The several-hour trip to Ensenada reminded me of the dreaded Day 3 of any of the several-dozen cross-country Greyhound jaunts I'd taken in my early twenties: dirt ground into the carpeted seating, floor heaters with wads of gum on them (which I only discovered after I'd decided to toast my toes, natch), and stomach-churning bathroom odor. Thank God it was only a three-hour tour - still, Gilligan wouldn't envy us. Leaving Tecate, we were treated to some dramatic scenery: boulder-strewn fields reminiscent of those I'd seen on New Zealand's Waiheke Island. This was no ecologically pristine paradise, however: ranches filled with sad-eyed cows hugged the highway, broken up by the occasional subdivision advertising luxury condos...with a decidedly unscenic view. Reaching the Pacific, I was surprised to pass a Fox Studios set complete with a pirate ship. Surely, even the most formulaic slop they'd ever turned out would be an improvement on the film we were being subjected to: Sandra Bullock with a bad bleach job portraying the impromptu foster mom of a large, oafish black teenager who'd had some tough breaks - what can I say? I wasn't convinced.
Arriving in Ensenada was anticlimactic. It was nearly dark and the next bus left in a couple hours, so we stuck close to the station (a juice stand across the street hooked me up with a frothy banana-orange licuado while its proprietor showed us some abalone jewelry) and figured we'd be on the southbound six o'clock. Unfortunately, it didn't occur to me that said bus might be full, so I took my sweet time to buy tickets. Big mistake: not only was the 6 pm run full, but so was the 8 o'clock - the next bus with any seats would be leaving at 2 am. We figured we'd do as much wandering as our weary backs - we'd both overpacked - would allow, and somehow ended up at the cop shop while looking for an ATM. Surprisingly, It had everything I needed: a bathroom I didn't have to pay for, warmth, free filtered water, and an affectionate kitten. Why leave?
After many long, chilly hours and some hastily scarfed down granola (and a slightly souring veggie burger from San Diego, alas), we were on an overnight schedule to San Ignacio. Happily, I slept through most of the night, waking at 8 am to a horribly overdubbed animated film with an anthropomorphized bear subjecting park rangers and his deer-ly beloved best buddy to his wacky hijinx. It came as welcome comic relief, then, when the next flick featured Woody Allen inflicting his neuroses on the world (and his world always includes an attractive young lady forty years his junior) _en espanol_. I cursed myself for having packed my earplugs away in a bag beneath the bus...well, at least the bathroom was clean. I peeled back the dark curtains periodically, rarely seeing little more dramatic than cacti on gently rolling hills, and waited for the rain to stop falling. It took its sweet time - but just as the weather forecast had predicted, the border between the states of Baja Calfornia Norte and Sur was, indeed, like a magical veil which no precipitation dared transcend. We'd have our sunny south yet.
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