Bahia De Los Angeles

I would be remiss not to acknowledge that while myself and other Americans basically LARP around the countryside, there are millions of more practical Bajacalifornianos going about daily life. Just like us, they tend farms, work office jobs, drink Starbucks, and don't really know what NFTs are.

I don't think we're hurting anybody with our escapades - indeed our dollars play a critical part in the local economy - it just feels a little brash to galavant around a foreign land without getting to know the people who live there. I suppose it's only natural; besides the most kindred souls for whom language is superfluous, we gravitate towards those with whom we share a vocabulary - of words, experiences, and opportunities. I'm doing my best, and picking up as much Spanish as I can.

I heard about some hot springs nestled in an arroyo a few hours from Ensenada, and when I got there it was packed, so I grabbed one of the last campsites. I'm bad at approaching people, but masterful at positioning myself strategically and looking lonely, hoping someone takes the bait. Hook, line, and sinker, soon I was being fed and playing beer pong with mis nuevos amigos Miguel, Giselle, Carlos, Susie, and Louis. Perhaps because I went to college in LA, we play by the very same rules - except that they don't drink directly from the playing cups like us degenerates. Before leaving the next day, Hobbes was adorned with five new signatures.

Braving the "Baja gas gap," I headed to Bahia de Los Angeles, where I set up camp alongside a few other caravans. Like clockwork, some folks came to talk about Hobbes, and told me I had just missed a gang of bikers heading south riding GS's like mine. C'est la vie, as they say around here, but I stayed for a couple days and became part of their "village." They cooked dinners and provided cold libations; I brought gas station cookies. I was the village pauper, and once again I was taken in and fed by strangers. And once again Hobbes departed proudly bearing five more signatures.