I’m sitting at a long, raw edge wood table. One designed for communal meals. Running along it’s center is a living garden. Plants grow out of it where centerpieces would be. Across the table, I can see Utopia Hostel’s bar.
This morning, we flew from Tijuana to La Paz. “But Tijuana is north of La Paz—at the USA border, isn’t it??” Yes, dear reader, yes it is. “But aren’t you riding south? And aren’t you on a motorcycle?” Yes, yes we are. “So why the heck did you fly to Tijuana?”