September 25 – October 2, Mexico. I hated the checkpoints I’d encountered in Sonora and Sinaloa and wanted to avoid them on my return home. I contacted the Airbnb host in Tlaxcala, who had been very helpful and knew a lot. He had a long distance trucker, and asked him for the best route. His friend advised leaving early in the morning and driving directly to Tampico, and the following day to Reynosa, Texas.

Following these marching orders, I awoke early and thanked Mari for a lovely stay, waving goodbye to Puebla as I made my way back to Chingnahuapan, and then north. Near Valle de Piedras Encimadas, I bought a plant potted in volcanic stone just like the one I’d given Edyth. The road wound through mountains that were verdant and full of life, I was shocked at how quickly the landscape became dry and desert-like as I descended the mountains toward Pozo Rico. And it only got dryer and hotter as I went north. The view of Tampico from the hill was impressive. A picturesque river wound its way through the town. On closer inspection, however, the historic center had been cleared for redevelopment, leaving only a couple of blocks of nice architecture. I’d been spoiled by the architecture in cities like Morelia, Tlaxcala, and Puebla. I had planned to stay an extra day in Tampico, but decided against it. It didn’t help that my Airbnb was ugly, small, and claustrophobic, and without potable water. I dropped my things and spent the late afternoon and evening walking around parts of town that looked interesting.

Another early morning. Not my bailiwick, but I didn’t want to get caught at more checkpoints. I did happen upon one, but it was a military checkpoint, which ironically felt much less sketchy than the mobile ones set up by the federales. The soldier asked if I had anything of import, I said no. Which was true. What I didn’t realize was that the real pain would be the border crossing. When I finally got to Reynosa, I spied a snaking line of cars. Actually, a mile-long line. I parked behind the last vehicle and waited. The thermometer read 105. Despite such brutal conditions, impoverished Mexicans walked among the cars, selling everything from knick knacks to food. I talked with a few, and bought a pendant from one young man. He appreciated it and gifted me a ring. The kindness of these beautiful people.

Two hours later, I pulled up to the license plate reader. Apparently it was down. I wondered how long the line would have been if it had been working. After writing down my license, a customs official waved me over. They’d seen my beloved plant, and decided I might be carrying other contraband. I was shattered as they said the plant and volcanic stone pot had to go. Next, they eyed my wooden nativity scenes with seed-filled glass bobbles. I was desperate now, and pointed out that the seeds were safely ensconced in glass. After what felt like hours, they let me keep them and sent me on my way. My car was an artisanal shop on wheels. I could probably have opened a small store with the contents.

As was my habit, I had booked my Airbnb the day prior. But thanks to the two hour border crossing, I didn’t arrive at the large rambling house in San Antonio until 10pm. The owners lived onsite, and rented out what I assumed were their kids bedrooms. My bedroom was at the top of a century old staircase, and full of theater posters, knick knacks, and a closet full of clothes. I was exhausted from the stress of the past few days, and passed out unceremoniously. The bed was very comfortable, and I was grateful not to have a bout of insomnia.

I woke up refreshed and content. I headed downstairs and found a man sitting on the porch playing guitar. He was very gracious and seemed quite relaxed about having guests. Turns out he’s in a bluegrass rock band with his son. He invited me to make myself at home, and I luxuriated in the spacious kitchen, preparing breakfast and helping myself to coffee. It felt too good to be true. So good, in fact, that I decided to extend my visit one night. I would have 3 nights here, giving me ample time to explore the lovely town of San Antonio.

I first headed to the Alamo, exploring the visitor center museum and reading their version of what happened. I knew there was more than one side to that story, as is always the case. It was a blisteringly hot day, but I wanted to explore the river walk and missions, so I put on sunhat and shade and set out. The River Walk is a 15-mile path that winds along the San Antonio River through downtown toward the missions on either end. I walked from the downtown south, hoping to walk to the missions. Too hot. After an hour, I headed back to my car for a cooler trip. The missions had been built between 1718 and 1731. Like the California missions, the goal of the Spanish ecclesiastical community was to convert local Native Americans and use their labor, leaving an indelible mark on the lives of indigenous people.

The largest of the missions, Mission San José, the “Queen of the Missions,” has beautiful Spanish Colonial architecture with flying buttresses, intricate carvings, and a stained glass “Rose Window.” It housed over 300 individuals at its peak. I wandered around the grounds, wondering what it would have been like to be there when in operation. I liked walking on the bare dirt, imagining people huddled under the gnarled oak or working in the fields. Next was Mission Concepción. Turns out it’s the oldest unrestored stone church in the country. I especially liked the frescos on the chapel walls.

On to the next. Known for its self-sufficient farming practices, Mission San Juan Capistrano boasted fertile lands that not only sustained its inhabitants but also supplied the surrounding region. The Romanesque archway is all that’s left of the built compound. I wandered around the grounds, finding my way to the nature trail to the river. From there I headed further south to Mission Espada. It holds the distinction of having the best-preserved segment of the original irrigation system used to nourish the mission’s fields. While most structures were destroyed by fire in 1826, the chapel, granary, and parts of the compound wall still stand.

