Seeking to commandeer the perfect helado on the zocalo.

Enjoying the breezy shade of history in the desert oasis town of San Ignacio, a palm cooled time machine mission town smack dab in the middle of the vaguely brutal Viscaino Biosphere Desert.

While the world wondered if we’d been swallowed by the Mexicali earthquake, we were way out on the point of the birthing channel trying to hear whales over the wind in the Laguna Ojo de Liebre, the only souls, other than the whales, for miles. It was muy good to go atavistic.

Worry not about us. We’re deep in adventure. We spent the earthquake pissing on the side of the road in the lovely hills south of Ensenada. Total unexpected beauty. And then unexpected rocking as if the breeze were rolling all the hills themselves.

We’ve camped splendid beaches and driven miracle deserts. Baja’s a treasure. Wales galore yesterday, just us, a little boat and these dinosaurs dancing in the water with their babies for our amusment.

Now, our first encounter proper with civilization’s an old French whore house cum hotel in Baja Sur. Santa Rosalia’s like French Guiana because the French had a mining concession here 100 years ago. Now it’s a rosey dump with a slag pile and amazing wooden architecture going to seed. The metal church was designed by Eiffel.

We’ve broken through that invisable membrane into the pure charm of the third world. And never stepped foot on an airplane. A few days out of LA and you’re very far away. We dig it. The CHICKS dig it. It was a dose we’ve been missing for a long time.