnic table to while away the time. I looked around. Unlike everywhere else in the Bay Area, I saw enormous, empty, unfenced parking lots. Boondocking heaven!

The empty lots called out to me, “Spend the night here!”

I asked if there was a spot where I could park my van for the night. The bartender said, ”Park in back.” It was so quiet that later, I heard a rat tap-dance on the roof.

That’s how an aging van lifer who arrives early manages to kill time for a week.

Note to readers: Despite killing time daily, Carl remains at large in the Bay Area. Just think: You, too, could be a van lifer, search for places to sleep, and kill time!

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Hello dear readers.

I sure hope your summer is going better than mine.

In the last month, I have driven 2,200 miles solo from Michoacan, Mexico, to San Francisco, to find myself in the throes of a massive heat dome and wildfires.

Not my idea of a fun time, but maybe you go for that sort of thing.

Why? I had signed up to attend a travel writing workshop in California in August. No one in their right mind drives that far to attend a workshop, but I do.

We made it back to the US on July 1^st and stumbled into a massive heat dome that ensnared the West. On the weather map, I couldn't find a way to escape the heat.

We needed to make a run for it. We were camping in the van, in the heat

The weatherman said that there might be a break in the heat for two days, July 21-22. We might make it through Utah and Nevada before the heat spiked again.

But my van was making strange noises. I needed to fix it before we left. The mechanic said he could fix the brakes and suspension and put on a set of new tires, all on the 21^st, but then he ran into serious difficulty.

Suddenly, the repairs stretched into the next day. Dang it. Only one day left for us to escape the infernal heat dome.

The next morning, we camped out at the tire shop. The weather man announced bad news. “Possibility of torrential rains and flash flooding tonight!” Oh, crap.

My dog and I hit the road under dark and threatening clouds.

“Please, God,” I said, ”Don’t unleash a biblical flood. Haven’t I suffered enough?” God looked down. “I’m not done with you yet. You’ve been a bad boy.”

Maybe we all have.

I hit the gas, and we headed west on US 160.

By the time we reached Cortez, Colorado, the rain began to fall, lightly. I set my wipers on low, and they whacked the drops off the windshield. I could still see.

After Cortez, we headed northwest toward Dove Creek.

The rain intensified; the wipers could no longer whack it away. Visibility dropped to about 25 feet; the rain pounded loudly on the roof of the van.

I turned on my emergency blinkers and slowed down, looking for a place to get off the road. We pulled into a reservation casino parking lot, where we sat and watched the downpour. The rain, mixed with mud, was flowing like a stream across the casino parking lot.

After a while, the rain let up, and we got back on the road. I wanted to make it to Natural Bridges National Monument in Utah, where I had a campground reservation.

By Dove Creek, the rain picked up. Water pooled up at the traffic lights, reaching hub height on low-riding vehicles like mine. I drove away from the lights slowly, watching the vehicles in front to see if they ran into any deep potholes.

Going forward was scary, but there was nowhere to stop; waiting might be worse.

On we went.

We crossed an invisible state line. A mysterious voice on my phone, which always seemed to know where I was, even when I didn’t, said, “Welcome to Utah.”

Thanks a lot. Turn off the water. I was having an attack of “sodden-freude.”

Still the rain came down, like some endless god-damn biblical deluge. There was no radio signal, no cell signal, no way to get an update on the flood risk.

Bolts of lightning split the dark, ominous sky. Claps of thunder shook the van. My poor dog trembled. He tried to climb into my lap.

We pulled off the road at turnouts. Faster drivers in bigger vehicles passed us. We crossed bridges over arroyos that were normally dry. Now I saw raging torrents of storm runoff as thick as a mud milkshake and topped with dangerous debris.

It was damned if you drive, damned if you don’t. We didn’t know which was worse.

***

About 5 p.m., we arrived at Natural Bridges National Monument on UT Route 95. I looked for a ranger on duty to give us a weather update, but the office was dark and closed. No information was posted on the door about possible flood risk.

Figures. The Park Service budget was cut; a lot of staff were laid off.

A young man hopped nervously from one foot to the other in front of the office. He asked me how the roads had been east of there. I told him it was dicey. He said, “I tried to drive west, but I hit a washout and had to turn back.”

I looked at his lift truck. It had oversized off-road tires, a good foot of ground clearance, and a flood snorkel. If he couldn’t continue west, neither could we.

***

The rain continued all evening, pinning us down in the van. The next morning, the sun was shining, the sky was blue. Had the whole thing been a bad dream?

We left the park and drove until my phone made a “ding ding” sound. It had picked up a cell signal. Eager for an update on conditions, I Googled, “flooding.”

Up popped a news report about a family of five from Provo that had drowned the day before during the downpour in a slot canyon west of Capitol Reef National Park, our next stop.

‘Oh, my God!” I said. Mr. Bones stared at me. The news set my imagination in motion.

I thought of the sheer terror the family must have felt, trapped in a slot canyon, seeing a wall of muddy water and debris bearing down on them. The father was a fire chief from Provo. I presumed he could handle many emergency situations.

But not this one.

That morning, we tried to tour Valley of the Gods National Monument, located near the better-known Monument Valley. Both are located on Navajo land.

The park road was mostly dry, but I finally had to stop at the five-mile marker. The dirt and gravel road dropped down about six feet into a deeply rutted gully.

I flagged down a lift truck that had just driven toward us through the gully. The young man driving looked out his window and down at my old, ground-hugging van, where I sat a few feet below him, and he shook his head.

“I don’t think that van is gonna make it. But I can wait here if you want to try.”

I shook my head. I had spent thousands fixing the van and did not want it to break down again.

We turned around and headed on to Capitol Reef National Park, the last major park in Utah still on my bucket list. The name intrigued me. “Capitol” was for the monumental rock monoliths. “Reef” was for the long, tall, rippling rock walls.

The park was amazing and awe-inspiring, but as much as I wanted to enjoy the sights, I still could not stop thinking about the family that had drowned.

It was so random. As life often is.

What a summer!

The entire time we had been back in the US, we had been bedeviled by extreme weather patterns (heat domes, wildfires, and a nationwide flooding event).

The National Weather Service had, in hindsight, termed the day of unusually heavy rain out West an “anomalous monsoonal moisture—2 to 4 standard deviations above normal.”

In plain English, it was either really unusual or perhaps a true freak of nature.

When I was growing up in the 60s and 70s, weather events like that did not occur often. Back then, summers were hot, winters were cold.

Now, every summer seems to be the hottest ever.

I wanted to stop driving and get off the road, but we had to keep going. We had nowhere to stop, no safe refuge, only more blistering heat in the Nevada desert.

Sometimes I hate the elements; I wonder if they hate me, or maybe all of us.

The elements had baked me like a potato, smoked me like a ham, and soaked me overnight, the way my Mom used to soak dry beans to make a big pot of soup.

Call me “Mr. Bean.” Maybe we had been traveling in Hell’s Kitchen.

Travel is a taskmaster; I couldn’t stop till I reached San Francisco. I never give up.

We still had to drive across the rest of Utah and cross Nevada on Route 50, often called the “Loneliest Road in America.”

At that point, I was so tired and irritable, I would probably call it a barren, brain-numbing drive across endless desert and up and over stark mountain ranges. But after three days of slogging across the final two states, I reached my destination.

I wrote this blog in a bookstore coffee shop in Marin County. Thanks to the coastal climate, the high temperature out here this week is a balmy 70F.

I enjoy the cool, moist fog, but I fear what the weather has in store for us next.

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FYI, the story isn’t about me or my dog, it’s about a heat dome that fried my brain. I had just come back from Mexico to attend a travel writing workshop in August in San Francisco, the coolest city in America in the summertime.

Little did I know that Mother Nature would punish me for escaping the heat.

You don’t expect Mother Nature to hunt you down, but sometimes She does. I had returned to the US on July 1st from Mexico, hoping that I’d feel safe and welcome.

Instead, I drove into a barrage of nature’s worst weather hazards: a huge heat dome compounded by wildfires popping up and smoke that made me choke.

For me and millions of others out West, it was a disaster on an epic scale

I wasn’t totally unaware of weather hazards. When I got into van life back in 2022, I learned about extreme, unrelenting heat. I spent the last four years fleeing up into the mountains in the summer to escape the brutal heat.

On the road, extreme weather is a merciless adversary that hunts me down and preys on me. In July, a heat dome trapped me in the Western United States.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I crossed the border at Agua Prieta, Mexico, on July 1^st and entered Arizona. I imagined a warm welcome, but not one quite this hot.

The heat dome felt like the hot breath of a giant beast preparing to devour me.

I hate hot weather. The hot air envelopes me; my skin begins to burn. The challenge of coping with hot weather has gotten worse as I got older, too.

I was talking to a friend and said, “This heat dome feels as if somebody wrapped me in aluminum paper like a potato and put me in a hot oven.”

My dog, a wise-ass, retorted. ”Wrapped in aluminum paper, eh. Foiled again!”

Our first stop in the US was Tucson.

It was 98°F when we arrived, but the next morning it was over 100°F. From four years of van life, I knew we had to get to higher ground to find cooler weather.

We drove up to Prescott, Arizona, at over 5,000 feet, but it was almost 90F. I looked at a map of Arizona to find the coolest place to camp. We drove east across the state to Show Low in the White Mountains, but even there, it was too hot.

“Why is it so hot everywhere?” I asked someone. They stared at me as if I were mad and said: “It’s because of the heat dome.”

I stared at them, uncomprehending. Heat dome?

“Haven’t you heard of it?” they asked. “Where have you been, man, on the moon?”

‘Close,” I said. “We were in the mountains in Mexico. It was much cooler there”

‘Cooler?” they said, incredulously. “In Mexico?”

It sounded crazy, but it was true.

I had fallen into a massive heat dome. When I was a kid, we didn’t have heat domes. We just had summer. In Indiana, summer was always hot and humid.

But, with time came progress; now we have huge heat domes and polar vortices.

In the Midwest or South, summer is so humid, you could be boiled alive, like a frog in a pot. Out West, it’s dry. It feels like you’re being cooked in an air fryer.

In a heat dome, you could come out nice and crispy.

Hounded by the Heat Dome of 2026, the only way out was up.

A rule of thumb in van life, for van lifers like me who do not have AC, is that you get 5F of cooling for every 1,000 feet of elevation gain. Starting at 5,000 feet in Arizona, I should have been able to get from 90F to 80F at 7,000 feet in Flagstaff.

So I contacted my friend Jody in Flagstaff. She said she wasn’t home. I thought she was at the mall or something. I asked her when she’d be home.

“On about July 22^nd”, she said. ‘We left because of the Pocket Fire and the smoke.”

“Oh, shit,” I said, “Sorry about that. Be safe and stay cool, wherever you are.”

Forest fires on top of a heat dome. Sick. The two often feed off of each other. So we started out for Santa Fe, about 300 miles to the east, also at over 7,000 feet.

Then I got a brilliant idea and told my dog, “Let’s just drive up into Colorado. It’s the highest state in the US. I’m sure it will be cooler there.”

Three hours later, we arrived in Durango, Colorado, a small town that sits in the southwestern corner of the state, at 6,500 feet of elevation, in the shadow of the towering San Juan Mountains.

But even at 6,500 feet, it was still uncomfortably hot. I knew that we would be outside all day, every day. Spending a whole day outdoors in the heat is hard on a man my age, and even harder on my hairy beast.

“So,” I said, ”we have to go up to the mountains, where it is cooler. We started to drive up to Silverton, Colorado, a small town high in the mountains at 9,300 feet.

You may wonder why we did not just stay in a hotel.

The main impediment to staying in hotels is that they charge money, a useful commodity we unfortunately do not have in abundance. We travel very cheaply.

We had enough for gas and for cheap meals and campsites, but not enough to spend three weeks in motels that charge daily pet fees on top of the room rate.

We could not find a cool place indoors to hang out during the heat of the day. Like most states, Colorado doesn’t allow dogs in restaurants and coffee shops. Public libraries, pools, and rec centers also exclude man’s best friend.

If you can’t exclude your best friend, who can you exclude?

So we had to sit outside. Every day. All day.

If we stayed in the shade, we could tolerate the heat in the morning. But by noon, my dog was panting, I was hot, and my brain had largely stopped functioning.

So, we got on US 550 and started driving up the narrow, two-lane road from Durango to Silverton, which climbs from 6,500 feet up to 9,300 feet.

For those who live in the Midwest or the South, where the land is flat and roads are straight, let me explain driving up a road like US 550 to Silverton this way.

Take a straight, flat road that you normally use. Tilt it at a 45-degree angle. Using a pair of scissors, scrape the road as if it were a Christmas ribbon, so it becomes curly. Remove the land on one side of the road, and replace it with a drop-off of 300 feet. Add boulders above the road that could fall on you at any moment.

