“The Wine List”

I had been solo kayaking along the shore of the Sea of Cortez for 16 days. For the last week I had not seen another person and hardly any evidence of humanity, aside from the discards of civilization that had washed up on the beaches where I camped. My supplies were almost exhausted and as I approached Bahia de Los Angeles, I thought of the meal I was soon to enjoy at Guillermo’s, a small RV camp and rustic hotel/restaurant on the desert coast of Baja California. 

The restaurant appeared deserted at first but soon a waiter arrived, and I ordered lobster tacos.  While I was waiting for my dinner a German couple came in and sat at a nearby table.  I overheard their conversation with the waiter, and it seemed their Spanish was quite good.  As they perused the menu, they called the waiter over and they asked to see the wine list.  The waiter explained there was no “wine list” and only one wine available, as he pointed across the room to a large 4-liter jug of red wine on the bar.  The German couple seemed confused and went back to looking at the menu, discussing it in German.  They called the waiter back and resumed their inquisition about the wine. They insisted on having wine that came in a bottle, not a jug. They were incredulous when the waiter explained there was no such wine available in Bahia de Los Angeles.  After several more exchanges with the waiter that became louder, more animated, and interspersed with German, they jumped up from the table and left, slamming the door behind them.  I presumed they went looking for a better class of restaurant.  

My order soon came and as I sat there in Guillermo’s enjoying my lobster tacos, I contemplated the expectations of the German couple in this wonderful place that was at that time 45 miles from a paved road. I smiled to myself as I realized that a person’s expectations of a place greatly depended on the journey and not the destination.  They, no doubt, drove about 45 miles from Highway 1 on a semi-paved side road in their air-conditioned SUV into this desert town, expecting to toast their travels with a vintage cabernet or perhaps a sweet German Riesling, only to be disappointed. But this place was far from anywhere in both distance and time.  Traveling solo, I had just paddled a heavily loaded kayak almost 200 miles over sixteen days, chased coyotes making off with my clothes, and sparingly used my food and water so that I could make it here to Guillermo’s. I landed in this wonderful place with a single potato and one can of soup to spare. I turned to the waiter who was still looking at the door pondering the meaning of the rude exit by the Germans, and I said, “Por favor, Senor, pour me a glass of wine from that big jug.     Very nice!    Muchas gracias!”

I arranged to sleep on the beach next to my kayak in front of Guillermo’s and I took a nice hot shower in the RV park.  I really like Bahia de Los Angeles.