Ensenada in the Morning

Ensenada, as most of Baja, is a captivatingly dirty place. Every coastline, corner, and alley is veritably littered with photogenic charm. The marine layer arrives thick in the Autumn months, and stays much of the day. Its light haze mixes with the dust of unfinished infrastructure and sun, spreading a twinkling glow from la zona centro all the way to the malecon.  

The only deliberately swift and forward motion in town this Halloween morning is my black-sweatered figure, long in stride and towing two tiny, reluctant chihuahuas behind me. The locals move mostly vertically. They clean, hang, and lift, preparing their tiny tiendas for the day's pedestrian haul. A cruise ship arrives in two hours and the streets will transform this hazy heaven laced with faint sounds of Mexican polka to a swarming anthill of visor-clad tourists and pop music.

The coffee stand is bustling this morning. One single patron nods a warm hello as I arrive, and moves down a stool to give me access to the counter. I quickly notice that the coffee stand is also grossly overstaffed. A small woman in bright red lipstick and a tall, thin, young man greet me with huge plaquey smiles. I wait and watch as they awkwardly maneuver around one another, hastily preparing a drip coffee for one. I can't say that their teamwork is anything other than wholly endearing, albeit somewhat impractical. 

It is customary for every person I pass to dote on the chihuahuas, and this tradition is not lost on the coffee stand. We are met with soft, Spanish coos of adoration. Lemon's snarls and snaps inspire laughter, Fennel's curiosity with soft pets and love. We relish in this attention, and we soak up the sun on a bench with our latte. A curious trio of polite and happy Gringos we are. 

There is no threat to us or from us here, only an overwhelming feeling of acceptance that has yet eluded me in the United States. The film of street dust that embraces my skin is comforting and I will not relish in washing it off, but in being baptized in it over and over again. Mexico is my happy place and I feel as if it claims and protects me as a precious treasure more than my own place of birth and upbringing. Whether this feeling is a result of mental illness or sharp perception does not actually matter to me, as my days from here on out will be defined by what I feel, and not by what others perceive or expect. If I am going mad then you will all have a front row seat into my unraveling, and I can't wait to display my insanity for the world to see. I am finally fully free.