Look, I’m not a coward, but narrow mountain roads scare the crap out of me.

I laugh at danger, but up in the mountains, danger laughs back. Never laugh at a mountain. It is a lot bigger than you are. It can drop a boulder on you.

Silverton! After an hour of white-knuckle driving, we finally made it.

We had climbed out of a sea of heat and onto an island of cool. Cool air, that is. One marvel of nature is that it hides an abundance of cool air at higher elevations.

We survived the drive to Silverton, a lovely historic town, only to discover we could not breathe due to thick smoke from the Gold Mountain Fire near Ouray.

The air was cool, but it burned our throats. We had finally climbed high enough to escape the heat only to be betrayed by wildfire smoke.

The smoke made me cough, and my eyes began watering. I could barely make out the outlines of ghost-like high mountain peaks through the dense smoke.

It was high season for crowds of summer tourists undeterred by the wildfires but desperate to escape the heat in the Western US. The hotels were full to capacity. We decided to camp in the nearby national forest west of town on Mineral Creek.

The campgrounds had free spaces, and we found a nice shady spot to park for the night under the stars, but the orange sky at sundown indicated smoke in the sky.

We weren’t alone; Smokey the Un-Bearable had followed us.

Due to the cool mountain temperatures, I closed all the windows overnight in the van to spare our lungs. Fortunately, the van is not airtight. We did not suffocate, although the mosquitoes complained. They could not get out after biting us.

Late that night I happened to look out and saw that the smoke had cleared off and left a stunning view of the night sky and the pine trees, an image from a dream.

We enjoyed the weekend high in the mountains, but Monday, we had to leave. We drove out of the campground on a crystal clear morning that appeared surreal. If only we had had days upon days like these, we might never have left Silverton.

But I had to write my blog. There was nowhere in town an aspiring writer could sit for hours sponging off free Wi-Fi after ordering a cup of coffee. And with the Golden Mountain wildfire still burning twenty-five miles away, it was unlikely that we would have more than an occasionally clear morning or evening soon.

We spent the next few weeks fleeing from campground to campground or from one Harvest Host to another, sweltering through the day, waiting for the cool air of the high desert evenings to provide us with a blissful night of sleep in the van.

When you’re exhausted by extreme heat all day, there’s really nothing better than a van bed that is only 2.5 feet wide with 18 luxurious inches of headroom.

To help the math-challenged, you can’t sit up with only 18 inches of headroom unless you are only 36 inches tall. So my dog can stand up, but I have to crawl.

The van has a lovely cross-breeze at night with the two side windows open. Cloth mesh keeps the mosquitoes out except the ones who got in before we locked up.

I woke in the morning feeling exhausted and defeated by an invisible enemy, the weather. Though some mornings we made up for a hard night with a brisk hike.

Finally, it was July 21^st; time to go.

We had to reach the West Coast by August 7^th for my travel writing workshop. It looked like I’d be nearly dead, as usual, with a wild story to tell. They know me.

I pulled up the weather map and saw that the entire West was still baking hot. We planned to “island-hop” from one high-elevation campground to another. The problem was that between the islands, we had to plunge back into a sea of heat.

In these cases, my van becomes a submarine. In the cool of the mornings, we put up our periscope, descend from the mountaintops, and submerge into the hot sea.

Bizarrely, after weeks of extreme heat, suddenly, the weather forecast mentioned that flash flooding was expected, just as we were about to leave Durango.

“Flooding?” I thought, “Wouldn’t that require heavy rain?”

Then, I looked up and saw dark, menacing clouds rolling in. Would Mother Nature really unleash torrential rain on us right after baking us alive?

Knowing my luck, it might.

We were waiting for the auto shop to finish repairing my van. After six months in Mexico, it needed new tires, new shocks and struts, as well as new brakes; in exchange for which the shop would clean out my dwindling checking account.

All of this work was going to cost me over $3,000! It hurt me to dish out that much money, but when you travel in a van, you have to keep it roadworthy.

Anyway, I’m sure we will be fine, despite the heat dome, the wildfires in Utah and Nevada, plus, believe it or not, the impending flash floods.

Once the heat of the day fades and the cool of the high desert night arrives, we’ll have a grand time sleeping in the van. Because I have learned how to survive.

I also managed to steal a few magical moments from nature during a heat dome.

The key to surviving extreme weather in van life is to avoid it when possible, take evasive action if you must, and never confront it head-on except as a last resort.

The elements (sun, wind, rain, and the cold) are far more powerful and dangerous for me, living outside, on the road, than for you, inside your safe, comfy home.

But they haven’t killed me yet. Wish me luck to survive yet another long hot trip. If I survive until I reach San Francisco on August 7th, the air will be cool, and the sun will be gentle. Because San Francisco is the coolest US city in the summer.

And if I make it to the travel writing workshop and learn to write, then I will not only travel and write; I will achieve my dream and become a travel writer. There is no way the weather can stop me, but it sure as hell is doing its best (or worst).

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Well, I did last Saturday morning. Loss of privacy is part of the real van life. It’s not all pictures of colorful sunsets and sandy beaches.

Read more

(Recap: Last week, you learned that I’m nobody, and nobody is safe driving in Mexico, which in my weird logic means that I’m safe. I drive a red 2014 Toyota Sienna minivan, which no self-respecting narcotraficante would want; this helped. I had made it to Durango, Mexico, but had 675 miles to go to reach the US border.)

So far, on my trip, my rear bumper had fallen off, and a traffic cop had tried to shake me down. I hoped nothing else could go wrong for the rest of the way.

Or could it?

My family and friends thought I would probably get myself killed driving 1,200 miles alone to the border. It made me wonder if they were right or if I was crazy.

But we all have to die sometime. Maybe dying on the road wasn’t so bad.

The Final Stretch

It was 400 kilometers, five hours, from Durango to Hidalgo del Parral, in the state of Chihuahua. On the map, I saw small towns along the way with interesting names like Rodeo. Revolucion. El Casco (The Helmet.) and Primo Verdad Cousin Truth)

But when we reached the tiny towns, there was nowhere for us to stop. These places were just dots. Blink, and you miss them.

A Horse with No Name

Nothing out there but hot, high desert. When you are alone on a long stretch of empty highway, your mind imagines all kinds of things that could happen.

Most of them bad.

The rural towns and villages looked like sets for old Western movie scenes.

Dusty main streets, boarded-up buildings. Small homes with shuttered windows. Hidden eyes stared at us, perhaps aiming a rifle barrel.

“Don’t shoot,” I muttered to no one in particular.

***

By mid-afternoon, we reached Hidalgo del Parral, once known as the silver mining capital of the world, if you’re interested in that kind of thing.

This town is where Mexican revolutionary leader Pancho Villa was assassinated way back in July 1923. I also arrived in July; I didn’t want to be assassinated.

We spent a pleasant evening at a small hotel, and no one tried to kill me. The next morning, we left. The road waits for no man. Or his dog.

I hoped the rest of the trip would go without incident.

Friend or Foe?

Soon after we drove out of town and got on the highway, I heard a grinding noise coming from the front of the van. A horrible noise; I had to stop.

I groaned. We were miles out of town on a blazing hot afternoon. No shade. Not a soul in sight. I hated stopping on a deserted highway.

Then, in the glare, I spotted a van parked on the shoulder and pulled over, about 20 yards behind it. The back door was open. A teenager sat listlessly on the bumper, staring mostly at nothing, occasionally glancing at me.

I waved; he did not. No adults in sight. Why was he left alone in a van out here? (Why was I stuck out here?)

I walked in front of my van and looked down.

A large piece of trim was loose on the front, hanging down, scraping the pavement. I could not drive the van like this.

A glance up and down the highway: no cars or trucks in either direction. Great.

I bent down to examine the loose trim: still attached by mysterious, hidden bolts.

(Expletive deleted.) I was going to need help, but where would I find it?

Just then, a car drove past, an older-model, gold Chevy Impala with two young guys in it. They stared at me as they drove by—a long, hard stare.

“Please, God,” I said, “Don’t let them turn around.” They kept going on our side of the highway but slowed down.

They drove down the road, made a U-turn, and drove back on the other side slowly. They stared as they went past, then turned and headed back toward us.

They drove up slowly, pulled onto the shoulder, and got out. They said nothing, just stared, arms crossed.

This was not good. Why were they so stern and silent? Were they cartel members? But I needed help. I had to talk to them.

They just stood there; neither spoke. Then, the taller one began to walk toward me slowly. I tried to size him up. Was he a threat?

Looked about 25-30. Taller than me. No expression on his face. Inscrutable. I decided to act nice and hoped he would, too.

I smiled and said. “Hola, ¿cómo te llamas?” Short for “Please tell me your name (as in, before you kill me and take my van).”

“Miguel,” he said. Still not smiling. He did not ask me my name. The other guy was still sitting in the Impala. Maybe he was calling some other bad guys?

I had no phone signal to call for help. And my State Farm insurance agent didn’t know where I was. He might be a good neighbor, but he wasn’t there.

I thought, “Remain friendly.”

“Me llamo Carlos,” I said, still smiling. At least now we were on a first-name basis.

“Mucho gusto,” I said, reaching out my hand. No response.

Apparently, he had no gusto for me.

He looked at my hand a moment, then extended his hand. We shook.

Keep going, I thought.

“Can you fix cars?” I asked. He shrugged. Maybe yes, maybe no.

“What is the problem?” he asked.

I pointed to the trim lying in the hot sand.

He walked up to the van, parked under the shade of a lone tree, on a sandy patch of ground. He stooped down, craned his head, and peered at the undercarriage.

He tugged at the loose part and said he had to take it off. I handed him a wrench. It took him about two minutes to detach it. He handed me the loose piece of trim.

“It is OK to drive,“ he said. I gave him some money. He looked at the money, then turned around and started walking back to his car.

I called out, “Thank you.” As in, thank you for not killing me and leaving my body in the desert. Feeling a bit foolish for having been suspicious. They drove off.

“Well, Mr. Bones,” I said as they drove off. “We dodged a bullet!”

“Yeah,” he said. ”But sooner or later, your luck is gonna run out.”

On we drove.

Writers in the Storm

Chihuahua was the last state we had to cross before reaching the border.

At our next stop, the mountain town of Cuauhtémoc in Chihuahua state, I met up with an old buddy of mine, Rafael. We had met in the tiny pueblo magico of Creel back in 2024. Now, he lived in Cuauhtémoc, a large city located high up in the mountains west of Chihuahua City.

He was the only person I knew between Pátzcuaro and the border. Distracted, I had just driven past his house, and now I heard him shouting.

In the rear-view mirror, I saw him chasing my van on foot. He was wearing black dress shoes and black dress pants, as if he’d just been to church. I remembered it was Sunday evening.

He caught up with the van, huffing, and we shook hands. Either he was taller than before, or my memory of him was shorter. But he still had the same friendly smile.

It’s nice to see a friendly face far from home. Finally, I could relax and let my guard down.

He had bought ice cream and cookies; I had brought a six-pack of beer. Guys know how to entertain. Tecate Original pairs well with Cookies n’ Cream.

We talked about his writing and mine. Thanks to the beer, or us, it got silly.

We discussed creating a TV show called “Estar Trek” about the first Mexicans in outer space. The motto of the show, based on the verb estar, would be “To boldly be where no Mexican has been before.” (It’s funnier if you speak Spanish.)

A writer like me, he had never made a dime on his work. Still, he persevered.

The next morning, I had to get on my way, and he had to look for a new job. As I drove out of town, I felt apprehensive. What might happen in the final stretch?

I took stock.

We had made it over halfway to the US: still alive, the van, still running. Now, we had just under 600 kilometers, or 360 miles, to go.

I hoped we’d make it without further incident. Google Maps, which does not display topography, showed a flat, easy drive the rest of the way.

Google Maps doesn’t know shit.

At Janos, the road started to climb up and over two more high mountain passes in the Sierra Madre. What could go wrong now?

Plenty.

I’ll Take a Pass. A Mountain Pass

Later, I learned we had taken a dangerous, steep, two-lane road, Puerto San Luis.

This stretch of road had long climbs, rapid descents, hairpin curves, blind corners, and long stretches with no guardrails, despite the sheer drop-offs.

Semi-tractor trailers came at us on a road barely wide enough for two vehicles.

The flashbacks started.

My brakes had failed two years before on a steep mountain road like this in Mexico. This brought back traumatic memories of us almost dying, which I had long-since tried to suppress.

Terrible thoughts flooded my mind.

If a truck blows a left tire, or if I blow the right tire, we’d be forced over the edge. Two thousand feet or more to the desert floor, almost straight down.

Over the edge, I could see the deep chasm and the desert floor far below; it made me almost nauseous. If we went over, they’d never find our bodies or the remains of the van; no one would ever know what happened to us.

