You know it’s a good sign when you pull into the roadside pescaderia and see a boat. Still dripping from the briny waves, towed by an extremely muddy jeep (begging questions about just how and where this particular barco puts out to sea), with an iron handed fisherman transferring gigantic long fish into a bucket to be transferred directly into your lap to be transferred directly onto the flames of an open fire to be transferred directly into your mouth. It’s certainly a good way to cut out the middle man.Two things. Firstly, the color of the interior of this fish case. I might move in. Then, LOOK at that fish-eye! Now that is a fresh fish. A fresh 16 pounder plucked from the waters that very afternoon. How much? 200 pesos. $15. You’ll scale it and clean it for us? Um, ok, sure, that sounds good (inside we’re saying: OHMYGODTHISISPARADISEANDWEBOUGHTALLTHEWHITEWINETHEYHADATTHEFUNNYGROCERY!!!). We’ll take it, after all, we’re having seated dinner for 19 in the Weekend at Bernie’s dreamhouse.Sweet Philly K (my favorite, pictured here as an ancient fisherman-scientist, “The Old Man and the COBE“) dressed her up in spangles of orange, lime baubles, onion bracelets, and strange dark peppers, we rolled her like a 10 cent Havana cigar, and roasted her over the open flames for an hour. Para Comer, El Pez Gigantesco!
thanks again to E.B.P. for the last photo.
And then we drove down to Mexico. Heading through the border gates, past the towering, glittering white granite and steel monolithic wall on our side and the ten feet of corrugated rust just south, looping down along the coast, on a road that makes the highway up near Big Sur look like a dowdy dowager aunt. And then, we ended up here. A deserted stretch of beach, lined with abandoned “Weekend at Bernies” style bungalows and dotted with black-gold sand and mysterious mother of pearl and bone jewels. In short, total paradise. More on adventures and treasures tomorrow…
infinite thanks and lasers to Mr. Egon Brainparts for the last two stunning photos. Like what you see? Listen too: E. Brainparts noise to be found here.
In this year of 30th birthdays, it seems as if all bets are off. I mean, sure, for 28 you should schlep yourself to the local bar and toast a few, and for 29 you should meet up for the big dinner, but for THIRTY, well, that’s a whole new ballgame. We’re talking major celebrations, we’re talking islands, we’re talking oysters, we’re talking serious left-coast roadstripping down into Mexico hoping to pick up a beater accordion for >$25 on the way making sure to eat strange meats and lush fruits and, of course, the old head-scarves-and-jewels-and-jean-shorts-song-and-dance. So. I remain faithfully yours, off the grid in California, please follow our adventures over on Instagram (@featherbyfeather) to return next week very sunburnt and full of beans.
ps. I wish you were here.