Escape to Mexico

Mexico could not have come at a better time.

For the duration of the late summer and early fall, I found myself with a 2,500 mile commute to work. The day prior to a trip, Tori would drive me to Nashville where I would snag an empty seat on our only flight to Seattle, inhale my go-to overpriced airport salad, politely arm-wrestle the dozens of other commuters for one of the few Portland-bound seats, dust off my car, hope that I hadn’t exceeded some untold parking limit as I rolled up to the parking garage gate, exit, navigate the pandemic-spawned construction on my 15-minute drive downtown, circle the usual blocks for street parking, roll my bags—in full uniform—down the midnight streets, through the apartment lobby, and up the elevator to sleep too few hours before reporting to the same concourse a few short hours later. Because of the complication, I bid as many as 4 trips in a row: 6 days on (the legal limit), 1 off, followed by 6 more on before attempting to make the return trip east. On paper, this made the most sense: stay on the West Coast for longer blocks and get more of the month’s work done at a time. But in practice, I may as well have been working on the space station.

Flying into the Earth’s shadow somewhere east of the Continental Divide.

As the hotel nights strung together, I began to piece together my escape from orbit: a week I had taken off at the end of September for Tori’s birthday. There were two confirmed seats to anywhere within the airline’s network sitting in my account that would pair well with some of the Marriott points I had accumulated during my corporate flying days. With travel restrictions, a reduced flight schedule, and winter approaching, the search didn't last long: Cabo.

Tori and I boarded our flight in Nashville a few weeks later. I had managed to keep the trip a secret until the week before, and the excitement hadn’t diminished—even when I mentioned the only available routing was Nashville—> Seattle—> San Jose—> Cabo.

An Alaska A321 parked below the last light above the Sierra de la Laguna mountain range.

We touched down on the Baja peninsula just before sunset. Out of all of my research, the only common caveat regarding Cabo was don’t drive after dark. Much to my dismay, all of the car rental desks at the terminal exit were closed. In broken English, an airport employee attempted to tell me that the facility was off-site pointing at the reservation in my hand and leading us outside to a van. My inner-American was saying We’re definitely going to die, but upon further inspection, the side of the van did in fact say “Hertz.” They really need to update their website. An hour later, we pulled out onto an unmarked airport alley into the warm Mexican night.

There were no speed limit signs on the worn-out four-lane highway. The shoulder, which is also used as a passing lane, was lined with pedestrians, cyclists in both directions, and Federales. Eyes pinned to the shoulder, I made sure I wasn’t the fastest or slowest driver around. The lanes eventually diverged, and, through a series of roundabouts and gates, our 15-hour trip finally found its end on a curb next to two very friendly valets.

We’ve never been the resort type. Our “vacations” were usually long flights over long weekends—cramming in as much as we could and sleeping on the plane. If we had a longer stretch, we’d load up the car and drive until the landscape changed. I like the freedom that affords—pulling over to snap a photo or choosing a hike last-minute. This was unfamiliar and formal. But with hotels at less than 20% capacity, there was a sereneness about the place that probably felt just as strange to the staff.

I started my days while the mornings were still—the sun rays trickling down from rocky hilltops, the seabreeze steady. Gardeners tended to their respective corners—content to work in the cool of the early day. Our balcony was perched west shielding me from the harsh angle of the morning sun. While Tori slept, I read and began sifting through some of the things weighing on my mind—jotting a few of them down. I knew we were on the precipice of something big; ideas and dreams that seemed too far away were starting to feel within reach—but not without cost. I had felt for a long time that there was so much more to life than what I was experiencing, but I hadn’t had the space to articulate it.

By far the best thing about the low occupancy was the fact there were more pools than people—or so it seemed. While the few couples out flocked to the swim-up bar, we gravitated toward a small infinity pool off to the side with, quite frankly, a much better view of the shoreline. We quickly befriended an attendant named Israel who told us about his time in the States and his schooling in Kentucky, politely qualifying, “It’s nice but, you know, kinda racist.” What they don’t put on the license plate, I thought to myself tightening the corners of my mouth and nodding a sympathetic yeeaaahh…. Tori and I spent the afternoon in and out of the pool: sometimes hanging over the edge gazing toward the turquoise water dreaming of all the possibilities ahead of us, other times resting quietly in the shade. Occasionally, Israel would pop in and tempt us with a coffee or snack, but other than that, it was quiet.

One morning, feeling ambitious, I decided to switch things up and go for a run on the beach. There at the end of the Baja Peninsula, the rough Pacific meets the Sea of Cortez creating strong currents and unpredictable surf. Every now and then a rogue wave would crash across my line-of-sight, and I would have to side-step inland. The foamy sand had the consistency of a marshmallow letting my feet sink a couple inches per step, and crabs would dart in front of you like shooting stars but with a grudge. Should have just read my book.

Knee-deep in Bob Goff’s new release, I found the theme that kept jumping out at me was the same as before: quitting. Not the it’s too hard/I’m tired kind but the am I building something of lasting value that’s going to help me be the kind of person I want to be? kind. These were the thoughts that stuck with me on the plane rides across the country, the nights away, and the days home that I felt too tired to engage. What struck me was the notion that sometimes you have to give up earlier ambitions to make room for more beautiful, lasting ones. When you’re in the thick of things, it’s hard to see outside the constraints of the life you’ve built. But here, I could be more objective. I could give myself space to dream and see what kinds of things were getting in the way. I began to see that it’s okay to outgrow your ambitions.

“It’s okay to outgrow your ambitions”

On our last night, we got all dressed up to celebrate Tori’s 27th birthday. We strolled the empty corridors watching the light work its way up the stone walls. A cool breeze followed through the tall grass. The moon, nearly full, rose in a pink sky. We both knew that we’d be flying back to finish closing out a chapter—the first chapter of our lives together—in our adopted city on the West Coast. But in doing so, we know we were turning the page, clearing the space to take on a much bolder dream together.