I could almost hear the abyss calling out, “Carl, I am waiting for you. Come to me.”

Maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me due to extreme stress. My dog stared at me nervously. “Do you hear that voice?” he asked me.

“Ignore it!” I said. He whined nervously.

My heart was pounding; I had difficulty breathing. I gripped the steering wheel hard. White knuckles. We were on the outside of the hairpin turns. On the edge.

One after another, large trucks came at us; each one looked like death on wheels. I cringed and prayed and whispered, “God, please don’t let us die this way.”

God didn’t say a damn thing.

But one by one, each truck lumbered past by what seemed like inches. What’s that country song? “Jesus, take the wheel?” Maybe I got a little help after all.

Finally, the road knelt down and slowly brought us back down to solid, flat earth, on a bone-straight road in a pancake-flat desert; it took us straight to the border.

We crossed the border early the next morning.

I was surprised that we survived the trip and crossed the border. We’re pummeled with so much propaganda about all the danger in Mexico that it’s hard to ignore.

I wondered if it was fear of danger or just fear of the stranger. The trip made me question the lingering doubts I harbored about my personal safety in Mexico.

Yet, people all over Mexico had been kind to me. Why did I still doubt people? Was it me being suspicious, or was it just human nature?

It is difficult to read strangers you meet on the road when your car breaks down. My only choice had been to swallow hard and trust Miguel and his friend.

I still didn’t know what made Miguel and the other guy decide to turn around to help me when I was broken down on the side of the highway.

I liked to think that he saw an old gringo standing alone by the side of the road, and it reminded him of his abuelo. But who really knows?

I hoped for the best from him, and I got it.

Already, I couldn’t wait to go back to Mexico, where a silent stranger did not hurt me, and a fellow writer welcomed me.

Mexico. Kindness, respect, and tolerance. Plus great tacos. You can’t ask for more.

Note to readers: If you enjoyed this story, I'll be posting a short paid subscriber piece on Monday called Truck Stop Saturday Morning—a sample of the wonderfully weird and inexplicable encounters that can make van life worth considering.

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But how much is it?

What do paid subscriptions cost?

I set my paid subscription rate at:

· $5 per month, the lowest monthly rate that Substack allows, or at

· $40 per year, which is $20 less than paying monthly.

So, what do you get for a paid subscription?

In addition to the free posts, as a paid subscriber, you will receive:

· One paid-subscriber-only post per month (access to the inside scoop, i.e., what life on the road is like, or what you need to know, such as my Top Ten Tips series)

· Access to unpublished pictures from our travels

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I can offer subscribers additional options such as:

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Tell me what you would like in exchange for a paid subscription!

Let me know what you would like in exchange for a paid subscription. I am open to ideas within reason.

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Here are my Top Ten Tips for driving in Mexico without getting kidnapped, killed, launched into orbit by a tope (an invisible speed bump), or even worse, look…

Read more

(Recap: In my last blog post, I was starting out on a 1,200-mile journey from Michoacán state in Mexico, all the way north to the US border. We had just made it to the city of Guanajuato, but we still had over 1,000 miles to drive through the remote and unfamiliar Sierra Madre Occidental mountain range.)

As we drove, my dog, Mr. Bones, looked at me sadly and said, “I don’t want to leave Mexico. I like being Señor Huesos.” (his name in Spanish)

“Sorry, buddy,” I said. We have to leave Mexico before July 7^th. Otherwise, my vehicle permit will expire, and the government could confiscate the van.”

Losing the van would leave us stranded and virtually homeless. I had visions of a tow truck hauling our van away, leaving us stranded in the middle of nowhere.

No thanks. We had to skedaddle.

ACT I. The Danger is Real (or Maybe It’s Imaginary—One Way to Find Out)

As a precaution, I asked Google if it was safe to drive through the Sierra Madre mountains to the US. The response, basically, was, “Bandits await. You will die.”

Google said roving gangs of criminals stop vehicles on remote roads and rob people. My entire route was along remote two-lane highways in the mountains.

Thanks, Google. Now, I’m scared shitless. But we had not met any bandits yet.

My family had Googled the route and expected that I would be abducted and killed. I feared that if I were not, it would disappoint them. Dying might help.

Alone on the road, in unfamiliar territory, my imagination kicked in.

In my mind, I saw a barricade across the road up ahead, manned by men in black masks. As I got closer, they fired warning rounds and waved for me to pull over.

A masked bandido with a semi-automatic gun approached the driver’s window and signaled me to roll down the window. He furrowed his brow and barked.

Roaming Robber: We are looking for somebody with money to rob. Are you somebody?

Me: I’m not somebody. I’m nobody. Is it safe for me to drive to the US from here?

RR: Nobody is safe driving in Mexico, señor.

Me: Well, if I am nobody, and nobody is safe, then I am safe, right?

RR. (Looking puzzled) Uhh, I guess so. Hasta luego! (He waved as I drove away)

Being nobody briefly allayed my fear of traveling alone through remote areas. And it helped me fight the fear that almost everyone back home had of Mexico.

Their pervasive fear of Mexico reminded me of the 1966 song “For What It’s Worth” by Buffalo Springfield. It contained some prophetic lyrics.

Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life, it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid

Maybe fear of Mexico is like that. Most Americans are afraid to visit Mexico, but I felt very safe there. I saw no criminals and experienced no personal danger.

It left me wondering whether the danger is real or mostly in our minds.

But now, on a long road trip alone, fear kept fucking with me.

Act II: Things Fall Apart, as Do Vans and Plans

My life had fallen apart frequently in the last few years, and so had my van.

I wondered if the van would hold together the whole way back to the US. I’d had it checked, but after driving a hundred thousand miles, anything could happen.

I just didn’t know where or when. In the back of my mind, a voice whispered, “Maybe the van does not want to go back to America…”

Time would tell what the van wanted to do.

Our next stop was the large industrial city of Leon, 60 miles from Guanajuato. I knew little about Leon, the leather shoe capital of the world. If that’s your thing.

I did not know it was a massive industrial wasteland that could eat us alive. A sign posted at the outskirts of town said: “Welcome to the lovely city of Leon, Mexico.”

It should have also said, “Urban blight, next five miles.” While other cities in Mexico were scenic, Leon could be described as almost obscene.

Traffic in Leon was aggressive, angry, and terrifying. Cars and trucks flew around us and swerved in and out. Dark grey clouds rolled in overhead.

It began to rain heavily. I switched on the wipers and watched them slap water.

It was definitely getting strange, and fast.

The faces of the drivers flying past looked angry and menacing. Hands gripping steering wheels, bodies hunched forward, racing to unknown destinations.

“Something bad is going to happen, Mr. Bones,” I said. ‘I can feel it.”

Moments later, I heard a loud slap on the passenger side. Something had hit my right rear mirror, knocking it against the side of the van with a bang, startling my poor little dog.

An even louder “bang!” made me jump.

It was followed by a loud scraping noise behind the van, as if the van were dragging something. I pulled over to the curb to check it out.

As I walked behind the van, I saw my entire rear bumper lying on the road in the rain, mostly detached. One single clip was still attached to the van on the left.

Inside, I was pissed off. What or who caused this to happen?

“What the fuck?” I said out loud, to no one. “How the hell did this happen?”

I had not hit anyone; I had not felt anyone hit me. Bumpers don’t just fly off. Something or someone must have hooked it and pulled it off. But who or what?

I looked behind me. No cars or trucks stopped because of a collision. They continued to fly past the lone gringo standing in the rain, staring at his bumper

I had no idea how to reattach the bumper, but I could not drive with it loose. My dog looked out the rear window and said, “Don’t just stand there. Fix the thing.”

To my surprise, I figured out how the pressure clips reattach the bumper to the van. It snapped back into place. I had a momentary feeling of satisfaction.

We drove to the nearest body shop, where the guys checked it for safety. I told them I had fixed it myself. They looked at me incredulously. “This old gringo fixed his own bumper?” I was a bit incredulous myself.

They sent us on our way. I began to worry what else might fall off my van along the route. And what to tell people about stupid, bumper-grabbing Leon.

My advice is to avoid Leon. Weird shit happens. Important things fell off vehicles for no apparent reason. To this day, I am still grasping for an explanation.

“Maybe my van did that on purpose?” I mused. There, I had said it out loud.

My dog said, “You’re losing it, dude.”

Was I losing it? Maybe he was right. I used to be adventurous, fearless … but not now? I felt sorry for my dog, having to put up with me and our life on the road.

Traveling with me in the van is a mix of the sacred and profane, of unexpected highs followed by abysmal lows, of silent nights and loud noises.

From Leon, I drove on to Aguasclientes, where nothing interesting happened.

I was heading for a destination, keeping to a schedule, not a tourist. All I allowed myself was overnight stops and a brief look-see at major cities along the way.

I had done an online search to identify campgrounds for each night, assuming they still existed, but the cheerful-looking websites were often out of date.

One said a campground in Guanajuato was ready and waiting for us! But on arrival, I found a lot, overgrown with weeds. A big, ugly building was going up.

The best laid plans of ratones y hombres.

My next point of interest was the city of Zacatecas in the state of the same name. When you read the guidebook, it says ridiculous things, which is why I often hate guidebooks.

“In 1993, UNESCO designated the city a World Heritage Site because of its “’ stunning colonial architecture and exceptionally well-preserved 16^th-century layout.’”

In other words, nothing has changed in 400 years. And the town knocks you out.

We tried to explore the colonial architecture, but I kept getting stunned and losing consciousness. Stunned tourists were sprawled out all over town.

But actually, everywhere I looked, Zacatecas was stunning, even breathtaking, and the moments of awe that it inspired in me more than made up for any fear or any hardship that we had faced on the road, and perhaps any that might lie ahead.

So the damn guidebook was right.

Next, we drove 290 km to Durango, Mexico, population 700,000, arriving early in the afternoon. It was quite hot, noisy, and crowded; I couldn’t wait to leave.

At the end of the afternoon, we headed out of Durango to our campground for the night, a cheerful-looking water park near the end of a long, divided highway.

Google Maps told me to make a U-turn to get off the divided highway. As I completed the U-turn, right in front of me, I saw a policeman; he waved me over.

“Shit,” I said, pulling to a stop. My first traffic stop ever in Mexico.

How the hell did the police just happen to be here? Like they were waiting for me. Then I saw that other vehicles had been pulled over. I was just the latest victim.

Two cops had parked their vehicle on the side of the road out of sight of people making the turn. I watched as another vehicle made a U-turn and got pulled over.

Aha. It was a trap.

I had that moment of dread people experience while waiting for the cop to tell us our crime, and learn the penalty. That moment of hidden guilt buried deep inside.

A short, pudgy cop with a round face approached my window and told me in a rather bored Spanish, which I half understood, that I had violated a traffic rule.

“What traffic rule did I violate?” I asked.

He pointed to a yellow overhead traffic sign above the highway I had just left.

It said, ‘Accesso Exclusivo P. F.” (Access limited to the P.F.)

“Do you know what P.F. is?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He said, “Polícia Federal. Only the police can make a U-turn there.” He took my license and said he’d keep it until I went to the police station to pay my ticket.

I was in a panic.

He had my driver’s license and was sending me to the police station. In a foreign country. I did not know the rules and did not speak the language.

I had images of a jail cell door swinging shut. I’d be locked up. Sweaty Mexican men in the hot jail cell would whistle and call out, “Hey, gringo! Bienvenidos. Let’s all be amigos!”

I didn’t want to go to the police station. I wanted to get my driver’s license back.

Based on my experience living abroad, I said imperiously, “I will have to notify my embassy about this.” I knew that my embassy wouldn’t give a shit, but he didn’t.

He shrugged and asked me, “Do you want me to write the ticket?”

The words struck me as odd.

What kind of thing is that to say? Was he angling for a bribe? Or was this an opening for me to plead for leniency? American cops never said this to me.

I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He could get mad. He could get violent.

I said, “You are the police. I cannot tell you what to do.”

He stood there, holding the ticket pad and a pen, poised to write a ticket, looking puzzled.

He conferred with his colleague, pointing at a growing line of vehicles they had pulled over.

He turned back to me and said, “We have decided to give you a warning. Here is your license. Be more careful.”

Relief!

Not knowing what to do, I reached out and shook his hand. He looked surprised.

I put my license back in my wallet and drove off down the road. It beat spending the night in a Mexican jail cell full of sweaty, overly friendly Mexican men.

***

My dog said, “Have you noticed things seem to keep getting worse on this trip?”

Yeah, I noticed. I had also noticed our trip alternated between terror and relief.

We had driven over 500 miles, not even halfway yet. Parts had fallen off my van; the police had implied I might be detained. Mosquitoes had drained my blood.