I was glad to see that part of the history of this place, and headed back to the downtown. It was dusk, and just starting to cool off. I loved the way historic buildings were lit up, and checked out a street with Downton Abbey size homes on acres of land. I was amazed at the beauty of the modern city, as well as the old parts.

That night was rough. A guest in the next room was having a party with 2 friends. They were drinking, listening to hip hop, and doing drugs. All night. Finally, at 3am, I knocked on the host’s door and let him know. He was furious, and told the guest to leave. Apparently their instructions to guests specifically say no parties, drugs, or drinking. This has happened before with locals. The hosts didn’t accept locals anymore.

It was a drag. I didn’t sleep till the wee hours, and woke up groggy at 10:30. I’d wanted to hit a nice looking cafe in the neighborhood of Beacon Hill, and headed out. Had an amazing latte. Despite sleeplessness, I was happy. Since I was heading back toward California the next day, I decided to do a bit of repacking. And accidentally left a peach-colored leather coin purse with a bracelet, necklace from Tlaxcala, and $60 on the sidewalk. After heading back to the cafe, I realized I’d lost my purse. Distraught, I panicked and retraced my steps. I’d walked along both sides of the street, and had no idea where I might have left it. I poked my head into every shop I’d visited, leaving my name and number in case someone found it. I was crushed. And resigned. On a whim, I stuck my head in an antique store a few doors down from where I’d parked. I hadn’t gone in there, but thought someone might have seen it.

I entered with a heavy heart, and asked the woman working there. To my surprise, she pulled it out from behind the counter. I was ecstatic, and ran around the counter to hug her. She had seen it on her way to work, and picked it up thinking that someone else might steal it. I was over the moon with relief and gratitude. We talked for a long time, and became friends on Facebook. She told me how she goes to Mexico regularly, and had a trip booked to Oaxaca in a few days. We exchanged stories about Mexico travel, and then I gave her another hug before heading out.

This was my last day in San Antonio. I headed downtown to look at some of the buildings I’d seen the night before. I love architecture and appreciated the beautiful and classic designs I had seen. Later, I headed out along the river walk, hoping to catch the art museum. Unfortunately it was closed. I had planned to hear my host play in his son’s band that night. I headed out to the outdoor bar and grill where they were gigging, stopping for an ice cream to die for on the way. I didn’t like what I heard. It was too loud and brassy sounding. So I explored the neighborhood, which was mostly industrial buildings. I was hungry and got a taco at a place nearby. As I sat and listened to conversations around me, I overheard a woman saying that she didn’t see why people would vote for Kamala Harris. That didn’t bode well and I hoped she was in the minority. I’d been trying not to think of what might happen if Trump won.

I got home late and crashed. The house was peaceful and I had a good sleep. In the morning I thanked my host, had a nice breakfast, and headed west to Albuquerque. The trip was uneventful. There were few towns or even remote populations west of San Antonio, at least on the route I drove. I arrived late afternoon in Albuquerque, and headed downtown. I had remembered interesting state buildings, but was greeted instead by giant corporate bank-looking buildings. Very strange. There were still a couple of blocks of the old Albuquerque I remembered, and I made my way into the turquoise museum. I had been attracted by a mural of a native man on the side of the building. Turned out to be a retail shop, not a museum. Looking at the squash blossom necklaces heaped with turquoise brought back memories of the beautiful silver and turquoise watch that my friend Barbara Castro had lent me. It had been her mother’s, and I wore it proudly as I rode a bike around the Stanford campus where she lived with her husband Johnny in Escondido Village. Tragically, it came off somewhere during the ride. And despite carefully retracing my steps, I never found it. I live with that regret.

The Airbnb was banal and very suburban. The host rented out several rooms, and the house was sterile. The only image was a photo of a sky filled with hot air balloons, apparently a big event in these parts. But it was a place to lay my head. I woke, organized my things, and left. On to Flagstaff. It was my first time in this lovely town, and I was taken by its beauty.

I spent the day walking around, enjoying the architecture of buildings in the historic center, and the shady tree-covered streets in old neighborhoods. After a full day of exploring, I drove up the mountain and found a spot to pull over. My first guerrilla camping since I’d left. It was nice to be back in the forest. The next morning I packed up, headed downtown for a latte and walkabout, and hit the road. I wasn’t excited about the long ride, and had an audiobook to keep me company. It was a long hot day. I stopped in Las Vegas and at a burrito bowl at Chipotle. Then I pushed on, until I could go no further. Barstow. I found the cheapest hotel I could, and pulled the shades. Took a shower, a luxury for me. And headed to bed.

The next day was the last. I drove through arid and dry land, and only stopped to buy a melon from a campesina on the side of the road. I told her about my trip, and she told me about her life. It was a moment of connecting. And good to practice my Spanish again. With gratitude for her hard work, I thanked her and got back in the car. I was almost home.