What would happen next? Would we make it to the border? Of die trying? Would the true splendor of the old colonial cities make the trip worth all of the hassle?

Read the rest of the story next week. Find out if nobody is safe driving in Mexico.

Now, let’s take a poll.

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If this post resonates with you, please subscribe. For free if you like! No pressure.

If you want the inside scoop and complete access, you can also pay to subscribe.

If you prefer, go to Buy Me A Coffee and make a one-time $5 gift. Keep a tired old man caffeinated: https://buymeacoffee.com/carlcamembert

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And I may need someone to help hold me together. After four years on the road solo, I think I need some human company.

So, while driving my creaky old campervan 1,200 miles to the US this last week from Mexico, I worked on a personal ad for a travel buddy. What should it say?

How about this?

Personal ad, Line 1:

“Do you have the urge to leave your safe, comfy home and drive across the US, Canada, and Mexico in a small camper, putting yourself in harm’s way?”

No? Don’t you think that will appeal to people?

I don’t, either. Most people prefer to stay home, where they are safe, so they can live a long life and reach a ripe old age.

But maybe my ad will speak to a few people.

People who want to roam across North America in a mini-campervan, see the sights, sleep in a cramped bed, in a dark, noisy, dangerous-looking parking lot.

People like me.

Does that puzzle you? I offer either the trip of a lifetime or an exhilarating brush with your own mortality.

Line 2:

“Would you like to come along?”

I want a travel buddy. Ideally, a female one, but in four years, I haven’t found a woman trusting enough to join me.

Women tend to be smart in matters of personal hygiene and comfort. When I invite them to join me, women detect a couple of small issues.

After a glance inside the van, they turn to me and say something rather cheeky:

“Your van has no toilet or shower. The sleeping platform is less than three feet wide, and it has about a foot and a half of headroom. Where would I sleep?”

How the heck should I know?

My dog fits himself next to me on the bed, but he is only two feet long and about 15 inches tall. It’s hard finding a grown woman who fits into those dimensions.

Either I need to find a very small woman or get a larger van, but those cost money.

When I talk about my exciting adventures, women often stop me and ask, “Wait, did you just say that you almost get yourself killed about once every six months?”

Guys usually nod along, saying something like, “So, you nearly died?! Awesome!”

Line 3:

“If you are interested in joining me, please get in touch. Further details below.”

The Rest of the Ad:

Requirements:

In the event of an unfortunate accident or your sudden, violent demise in a remote area, I suggest you get an emergency beacon to help your loved ones locate your remains, preferably before the coyotes and the vultures do.

Conversational ability would be nice, but total silence is OK, too. Brain damage is not necessarily a disqualifier. I mean, look at me!

You can’t bring anything with you. There isn’t any space. You’ll have to make do with what you have on, plus maybe one change of clothes. And bring deodorant.

You have to pay your own way. I need gas money, please.

We stop at Planet Fitness locations to shower. So, there is hygiene after all. And when we stop at laundromats to wash our clothes, we meet the nicest people.

Gas station bathrooms aren’t as bad as people say, once you get used to the filth.

Benefits: Let’s see. I’m sure there are some. Great scenery.

You will get to see North America, mile by mile, up close. We make regular pee stops, and most gas stations sell coffee. In lieu of coffee, we can confront danger.

If you survive, you’ll have great stories. Also, my dog will lick you every single day.

Doesn’t this sound like fun? I can’t wait to see who applies. Interviews begin soon.

Should I tell potential applicants about my trip back to the US from Mexico?

I spent six months in Mexico, but my temporary vehicle import permit was about to expire. If I had failed to leave before then, they could have confiscated my van.

We drove 1,200 miles to the border through several Mexican states: Michoacán, Guadalajara, Guanajuato, Aguascalientes, Zacatecas, Durango, and Chihuahua.

The US State Department says these states are too dangerous to visit or that we should reconsider travel plans, but I can’t get to the US without crossing them.

Plus, a Dutch buddy of mine, Arjen, did this same trip back in April, and he’s still alive. So, it must be safe, right!? If no one killed him, why should they kill me?

Besides, who are you going to believe, the US government or me? Nothing bad will happen. Or maybe it will. But we won’t actually die. (Or maybe we will.)

Think about it, but not too much. That’s why a death wish comes in handy.

As we drive along the long, lonely stretches of remote, two-lane highway through the high mountains of central Mexico, I wonder about each pickup truck that is coming towards us, and about each one that zooms up from behind to pass us.

Each time, I see dark eyes staring at me out of an angry face with heavy eyebrows, and those are just the women. (I’m too scared to look at the faces of the men.)

Will a truck full of bad guys from the cartel brandish pistols and force us off the road? Will they tell me to say my prayers and laugh as they pull the trigger?

My dog looks at me, “I think you’re being a bit melodramatic. They’re farmers or ranchers going about their routines. Why would the cartel be way out here?”

He has a point. The cartel guys would have to spend a long time waiting for someone to happen by.

“And how much money do you actually have on you?” my dog asks me.

A bit huffily, I say, “About a hundred dollars. To pay the tolls along the way.”

“And you think the cartel guys are going to wait all day out here for a hundred bucks?”

He has a good point. It does not look very profitable to hang around out here all day on the chance that a random tourist will happen by.

We stop at a dusty gas station on a lonely stretch of remote road to fill up. The attendant sidles up slowly. I ask him to check the tire pressure and clean the windshields. He asks where we are going; I give him a vague answer, just in case.

I buy a big jug of water. If we break down in the desert, dying of thirst sucks.

Then we skedaddle. Out here in the remote highlands of the Sierra Madre Occidental, “skedaddle” seems like a good word to describe what we are doing.

It’s not all fear and loneliness and desolation along the way. Mostly, but not all.

Our first stop on the way north was Guanajuato, the capital of the state of the same name. Curious readers may enjoy learning that it means “Frog Mountain.”

To the indigenous people, if you look at the mountains, you may see a frog. Then again, they used to get high on toad toxin, so they would have seen frogs, right?

My clever “plan” (I thought of it myself!) was for Google Maps to route us into the center (El Centro) of each major city along the way, so we could have a look-see.

A good travel writer would regale you with a highly evocative description of his first glimpse of a city like Guanajuato, such as:

“We approached Guanajuato through lush, green, highland plains, then, after rounding a curve in the road, we saw Guanajuato laid out before us, a sparkling tableau of vivid, tropical colors, slathered on the quaint historical homes that precariously line the steep slopes of the rugged mountains that ring the city.”

But I am not a good travel writer. Sorry about that.

As we drove on toward the city center on the narrow, winding, stone streets, it felt like we were in a carnival. Throngs of people promenaded happily along the narrow sidewalks, frequenting the charming shops and small restaurants.

Guanajuato is a magical place, and you should go visit it right now. Except for one thing. Do not enter the tunnels that run under the city, which are totally terrifying.

We entered a tunnel; the road above was restricted to pedestrians. Google Maps took us into the dark, foul mouth of a deep tunnel under a ravenous mountain.

The tunnel swallowed us.

The belly of the mountain was dark, menacing, and foul. A century ago, local silver miners had blasted these dark, dank tunnels out of the rough-hewn rock to divert floodwaters away from the city, but now, they divert surface traffic.

Overhead, every hundred yards, hung a single light bulb, which cast a pale, eerie illumination that only served to reveal deep, dark recesses in which monsters hid.

But I was not scared. Where did you get that idea?

As soon as you enter the dark tunnels, Google Maps announces that it has lost signal. Then the tunnels suddenly fork, and you have to decide where to go, while your dog whines, “Oh, no, we’re going to be lost in these dark tunnels forever.”

Maybe that wasn’t him; maybe that was me, thinking. But then a glimmer of light appeared ahead in the distance; it was either an exit, or else we were dying.

To our relief, instead of seeing loved ones who died long ago, we burst out into the blinding daylight, both relieved to be alive, but with no idea where we were.

It turned out we were still in Mexico, and about 1,000 miles from the border.

Anyway, tunnels or no, Guanajuato is awesome, so be sure to stop there.

End of Part One of Seeking Travel Buddy. (Be sure to read Part Two next week!)

In conclusion, my friends, apply soon. I will take the first qualified applicant.

Next week, in Part Two, you’ll hear about the rest of the trip to the US border:

• In Leon, an important part of my van fell off the back while we were driving

• In Durango, local police may have tried to shake me down for a bribe

• Outside Hidalgo del Parral, another important part of my van fell off the front

• From Nuevo Casas Grandes to the US, we accidentally took the Death Road

I will reveal how we made it to the US in spite of these hilarious mishaps. You will learn whether we got injured, and if so, how soon the hospital will release us.

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Dear readers, are you in a good mood? If so, savor it, because it won’t last long. Finally, I ran out of time and had to leave Mexico, but I didn’t want to go.

But this time, I really am leaving, and you are about to hear the whole sad story.

Those of you who want to know exactly how bad I felt, and who want to wallow in my misery, are my schadenfreunds.

Extra points if you get that one. Now, we have to get in our little red campervan and drive. Leaving in a jet plane is more dramatic, and makes a better song lyric.

The reason for leaving is that the Federales are after me. My six-month permiso for my van expires next week, and if I don’t skeedaddle, they can take my van.

So now I’m on the run. I suppose this makes me a desperado.

Why did leaving hurt so bad?

I really dove deep this time in Mexico, and now I’m paying the price. I immersed myself in music, dabbled in dance, fiddled with my frijoles, and simmered in Spanish. After all that, leaving sucks.

Remember the last time you moved, or packed out your house, said goodbye to friends, and then left a familiar town for some new, unfamiliar place? For an uncertain future?

As the final departure drew nearer, you began counting down the hours, the minutes, as you crammed the final items into the suitcases and boxes, but you couldn’t pack all the memories. You wanted to keep all your favorite sights, sounds, smells, and even tastes.

They were fresh in your mind, but how long would they last once you left? Days? Weeks? With time, memories begin to fade; one day, they are forgotten.

The toughest person for me to say goodbye to was Paloma, who asked me to be her dance partner. The hours practicing with her had a powerful effect on me.

I had been on the road for four years with my dog. Being so close to a beautiful woman for a change was my kryptonite. It made me feel weak in the knees, which, in case you didn’t know, is bad for dancing.

She, on the other hand, appeared to be impervious to my fat old man charm; in recent years, it had only worked on my dog, and he had food as an incentive to pretend it did.

Would she miss me, I wondered? Would anyone?

She had invited me out for dinner before I left. At dinner, I wondered if she’d be overcome with emotion in our final moments together, but like a true clam, she hid the pearl.

No, “I’m going to miss you!” Instead, she masked her feelings in a complaint about one of my most annoying mealtime habits: drinking water with my food.

“How can I take care of you,” she asked, “when you don’t listen to me?”

She believes that drinking water with my meals will be the death of me.

That comment brightened my mood. I saw a chance to find out her true feelings.

“You want to take care of me?” I asked, smiling. “That must mean you like me.”

She didn’t bite. Like a sword fighter, she parried my question with one of her own.

She shrugged and deadpanned, “‘Why would I dance with you if I didn’t like you?”

I could not think of a good comeback. Touché.

The fencing judges gave her the point.

Soon we would be back on the road, sleeping in the cramped confines of the vna.

As a nomad, I’m ashamed to admit that I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave.

Anyway, I had to stay over an extra day.

On Monday night, my landlady, Maria Dolores, had a birthday party and invited our other mutual friends and me from the choir that I had joined in Patzcuaro.

It was a crazy party full of crazy people, killing pesky mosquitoes on the front porch, and imbibing mezcal. They all spoke in Spanish. Very fast. Very loud.

I speak a little Spanish, but have a limited vocabulary. My only solution would be to hand out a list of the words I know and ask people to use only those words. For some reason, people say no to that idea.

My options were to understand nothing or to pretend to understand everything.

So, when they laughed, I laughed, and when they got emotional, I got emotional. Someone finally asked me if I understood, and I said, “Not a word. Ni modo.”

They roared with laughter. “Gringo loco!” I laughed too. I enjoyed spending my final hours in town with my friends, even without understanding a word.

The agony of leaving is compounded by the fact that we have to drive; it’s slow torture. I‘d have a whole week alone with my thoughts and feelings about leaving.

We’ve got to drive 1,200 miles to the US border, through the Trans-Mexican High Volcanic Belt of the Sierra Madre Occidental of Michoacan, Guanajuato, Aguascalientes, and Zacatecas, and then the high desert of Chihuahua.

So far, in my road travel in Mexico, I have not encountered the criminal element of society. (It occurs to me that the criminal element never calls itself that.)

Hopefully, my luck will hold out for another week as we slowly drive north to the border.

We will leave tomorrow morning early, after handing back my keys to my landlady, Maria Dolores, aka Lolita, and driving through the big cast-iron gate of my lovely little mountaintop home, the Casa en el Bosque.

We were supposed to leave on Sunday, but I dawdled about taking my laundry to the hole-in-the-wall local lavanderia. I knew it was a bad idea to leave it until Saturday.

The lady at the lavanderia told me my clothes would not be ready until Monday evening. We lost two travel days. Maybe I procrastinated on purpose.

Tuesday morning, after saying goodbye to Lolita, we exchanged hugs. I recalled that she had been the one to introduce me to the choir and make me welcome.

Her eyes got red and moist. I could see that she was holding back tears. She was trying not to cry, but of course, she did.

An emotional lady, she cried for everything. Her Mexican emotions lived their lives on the outside, while my cursed gringo emotions always hid on the inside.

“Please don’t cry,” I said to her. I felt like crying, but did not allow myself to. What would the people in Indiana say, a grown man crying over a silly thing like that?

I told my dog to jump in the front passenger seat of the van, then I got in the driver’s seat and put it in first gear. We drove down our steep cobblestone or empedrado, Calleton Reventon, for the last time.

I hated leaving our cozy casita on the mountainside. Until we moved into it in March, we hadn’t lived inside for four years, other than short hotel stays or visits to family and friends.

We loved bathing in the warm traditional colors of the casita: the burnt orange, the dull red, the bright blue, the cheerful yellow sunlit walls of the tiny kitchen.

At night, as I lay in bed, the exposed, heavy timbers of the cathedral roof protected me.

While packing the van, I sighed as I thought about living on the road once more. Back in March, it was hard to stop driving and live indoors. I worried we’d never hit the road again.

Being indoors again presented challenges. At first, I struggled to adjust. When I tried to close the front door, I felt trapped, unable to breathe. I had to leave the door open during the day. Only after dark, when the night bugs began buzzing around, did I finally get up to close it.

I looked over at my dog. He had put his head down on the center console of the van and was looking up at me, sadly. Accusingly, perhaps.

“Mr. Bones,” I asked, ‘will you miss the big comfy bed, the cushy pillows, and fluffy blankets? You liked to bury your head and leave your scent on your spot.”

“What do you think?” he asked me, ruefully, closing his eyes. “Sorry,” I said.

At least it wasn’t rainy or muddy when we left, although I felt like it was raining on the inside. I had my own gray clouds floating around gloomily in my head.

As we drove downhill, another song popped into my head, “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” By Sir Elton Juan, as he is known locally.

Only now the words are, “Goodbye cobblestone roads, where the lugs of my poor tires howl.”

The rough, round cobblestone roads have been murder for my tires and suspension. The tailpipe, loosened by months of driving on cobblestones, bangs loudly on the undercarriage.

I turned to Mr. Bones and said, “It’s time for us to ‘Hit the Road, Jack’.”

He looked at me and said, “You and your sad songs!”

He doesn’t understand that, for me, the sad songs say what I often cannot.

Then we turned right on Apatzingen Road, stopping for gas before heading out of town. I asked the gas station guy to check my tires. I felt like asking him to check my mood, too.

He pumped up the tires, but there was no way to pump me up. I felt like I had a flat. I had not heard from Paloma since her daughter and granddaughter had arrived for a visit.

How can I compete with that? I left her feeling stifled by a sad silence.

When I left, as the good-bye song says, I guess I became “Just Somebody that They Used to Know.” The other expats in town will quickly forget me, I figured, like all the other short-term visitors who came and went.

The choir will continue to sing, with one less male voice. My dance partner will soon want to resume dancing. Soon, she’ll find another man to dance with.

It was silly to think I was more than a dance partner to her, but I had hoped that one day, I might be. That day never came; maybe it never will.

I turned on my favorite station, Radio Romantica, but heard a sad song in Spanish, and turned it off. Sad romantic music was the last thing I needed to hear at that point.

Just drive, I told myself. Stop thinking. Stop feeling. I wished I could turn off the damn sad feelings. Why don’t we have a switch to turn off our unpleasant feelings?

One of life’s mysteries is that when we arrive in a new place, we strive to belong, but when it’s time to leave, we wish we hadn’t.

It was our fourth anniversary. To celebrate, we went on a morning hike in the Mexican countryside with our friends. That’s when it all went to shit.

Fresh cow poop, to be specific. My dog, Mr. Bones, found a whole pile of it.

I hope you didn’t think I was talking about a human being. God forbid. I haven’t had a human traveling partner since I got into full-time van life four years ago.

Humans, regrettably, are far more difficult to travel with than dogs.

I needed a good buddy on the road, a non-complainer. In Denver, while waiting on my camper conversion, I went to a local shelter and found my dog. After discussing various name options, he told me he liked the name, “Mr. Bones.”

Since then, it’s been the old story of a man and his dog, out alone on the road together. It’s a love story for the ages, except for all the cow poop.

We have a great time together. When I think about our four years on the road, in my head, I hear the melody of the 60s pop song, “Happy Together!”

The refrain describes our relationship.

“Me and you, and you and me, No matter how they toss the dice, it had to be
The only one for me is you, and you for me, So happy together!”

About Mr. Bones.

We’ve been together for four years. We met back when I began my van life sojourn. My initial plan was to conduct a national tour to the lower 48 states in six months to promote my book, achieve fame and fortune as an author, then go back home with a big pile of money from my book sales to settle down.

In the words of my friends who had also tried to write a book, “Ha! You’ll fail!” Instead of fame and fortune finding me, they followed us from a great distance.

The trip got me hooked on van life and turned me into a nomad. Mr. Bones has been with me ever since. As long as he gets his kibble, he doesn’t mind traveling.

Mr. Bones is everything to me: my best friend, and my loyal road trip buddy, as well as being a ridiculously cute and relentlessly friendly pit mix.

His secret superpower is charming young women in coffee shops while I sit and work on a book or a blog. He did this on our first morning in Denver. While I sat quietly, working, he gave a young woman the googly eyes and a big doggy smile.

It was remarkably effective. He met Marisa within minutes. He rolled over for a tummy rub and licked her hand, two things that I would never think of doing!

Though he is now seven and a half, he’s still a playful little puppy at heart. He loves to go on walks. He has taught me how to walk on my end of a dog leash.

It took a while, but I learned to stop not only when he finds the perfect place to poop, but also so he can water the plants, and sniff to see who left a pee-mail.

When it comes to food, he is also a shameless beggar and an occasional thief. He is distracted by squirrels! Due to years of loneliness and emotional neglect before we met, he is always desperate for attention. He tries to lick people to death.

People either love him or recoil in horror from the licking machine that is his mouth. If you love dogs, then read on. If you don’t, then I’m sorry to hear that.

But first, about the cow poop incident.

Running with the other dogs that came on the hike, he got far ahead of me and disappeared from my sight. I whistled, his cue to return.

A moment later, I spotted his white tail moving toward me above the tall grass.

How happy Mr. Bones looked as he ran toward me from a distance, with extra bounce in his step. As he got closer, I saw that his face, which should have been white, was … brown.

Oh, no. Please God, let it be mud.

As he rushed up, I saw that he had fresh cow poop smeared all over his face and neck. He looked thrilled! Then he was upon me, as was the pungent odor of poop.

‘Oh, Mr. Bones, no!” I said, frowning. “Cow poop again!?” (It was not the first time!) He cocked his head to one side quizzically.

Mr. Bones (MB): Do you like my new French cologne? It’s called, “Oh, da poop.”

Me: I think you mean “Eau de poupe.” You smell awful! Why do you do that?

MB: I just can’t help myself. Fresh cow poop makes me go crazy.

Lucky me. I so looked forward to driving home with him in the van.

I had tried to wish Mr. Bones a happy fourth anniversary earlier. It didn’t go quite as I expected.

Me: Happy anniversary, Mr. Bones. We’ve been together for four whole years!

MB: What do you mean, four years? It’s been 28 years! What’s an and-a-versary?

Me. It’s a day to celebrate our time together.

MB. That’s nice. Hey, look, SQUIRREL!

I’d like to share some of our best and worst memories from over the years.

2022: I met Mr. Bones at a shelter in Denver. He was the friendliest dog I found, smiling, wagging his tail, and trying to lick my hands and face. I paid his bail, and we hit the road. He makes friends everywhere we go. He has the ability to attract women one at a time, or in pairs; sometimes, he even goes for a triple whammy.

Only he has this superpower; at age 67, I certainly do not. Bones has met thousands of people in four years; on my own, I think I have met about four.

He also loves peeing on trees everywhere we go; he has saved thousands of them.

At first, he was a little nervous around me. But at Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado, the hot sand burned his little paws, and he began to cry.

He looked to me in pain and let me pick him up for the first time. I carried him to the car and put a cold, wet towel on his sore paws. After that, he trusted me.

2023: We visited LA and boondocked overnight in a sketchy parking lot. He must have eaten something bad when I wasn’t looking. Maybe it was drugs. He woke up in the middle of the night, vomiting and having diarrhea in the van.

Oh, no. He was really sick!

It scared me to death. At that moment, I realized he was everything to me. What would I ever do without him? Please, God, I said, don’t let my dog die.

Fortunately, I found an emergency vet who was open, and he survived. Since then, I constantly monitor what he eats, despite his efforts to sneak bites of stuff.

2024: This was our first winter in Mexico, camping on the Gulf of California. Mr. Bones loved walking on the beach and chasing the surf. When the waves crashed on the shore, he barked at them. They got scared and went back out, then when he stopped, they came back in. This provided hours of good, clean dog fun.

2025: We spent the winter way down south in Baja California and spent part of the summer and fall in Canada. While camping in August in the Sierra Nevada mountains in California, I developed acute appendicitis. They had to fly me by helicopter to a regional medical center for emergency surgery.

I might have died in surgery, but realized I couldn’t. Mr. Bones needed me.

So, I survived.

But Mr. Bones occasionally still steals my food, and that can give me a scare.

That winter, in South Texas, I got out of the van, and someone stole half of my smoked turkey leg, which I had hidden from him carefully. A jagged piece of the leg bone showed up later in his stomach on an X-ray at the local emergency vet.

He looked up at me innocently and asked, “Gosh, how did that bone get in my tummy?”

2026: We went up into the mountains of Mexico to find a cool, high-altitude spot for the summer. For the first time, we got a place, a small casita. His dream came true. He finally got to sleep on a real bed every night. He likes to curl up on the other pillow, right next to my head. In the mornings, I gently rub his tummy.

I asked him why he curls up right next to my face in the morning.

He said, “I wait all night for your mouth to … fur-ment.” (he means ferment)

“When you wake up,” he said, “your breath doesn’t smell quite as strong as cow poop, but it’s a close second. I love it!”

Gee, thanks, buddy.

As I type this, Bones lies next to me on his mat, often getting up to put his paws in my lap and gaze lovingly into my eyes.

Me: I know that look: you either love me, or you want a butt scratch.

MB: Both. I love you, and I want a butt scratch.

Mr. Bones and I are leaving Mexico next weekend and heading back to the USA.

Gee. Four years. We’ve been through a lot together.

Three countries, a hundred thousand miles of driving, coffee shops, beaches, mountains, oceans, deserts, campgrounds, and our own little casita in Mexico.

I don’t know yet where we’ll be in a month, but I know who will be sitting up front with me in the van. just me and my dog, Mr. Bones, on the road again.

He is my cute little boy, and I am his meal ticket. We may meet you soon in a coffee shop.

Remember, let him smell your hand^. You too can be friends for life. He’d like that.

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With just days to prepare, I got pulled into performing a complicated new couple’s dance routine in front of an audience—something I’d never done before.

Sure, why not?

They say, ‘Dance like no one is watching,” but what if everyone IS watching?

Against my brain’s better judgment, my mouth had agreed to be Paloma’s partner for danzón, a courtly traditional Latin dance that dates back hundreds of years.

I expected to have weeks to learn danzón, but in my second week, our instructor, Salvador, said, ‘I have exciting news! We are going to perform a new danzón routine on Friday!” I could barely mimic his moves

Exciting? This is terrifying!

I turned to Paloma and said, “Friday, as in three days from now? But I don’t know the new routine! We just started learning it today!”

Always practical, Paloma looked at me, shrugged, and said, “Well, you’ll just have to learn it. We can practice at my house.”

Which is what we did for the next three days.

Nonstop.

When I got to her house to practice, she would start the music and say, “Remember to …”

But we were standing so close… I couldn’t concentrate. For the last four years, as a full-time van lifer, this was the closest I’d been to a human female.

My heart thought she said, “Oh, forget about dancing. Kiss me!”

I was about to say, “My thoughts exactly…” Then I heard her voice.

“Are you listening to me?” she asked. “What did I just say?”

She looked cross.

I was going to say, “‘Kiss me.’” But my brain told me she didn’t say that.

She sighed and rolled her eyes as if to say, “What is the matter with this gringo?”

Friday morning arrived too soon.

The panic button had been going off for three days as I stumbled and fumbled along.

Here we were, at the senior center, in front of a crowd of about 150 seniors from Sahuayo, a small town an hour away, awaiting our turn as the opening act of the day’s celebration.

In addition to three busloads of seniors, there were elected officials from Patzcuaro and Sahuayo. photographers, and the staff of the two senior centers.

No pressure.

I checked the time. It was noon. Mealtime for the visitors.

After they ate lunch, we would be the first to dance.

And it would be the last danzón before I left town. In my head, I heard the melody of Donna Summer’s disco hit, “Last Dance” from 1978.

I wanted to get it over with, but the meal dragged on. The seniors idly twisted their tortillas into soup-sopping tornillos and slurped up spoonfuls of spicy pozole.

We stood there, I in my new white shirt, black pants, and dress shoes, and Paloma in a traditional gauzy white dress and sparkly, red high-heeled dance shoes.

“Why me, God?” I asked, looking up to the heavens. “I have never learned a complicated dance routine, much less performed one.”

Finally, we got the signal; it was time.

We lined up, all six of us.

There were three couples: Paloma and me, and two more experienced couples, Salvador, our instructor, dancing with Luz, and Irma and Armando.

The music started.

We counted four beats and marched to our starting positions. As the marimbas played the tune Veracruz, by the group Marimba Chiapas, we listened for our cue.

We had about three minutes to complete 132 dance steps without a mistake.

On our beat, we began to dance.

Or should I say that she danced; I was half in the dance, and half in a trance.

I held Paloma’s right hand in my left; my right hand cradled her waist. Up close, her dark eyes were captivating. Her dainty hand, nestled gently in my big mitt, felt soft and warm. Her left hand rested on my right shoulder.

‘Ignore all of that,” my brain said. ‘It will distract you.”

No kidding.

I felt like a starving man dancing with a hot, fresh donut. It smelled wonderful, but I couldn’t look at it, much less taste it.

I stared straight ahead.

My first major obstacle was the lateral adorno, a side-to-side bit, which started with us facing each other and taking six steps, each one on the beat, to my left.

On seven, I had to step forward on my left and tap my right toe behind me. As I stepped forward, Paloma held her breath and closed her eyes.

I knew why.

When we practiced, I usually leaned too far forward on my left foot and got off balance. But now, somehow, I maintained my balance, and we danced on.

She looked up at me and smiled sweetly.

A lovely smile! My heart soared.

Our routine continued.

Soon, the next dreaded moment of danger approached.

In the paseo, we marched forward six steps, and Paloma did her pirouette, then we began to march backwards six steps, after which I had to do a man-spin on seven.

I gritted my teeth.

In our practice sessions, the spin move snuck up on me like a thief in the night, pulling a black hood over my head and stealing my sense of direction and timing.

I had to figure out what was screwing it up each time.

After watching a videotape of Salvador doing the full turn in slow motion, over and over, I finally made sense of the spin. I had to do a quarter turn on each step.

Just before my spin move, a thought popped into my head. “I have not made a single mistake!” As I was thinking that, I stopped thinking about our routine.

It was time for my spin. But I wasn’t spinning!

Panicking, Paloma spat out, “Go! Spin!” She gave me a firm shove to the left.

“Oh, yes,” I said, snapping out of my reverie, not sure if I had enough time left to do it.

I went to the left in a peculiar crouching position, like Groucho Marx doing his Captain Spalding, the African Explorer who had shot an elephant in his pajamas.

Somehow, I got back from my hunting expedition in time for her to do her final pirouette. (Mercifully, no video of my most grievous gaffe exists)

We finished our routine without further incident.

On the last two beats, side by side, we all stepped forward and “closed” our feet. Posición final. The performance was over.

The music stopped, and the applause began. The audience, which had mysteriously vanished during our routine, reappeared in front of us.

I looked sideways at Paloma, smiled, and said, “Sorry. My fault.”

She smiled and said, in a surprised tone, “That was pretty good!”

Maybe she was proud of me. Maybe I’d get a nice big hug.

But first, we bowed to the audience.

***

As soon as we exited the stage area, she let go of my hand and sprinted across the grass in her red high heels to a room on the other side of the courtyard.

No hug. I stood there and hung my head, feeling a bit let down.

I glanced at my fellow choir members sitting nearby. They shrugged as if to say, “You messed up. No wonder she ran off.”

About five minutes later, she and about 20 other women came out of the room wearing brightly colored, long folklorico dresses, their hair up in buns.

Aha. They were on next! She had run away for a quick change of outfits.

Unlike our subdued danzón routine, their performance was amazing!

They did zapateado, the rapid foot-stamping dance reminiscent of Spanish flamenco. They twirled and swished their skirts up and down and side to side.

Their dance was colorful, electric, and riveting to watch!

By comparison, our dance had been a snoozer. But that might be a plus. Maybe the audience had fallen asleep. Maybe nobody had seen me make my mistake.

Just then, a buddy of mine from the choir came up to me and shook my hand.

“Muy bien, mi hermano,” he said. Aha. So, he didn’t see my mistake!

“Too bad about that mistake,” he said, giving me a pat on the back. “But don’t worry about it. No one even noticed it.”

Which meant that everyone noticed it.

Oh, well. I tried.

***

The last danzón was over; my big day was done.

My time in Mexico is coming to an end. I have to leave in a week before my temporary vehicle import permit expires, ending my six-month stay here.

What a visit!

I had joined a choir, learned Mexican songs, and made new friends. I became Paloma’s danzón partner and did not cause a total disaster at the show.

It‘s sad to leave, but I have some great memories to keep me company on the long drive back to the US, about 1,200 miles to the border through six different Mexican states.

When I reach the US border, the Customs and Immigration official will ask me if I have anything to declare.

I’m going to say, “Yes, I had a great time in Mexico.”

When I got down here, I was just another lonely, retired old man, but the dancing and the singing and friendship made me feel young and energized and alive again.

Maybe you should visit Patzcuaro. But watch those spin moves. Say hi to Paloma.

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Dateline Patzcuaro, June, 2026.

A week ago, through no fault of my own, I spent an hour dancing with a short, nervous man I had never met before, named Salvador.

He said, “But everyone calls me Chava.” Nice to know.

If you’re wondering why I was dancing with a man named Salvador, so am I. I was there to take a dance lesson with a pretty woman that everyone here calls Paloma.

We met at a party at the Patzcuaro senior center. I had recently joined the choir. Standing there, alone, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around.

There, in front of me, was Paloma, wearing a bright blue party dress, her hair pulled up in a flamenco bun. Above her right ear, a brightly colored flower.

Her big, dark eyes were locked on mine; I could not turn my gaze away.

I gulped.

She did not know I had spent the last four years on the road alone with my dog. And she was very close to me.

I glanced down. Everyone at the table was staring at us.

Somehow, she made them disappear. It was only her and me. Then she spoke.

“Hey, we both speak English, so we should talk.” I nodded. “Sure.”

“Also,” she said, “do you want to be my partner in a danzón class?”

In front of everyone! The table fell silent. All eyes were on us again.

“Uh, me?” I said, pointing to my chest, looking around, to see if she might be speaking to someone else. My cheering section nodded encouragement at me.

Like a punch-drunk boxer, I stood my ground wobbily.

“Yes, you,” she said.

I had no idea what danzón was, but what could I do? Everyone was watching.

My brain said, “No,” but my mouth said, “Yes.”

Danzón is a formal Latin dance, along the lines of tango, but not as dramatic. The woman does not clutch a red rose in her teeth. There are no deep dips or dives.

Danzón came to Mexico on a slow boat from Cuba in the 1800s, landing at the city of Veracruz on the Caribbean, making its way north, like some new virus.

To understand its appeal, you have to hear the music; it’s hypnotic.

Like tango, it’s slow and seductive. But unlike tango, it doesn’t rip your heart out, although it might nibble on your ear if you’re not careful.

When I hear danzón music, I feel an irresistible urge to dance. My hips don’t lie, which is odd, because I don’t have hips.

I showed up at noon on Tuesday for my first lesson, but found myself alone, not with Paloma, but with Salvador.

Paloma was nowhere to be seen.

The lesson took place inside the chain link fence of the Patzcuaro senior center, on a quiet side street in Patzcuaro, Calle de Las Nueces. We met in the courtyard, under an open-air hangar, on a bare cement slab, visible to all and sundry.

Being from the Midwest, I’d prefer to take my first danzón lesson inside a room.

We began without music. Salvador clapped the beat and called out the steps, one through eleven. Without music, I feared, I might look like a crazy person.

Maybe I am. Mexico riles me up. The chiles heat up my blood; I see vivid colors.

Other than verbal commands from Salvador, the scuffing of our feet on the cement, and the occasional fly buzzing past my ear, we practiced in silence.

Technically speaking, I wasn’t dancing with Salvador. He stood near me, showing me the steps. I watched his feet and tried to follow him.

The steps grew more complicated. I became lost; my mind wandered.

What have I gotten into? Who is this man?

Salvador is a short, thin man, in a worn, faded, long-sleeve red shirt with curling collar tips, black dress pants, and well-traveled black patent leather shoes. His grey hair was slicked back; his pencil mustache was neatly trimmed.

I asked him how and when he got into danzón, and how long he‘d been performing. He shook his head and shrugged. “As long as I can recall.”

I asked him if his wife dances with him.

“My wife does not like danzón,” he said, sighing. He tilted his head to one side and shrugged. “Ni modo.” (Nothing I can do)

I looked down at his shoes. His feet must be very lonely.

He explained the steps to me rapidly in Spanish. I shook my head in confusion, but that just spurred him on.

“More explanation is what this gringo needs,” he seemed to be thinking.

I wondered what else he had going on in his life besides this. The golden age of danzón is long past, but I saw the flame of its past glory burning in his eyes.

He kept telling me, “It is simple. Just follow the eleven steps.”

Eleven steps? Most dances have three or four. He sees my dismay. “No paso nada,” he says, waving off my worry. (No problem. Don’t worry about it.)

“Look, it is muy facil” (very easy),” he says. “This paper will show you all the steps.”

Out of his shirt pocket, he takes a chuleta, a long list of the 12 different routines of the florecita version of danzón. Then he produces pieces of masking tape and tapes the worn cheat sheet to a metal pole.

Then he resumes demonstrating. First, we make the cuadro, a box. Three steps, then un pauso, (a pause), then three more steps, another pauso, then the final three.

“Next, the paseo,” he says. An elegant walk. We line up side by side, facing the same direction. We, the men, go forward; the women retreat.

Except there are no women. Just me and Salvador, advancing toward invisible women. I could be locked up in some states for doing less than this.

The next series is the Helice Doble Giro. A double spin. Big trouble. Then, forgetting about the invisible women, he does a Vuelta de Hombre.

A man-spin.

The man lets go of the woman’s hand and prances in a full circle, like a peacock. He wants me to prance around in a circle, alone, my left arm raised. ¡Ole!

You’ve got to be kidding me!

There are 12 subroutines, times 11 steps each. I calculate mentally that I have to learn 132 dance steps, and then repeat them flawlessly.

Simple.

This would be fine if I could count to 11 while dancing, but I cannot.

I stumble through various steps and begin to grumble. He looks at my face and raises his eyebrows.

“You will learn to love it,” he says. ”Danzón is elegant, sensuous...”

Mentally, I add, “Maybe so, if I were dancing with a woman...”

After half an hour of dancing with Salvador and glancing over my shoulder to see if I could spot Paloma, I finally asked Salvador if she was coming to the lesson.

He assured me, “Yes, except she is in a cooking class now, over there.” He pointed to a building nearby. “Her class will end in a few minutes.”

Paloma must have told him she would be late. Why hadn’t he told me?

Once I began to get the hang of it, I heard Paloma say hello. Finally! I turned around. There she was, smiling.

I smiled back.

“Very soon,” I told myself, “I will be holding her hand and dancing.”

Seeing me swoon, Salvador intervened, “Take her right hand with your left, and hold it up, this way (he demonstrated shoulder high)!”

She was so close; it distracted me. I was counting my heartbeats, not steps.

How do I tell her I haven’t been this close to a woman in years, without sounding like a crazy hermit from an old wood cabin deep in the woods?

Her face was inches away. The attraction pulled me in, a romantic force of gravity.

Unlike my old, shy self at a high school dance, when it pinned me to the wall.

Finally, he started the music.

I heard the seductive opening strains of a classic danzón tune, Florecita, by famed Cuban bandleader of the 40s and 50s, Mariano Merceron.

The music sounded sweet and sultry; it filled me with yearning. He caught it.

“Hey, no yearning!” Salvador said. “Do not look in her eyes. Look past her.”

Busted!

Her left hand rested in my hand, my hand was on her waist, and her right hand was on my shoulder. She was too close for me to count.

Or breathe.

I started confidently, but got lost after a few steps.

Salvador shook his head and said, “No. Stop! Try again.” He reset the music.

How embarrassing! I asked for help. Salvador demonstrated the routine with her.

He performed the routine flawlessly with her. With the discipline of decades on the dance floor, he maintained his poise, staring past her at some distant point.

He presented her hand back to me. “Now you do it.”

I grasped her hand. The sultry clarinet riff began.

Off we went!

I tried to copy their moves, but soon missed my cues.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll get it.”

Salvador said, brusquely, “Concentrate-on-the-steps.”

We resumed dancing; only our hands touched. It was enticing, tantalizing, and maddening.

Soon the practice ended; the music stopped. We stepped apart; I looked at her and smiled, then at Salvador.

Salvador nodded at me and said, “You’ll learn.”

For Paloma, I will!

How do I wind up doing such things down here? This doesn’t happen at home.

Maybe it’s magic. Yes, that’s it.

Mexico is like a magic mountain. I feel myself tunneling into it. The power of music and dance penetrates walls of once-solid rock; they begin to crumble.

My life, once cold and lonely, grows warm and inviting. Anything seems possible. Even learning to do 132 dance steps perfectly.

Did I mention that we have to perform on Friday? After just three lessons?

¡Viva Mexico! ¡Viva danzón!

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There is nothing like singing songs you don’t know, with words you don’t understand, in a language you haven’t yet learned to speak.

It all began so innocently with a lady I had met recently. She took me by the hand and led me into a dimly lit room. Strangers sat silently on folding chairs around the perimeter.

I asked her, “What’s going on here?”

In a dark brown voice, she said, “¡Hola! H-O-L-A, ¡Hola!”

My fate was sealed.

I had just stumbled, unaware, into the community choir at the local senior center in Patzcuaro, La Estancia Del Adultos Mayores.

Someone handed me a book of song lyrics. The choir leader began playing an unfamiliar tune. As everyone began to sing, I froze. What have I gotten into now?

I looked at Lola. She smiled and gave me a nod as if to say, “You can do it!”

No, I can’t!

The community choir at the senior center in my small town in the mountains of Michoacan consists of five men and 25 women, over 60, a bearded, young choir leader named “Eddy” on electric piano, and his two capable and talented assistants, big, tall Moy on guitar, and soft-spoken Elisabeth on mandolin.

The other men (Javier, Aurelio, Beto, Calle, and Alberto) belted out the tune, while I stared at the unfamiliar lyrics and tried to mouth the words written in Spanish.

The women hopelessly outnumbered us; their high voices drowned out our low.

But why was it so? During a break between songs, I asked the guy to my left, “Why are there so few men?”

He turned to me. With a sad look, he shrugged and said, “The other men our age are all dead.” I looked again at all the women. A terrible thought occurred to me.

“Did … the women … kill them?”

He rolled his eyes up, tilted his head to one side, then shrugged.

He said, “No … At least, I don’t think so…”

But he didn’t seem too sure.

It was all so confusing. I was used to church choirs back home in the US. Choir members had to be able to sing on key, in the same key, and in unison.

Not here.

Without musical notation, I had no way to know how long or short the notes were, or what key to sing.

On the other hand, it didn’t matter. I had never been able to sing on key.

The other choir members overcame these obstacles with enthusiasm. Some sang high, others sang low. Some held onto the notes; others spit them out like bullets.

The choir leader soldiered on, a peaceful look on his face, as if he could not hear anything wrong. The guitarist and the mandolin player looked oblivious to the gaffes, too.

Every Monday and Wednesday, I drove Lolita to choir practice and participated. Some strange force drew me back, like a drunk to his drink, or a racetrack bettor to his horses.

I wasn’t here only because of Lola, or Lolita, as they called her, who was my landlady, although at first, I only went because of her.

She told me that she had a car accident and totaled her car. She looked sad. I offered her a ride to choir. To me, she was a very nice, older Mexican lady.

Then I found out that in the choir, my landlady had a secret alter ego.

I knew her as Maria Dolores Contreras Rodriguez, but in choir, everyone called her “Lolita.”

(Someone told me Lolita is a Spanish nickname for a woman named Dolores)

She was often sad about life when we talked, but never sad at choir practice. Dolores means pain in Spanish, and she had encountered her share of it in life.

Despite being in her mid-70s and having white hair, when a song starts, she pops up out of her chair and begins to dance the cha cha cha. She never gets tired.

And she takes care of me.

On the first day, she sat me next to the other men, then sat on the other side of me. Why?

Perhaps, I thought, it was to protect me from the other women, who smiled sweetly at me from across the room and waved shyly.

How should I respond? I gave them a stiff gringo nod, unlike the other men.

Before choir practice, I watched the other guys give the women “safety hugs,” leaning in so their cheeks touched, but no contact below the shoulders.

At first, as a newcomer, I was too shy to hug them.

I felt like a fish out of water, flopping around on the floor, gasping for breath.

Our songbook consists almost entirely of Mexican ballads I had never heard, dating from the 40s, 50s, and 60s. It was Greek to me, but written in Spanish.

A couple of the tunes sounded familiar to me, such as Chiquitita, by ABBA, and Cielito Lindo, which was used for the now-infamous Frito Bandito commercial in the 60s. (“Ai yi yi, I am the Frito Bandito.”) It sounds way better in Spanish!

Why, I wondered, was I so often out of synch and getting off-beat with the others?

Aha! There is a dastardly secret to singing along in Spanish, known as sinalefa.

Not knowing about it, I fell behind every time words ending in a vowel met words beginning with a vowel. Like a guy who doesn’t hear the starting gun in a race, I got stuck trying to figure out how they fit together, while the others took off.

I finally figured it out. They bridged vowel endings to vowel beginnings and picked up a beat on me each time they did it.

My biggest difficulty was trying to express the sense of deep, passionate love and the cruel anguish of heartbreak, which are the blood and guts of Mexican ballads.

As a guy from the Midwest, I had been brought up with two basic emotions: OK, and not so good.

That was what my Mom got whenever she asked my Dad how he was doing.

I was out of my league emotionally in Mexico. My canned gringo reactions felt like toggling between a pair of pale, happy-sad emotions: I was emoji man.

Not so with the others. During an upbeat carnival song, my Lolita and another woman also named Lolita jumped out of their chairs and began dancing.

I almost fell off my chair. Spontaneous dancing in public without permission?

Unthinkable in the USA! But here, no one even blinks.

Mexican ballads are an emotional rollercoaster in the amusement park of life.

During the happy bits, the women clutched their hands to their bosoms as they sang, eyes closed in rapture. During the sad passages, their voices wobbled, and they looked close to tears.

In clutch sections, my wingmen lifted their heads and went all high tenor on me.

It wasn’t just the singing; the complex rhythms made me want to bust a move.

We had aspiring percussionists: one woman thrashed the maracas about with abandon; another woman used an egg whisk to play an instrument that looked like a cheese grater. It made a raspy sound like a Latin guiro.

I pointed to her and asked the guy next to me, “What … instrument is she playing?”

He said, “Oh, her? She is playing a cheese grater with an egg whisk.”

And to think we Americans just use them for cheese and eggs.

(actual guiro photo)

As the days and weeks passed, the faces of the choir members became more familiar to me. The women were no longer strangers.

Now, I saw each face, worn with age, but sensed a heart brimming with hope, while still struggling with the twin sorrows of late life: divorce or widowhood.

At 67, I could relate to both.

I realized that, like the Hotel California, leaving the choir was not an option.

I wasn’t just one more guy; I was now one of the guys. We always sat together.

But after attending choir practice for a month, something puzzled me: We never improved. Wasn’t practice supposed to make perfect?

Sometimes, the choir leader stopped practice and spoke to us at length.

Unable to understand what he was saying in Spanish, I watched as everyone nodded along. Perplexed, I asked the guys what he was saying.

They replied: “He wants us to sing better.”

Gee, thanks.

We resumed, but with no change. If ignorance was bliss, this group was ecstatic.

Finally, one day, I had an epiphany.

This was about more than learning to sing old songs. My long dark noche was coming to an end; the light of understanding began to dawn.

One, most Mexicans do not need sheet music. Everyone knows the songs already.

Two, because music is such an integral part of life in Mexico, everyone sings, whether they have a good voice or not. Maybe they can hit the notes, maybe they can’t. No matter.

This, my friends, is what tequila is for. After a few shots, everyone sounds good.

Was I imagining it, or was something deeper going on in the choir?

These days, you don’t call Ghostbusters, you ask Google.

I found out the main purpose of community choirs in Mexico is to encourage participation and to ensure that seniors have a place to go to meet each other.

Participation as the goal of choir, I mused; that’s radical. Revolutionary, even.

It’s not how we do it in America, where only the best singers are invited to join the choir.

But, somehow, I enjoy it. For the first time in my life, I feel comfortable singing in public.

The choir still sounds awful, but even after a bad practice, I feel good.

But that’s not all.

I enjoy hanging out with the five guys, my new Mexican brothers. Each time I go, they include me a little more in their conversations. And I understand a few more words.

We have given ourselves a new nickname, los rompecorazones – the heartbreakers. We can’t figure out how the women resist our charms, but somehow, they do.

I’m back in high school again; the girls still ignore me. But now, I can handle it.

So, what do you think? Does the Mexican choir sound like fun?

Come and join us. Lola is waiting for you. Stick around after practice. We’ll drink champagne that tastes just like cherry cola.

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Most people don’t know this, but I was taken hostage as a child. Mysterious men showed me bad things on TV and made one violent movie after another about Mexico, which poisoned my young mind. I never knew why that did that to me.

Once a mind is poisoned, the cure becomes difficult. Read on to find out why.

***

Let the Brainwashing Begin

As a child, I learned a lot about Mexico and Mexicans, and most of it was bad.

The Frito Bandito, a mock-Mexican bandit created by an ad agency to boost sales of corn chips, began appearing in TV commercials when I was nine or ten.

The animated bandito, who popped up during commercials, said he wanted to take my Fritos. I clutched my bag of Fritos, tossed some in my mouth, and crunched.

Mexico was, for me, a mysterious, far-off place, not on my way to or from school, yet near enough to be a frightening menace in my impressionable young mind.

Hoping to escape the terrifying tales of Mexico seen in cartoons and in commercials, I switched channels to watch a movie. Bad idea.

Movie images of Mexico were even worse. When gringos went down to Mexico, the Mexicans were usually shown as the bad guys, even in their own country.

In The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, a sweaty, dirty Mexican bandito, who claims to be an officer of the law, sneers at a prospector played by Humphrey Bogart.

Bogart asks to see some ID.

“Badges?” the Mexican bandit hisses, “We don’t need no stinking badges!”

No one had to spell it out: Mexicans seemed evil; Americans wore the white hats. Great messaging for kids, guys. Thanks, Hollywood.

The problem was compounded by my growing up in the Midwest in the 1960s. I didn’t know any Mexicans. There was not much for me to go on but cartoons.

We had one Mexican girl in my grade school class. Her last name was Vargas. She had long, dark hair and dark eyes. A timid girl, she didn’t look like the rest of us.

In high school, we had one Latino in our class, Jorge (“Hore-Hay”). We all called him “George.” I never heard him correct anyone.

Our life then was like a hot dog on a plain white bun for lunch every day.

The brainwashing was unrelenting.

Fast forward to the 70s and 80s: the story remained the same. Only the movie titles and types of villains changed. The movies featured drug cartel massacres.

A few Mexican Americans made us laugh. Comedians Cheech and Chong from East L.A. showed us that if they were really stoned, they were quite harmless.

In La Bamba, a Mexican-American with a guitar and a girl was a good guy, too.

I Went Anywhere But Mexico

By the time I got to college, it was clear that going south across the border was a bad idea. Nothing good would come of it. But where should I go?

If I stayed in the US, I’d remain hostage to toxic tales of Mexico on TV and in movies. I escaped to France and later to Morocco as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

My wanderings in Africa continued until 2020. Then the COVID pandemic began, and we all came home to America.

But when I got back, the drumbeat about Mexico continued. Big bad Mexico.

Hola, This is Mexico Calling!

Eventually, I visited all 48 states and ran out of places to go in the US. Winter set in. Mexico smiled warmly. The cacti called me: “Carl, it’s time to come visit.”

It was a prickly decision. I had questions.

I contacted my old Peace Corps buddy, Mark, who lived in Arizona on the border. He and his motorcycle buddies had been going down there for years.

They had never been kidnapped and had not been killed, not even once.

“Mark,” I asked, “Is Mexico as dangerous as our government says?”

“No,” he said. “Not at all. You just need to take some simple precautions.”

“Like what?” He ticked off three key points.

One, stay on the main roads; drive during the day.

Two, don’t sneak around on backroads or on private property taking pictures of, say, marijuana fields or fentanyl factories.

Three, don’t get into stupid arguments with strangers, and don’t indulge in road rage incidents.

“But why does our government say it’s too dangerous to go there if it really isn’t?”

He shook his head. “Who knows?”

I said, “Mark, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“Look,” he said, “Who are you going to believe, our government, or a Peace Corps volunteer you knew when we were both young and stupid and drank lots of beer?”

His logic was impeccable. “I should believe a guy I knew in the Peace Corps!”

***

I drove across the border at Nogales, Arizona, and arrived in Sonora, Mexico. I pretended not to be afraid, but inside, I was scared shitless. Every time I looked at the car next to me on the highway, I saw the Frito Bandito smiling back at me.

Was I seeing things? He waved his pistols. His gold tooth flashed in the sunlight.

I arrived at my destination, Kino Bay, a small fishing village located on the Gulf of California, and drove straight to the friendly RV park Mark had recommended.

Islandia Marina was a haven for aging hippies from north of the border, and for Canadians who came south for cheap living, good eats, and spectacular sunsets.

In my mind was a nagging question. Where is the cartel that people talk about?

In this dry, dusty town of 5,000, as I drove the streets, I looked for a sign saying “Cartel HQ,” and for “Cartel Only” parking spots in front of stores and restaurants, but I never spotted any.

It was a peaceful, quiet town, where the only real danger was the topes, the ubiquitous, unmarked, unofficial speed bumps on almost every street in town.

I remained vigilant, but not once in my three months there did I spot a sinister cartel character. But I did see a lot of Mexican police, army, and national guard.

The cartel issue remained shrouded in silence and mystery. No one in Kino Bay ever talked about the cartels, so neither did I.

Eventually, someone explained it to me. “The cartels aren’t looking for old hippies living on the beach. They have revenue targets to meet. Drugs are big money.”

I felt a bit offended at their lack of interest, but frankly, I wasn’t worth their time.

The next winter, 2025, I headed south from the California border to Baja, crossing at the remote, desert town of Calexico, California, into the town of Mexicali.

I drove south on the Federal highway, eyes wide open, watching for the cartel. I imagined them crouching behind cacti and lurking inside the carnicerias.

Yet my second winter there did not allay the fears of people I knew back home.

When I posted beautiful pictures of sandy beaches, sea birds, or tropical flowers, family and friends would ooh and ahh, but then say, “But isn’t it dangerous there?”

I imagined them looking at each other, shaking their heads, pointing to their skulls, twirling their index fingers. “Crazy Carl is going south again. He’s nuts.”

How could I explain that traveling to Mexico enabled me to take off the blinders and see Mexico as it really was for the first time? The people I met were honest, law-abiding, and hard-working. Not angry, or violent, or argumentative.

We had been hoodwinked. I had to ask myself, “Wait, who’s the hostage now?

Things that Go Boom in the Night

I was not able to convince folks that visiting Mexico could be done safely. The fact that I went unharmed was perhaps seen as a fluke or a stroke of luck.

My only brush with death was while having drinks at a friend’s house. An Australian friend accidentally exploded a cloud of propane in front of us.

We were a meter away when the fireball ignited. Who needs eyebrows anyway?

Unfortunately, folks back home see the news of gruesome killings that make the headlines. These gory reports punched holes in my otherwise reassuring narrative.

Two Australian surfers camping in a remote spot argued with a young Mexican. He wanted the tires from their off-road vehicle. Tempers flared; a fight ensued.

Their mutilated bodies were found at the bottom of a nearby well. It happened six months before I arrived, but the story kept circulating my entire time there.

People back home said, “See? We were right. It is dangerous!” What can I say?

For me, the idea of camping alone was as scary in America as it was in Mexico.

Myths and massacres mess with your brain. Is anywhere really safe?

I See Red

I spent a winter in Sonora, and a winter in Baja, both rated Orange by the US State Department. Reconsider Travel. In other words, don’t go there. I did.

Nothing bad happened.

Those trips were a warmup for the winter of 2026, when I finally went to a Mexican state coded Red by the State Department, meaning Do Not Go.

But I did.

Tune in next week to find out where I went and what happened when I got there.

Afterword

First, allow me to conduct a couple of reader polls, please. What is your reaction to or feeling about my using AI-generated images to illustrate my blog posts? I was experimenting with AI to illustrate scenes for which I could not take photos.

While I began experimenting with AI after I took up writing, and have grown used to it, and know its limitations, it came to my attention that some people have a strong reaction to it, and I began to wonder if AI enhances my posts or not?

Second, I face an ongoing dilemma around my time in Mexico. It would be nice to have my family and friends visit me, but most people tend to avoid Mexico due to US government travel advisories, except perhaps for flying to expensive resorts.

I don’t want to twist people’s arms to visit me if they feel unsafe, and I can’t deny that there is violence in Mexico related to the drug cartels, but in my experience, daily life for most people here, myself included, has been peaceful and calm.

Which of the following describes how you would feel about visiting Mexico?

Thanks for taking the polls. It really helps to get your input.

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Until you travel, you think you know food, but then food surprises you.

Like the lyrics to hit songs, food is often misunderstood. Especially when we visit other countries. They speak another language, and they eat different foods.

Or perhaps they eat similar foods, but the food looks and tastes quite different.

Crossing the border into Mexico by road is like traveling back in time, to an era when food looked like food, and people weren’t afraid of it.

On the US side of the border in the town of Nogales, Arizona, the roads are paved, more or less. The yellow lane lines are freshly painted and clearly visible.

People don’t play in traffic, and restaurants stay a respectable distance from the street.

Then I entered the border crossing area, drove over the transnational bridge across the dry Nogales Wash, and passed through Mexican Customs and Immigration.

Food Is Free to Roam in Mexico

After entering Mexico on the other side of the wash, I felt like I was in another galaxy. The lane lines disappeared. The cars flowed around each other like water.

At the first traffic light, teenagers raced into traffic and peered into my car window, presenting trays of foods, drinks, and sundry trinkets for sale, while my dog barked furiously at them.

“Assassins!” he shouted. “No,” I said, “food vendors.” “In that case, buy some!”

Suddenly, food was everywhere around us. People sold food from hand-held trays, pushcarts, tricycles with coolers, and wooden stalls on the edge of the street.

Food had escaped and was on the loose, like a zoo animal that got out of its cage. Vendors could smell money, and they prowled the traffic lanes seeking a sale

It made me dizzy. I had to pull off the road for a minute.

I stopped to change money at a cambio, then spotted a man nearby. Waving my arm at the vendors of all sizes and shapes, I asked him to explain the scene to me.

“What,” I asked him, “are all these people doing in the street selling food?”

He gave me an odd look and shrugged, “They are working, señor.”

‘Yes, but why are they selling food in the streets?” I asked him, exasperated. “They should not sell it in the streets. Food should only be sold inside restaurants.”

Another shrug.

“They cannot afford to have a restaurant, senor. And they cannot come to your home. They do not know where you live. So, they find you in the street, señor.’

Suddenly, it made sense. But it still puzzled me.

“But there are so many kinds of vendors. Who are they? What do you call them?”

Pointing to the teens toting trays, he said, ”Those are ambulantes.” Then he pointed at the pushcarts. “Those are carritos.” A little further away, he pointed out tricycles. “Those are triciclos. The wooden shacks are puestos (stands)…,” he said.

He was on a roll. The list was growing longer.

“Some are called taqueros; the one in the pink shirt is a tamalera, and…”

“Ok, thanks,” I said, cutting him off.

Now, my head was spinning. No one warned me I would stumble onto a food carnival only minutes into Mexico. I knew that I would never go hungry here.

The smells were enticing, tantalizing. The primitive scent of meat grilling on charcoal fires floated through my car window. My inner caveman weakened.

It was a street battle, and food was winning.

Food had broken out of the boring, sanitized confines of the restaurants where it is normally held captive in the United States.

In Mexico, food is free and furious. It takes no prisoners, but it held me hostage.

Eating and Retreating

At lunchtime, I arrived in a small town and walked into a roadside restaurant. I sat down and looked at the menu, but had no idea what any of the items were.

The server stood there, pad in hand, smiling, waiting for my order.

I pointed at an item. Something with eggs (huevos). Off he went. Eventually, he returned. He placed a dish in front of me, then stood, waiting for my opinion.

I looked down and saw eggs swimming in a sea of red salsa.

I asked him for something. As soon as he left, I stuck the tines of my fork in the salsa and placed a speck on my tongue. It was scalding hot.

When the server returned, I asked for the dish “para llevar” (“carry out”). We fled.

The Mystique of Meat

We stopped for the night. I decided to go to a grocery store, but where could I find one? I typed supermarket into my phone.

Up popped a bewildering list of bodegas, tiendas, abarrotes, mercados, and supermercados. “What is all this?” I asked my dog. He stared at me blankly.

No help there.

I drove to the nearest mercado and walked inside, grocery list in hand. The dimly lit store was small. A tiny section of fruits and vegetables and partly bare shelves.

I went to the butcher counter in the back. There, I saw it: meat!

I don’t mean normal meat, like we have in grocery stores in the US, wrapped in plastic, on a Styrofoam tray, on top of a pad that absorbs any unsightly … blood.

No.

Piled up in a big metal tub, I saw big hunks of beef that appeared to be … leaking.

You know what I mean.

“Excuse me,” I whispered conspiratorially to the butcher at the counter, pointing down at the tin of raw beef. ‘I think someone may have murdered the meat.”

He stared at me, uncomprehendingly.

‘It’s not supposed to look like that,” I told him. “It’s bright red and … uhh … juicy.”

“It is beef,” he said, shrugging. “I just cut up a cow. Of course, there is blood.”

Oh my, he used that B word. I felt myself getting faint.

“But,” I protested, “That could be upsetting to some people. Like me.”

‘You want to buy meat, right?” he asked.

‘Yes, but not dead meat!” I whispered.

He pressed the intercom. “Cope de nieve en la carniceria,” (A snowflake in the meat department). A manager walked up and asked me what the matter was.

I said. “In the US, our beef does not look like it came from a deceased cow.”

“How does it come, in a wooden cow coffin?” he asked me.

He was close.

“It looks nice and safe, wrapped in plastic. It looks …” (Here I got poetic) “Like it’s sleeping peacefully on a white foam tray. With a little tiny pillow underneath it.”

“You think the meat is sleeping?” He looked at me skeptically.

“Let’s say we play along. We tell our children that cows are very emotional. They fall to pieces when they hear that we need beef. Some pieces are steaks, etc.”

“And your kids believe that?” he asked, incredulous.

‘I’m not sure. But it’s like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. If you pretend to believe, you reap the benefits. But, your beef did not leave the cow voluntarily.”

‘Well,” he said, “Here, people want to see that the meat is red and fresh. They don’t mind. They know a cow has to be slaughtered for them to buy some beef.”

I found myself in a trap. Perhaps we indulged in a bit of meat hypocrisy at home.

But could I ask them to put on the same pretense here? Should Mexico create a charade to delude people about something that doesn’t even bother them?

You visit another country expecting things to be different, and then they are. The differences between food in the US and Mexico reveal a startling truth.

· In America, we think what we do is normal, healthy, and good.

· In Mexico, they think what they do is normal, healthy, and good.

Do you see the difference? Neither do I. Let me try again.

Food is a lot like language. There is a different word for everything. It looks different, and it smells and tastes different, but in reality, it’s mostly the same.

Is that clear now? No? Oh, dear. Do you feel funny about how some foods, like meat, look in other countries, compared to how they are presented in the US?

AFTERWORD

Food in Mexico is presented and handled very differently from in the US. Personally, I find it fascinating and almost thrilling that food is presented in so many places by so many kinds of vendors. It feels more alive and integrated.

But it can take a little getting used to, and some people may be taken aback by it.

I would love to hear from readers about your reactions to how food is prepared and sold, and served in other countries you visited, and how you felt about that.

Did seeing how it is handled elsewhere make you see things at home differently? I feel that selling meat wrapped in plastic, sitting on foam trays, seems very sterile.

Subscribe? Free or Paid? Buy Me Coffee?

If this post resonates with you, please subscribe. For free if you like! No pressure.

If you want the inside scoop and complete access, you can also pay to subscribe.

If you prefer, go to Buy Me A Coffee and make a one-time $5 gift. Keep a tired old man caffeinated: https://buymeacoffee.com/carlcamembert

1. Tanque lleno, regular – The first thing to know is how to say, “Fill it up, please.” (Tanh-kay yay-noh) You do not pump your own gas in Mexico. The attendants will assist you. To ask for “regular,” say Ray-goo-lar. They will know what you mean.

2. Cero. The pump attendant wil…

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