Mermaids more common than drug lords in Mexico

Photo by Patti Keyworth
Not the least of the new friends I made in Rocky Point.  Mermaids, I happily learned, are a big part of the Mexican art scene.

Photo by Jim Keyworth
The Consort on the plaza with her Rocky Point treasure - a purse made out of candy wrappers.

Photo by Jim Keyworth
Fishing boats in the harbor at Rocky Point. 

OFF THE RIM

by Jim Keyworth

I had always thought of Rocky Point as a place where Americans go to be ugly. Even the fact that we refuse to call it by its Mexican name (Puerto Peñasco) makes it seem less their home than our playground.

College kids on spring break go there to raise hell. T-shirts on sale in gift shops bear messages catering to our crudeness (“I f*** on the first date,” “I’m shy but I have a big d***”). Friends who visit there come home with stories of Americans carving up the Mexican desert on rented ATVs and women trying on those same T-shirts without the benefit of a dressing room.

If I wanted to experience Mexico, I’d go (and have gone) places further down that were less likely to have been treated as an American fire hydrant. But The Consort is a Rocky Point fan/aficionado and she talked me into giving it a shot, despite the fact that our government had just issued an advisory about the perils of traveling there.

Some neighbors told us about a funky little hotel called the DreamWeaver Inn overlooking the plaza in old town. It certainly wasn’t the high rent district, but it was right where we like to be – in the middle of it all. We made a reservation and headed out.

Not having been to Mexico in probably 12 years, I was a little apprehensive as we crossed the border at Sonoyta (that big border fence is a pretty imposing reminder that you’re leaving the security of the homeland behind) and for perhaps the next dozen or so miles enroute to Rocky Point. But desert is desert and except for all those kilometer signs I soon forgot that we were in a foreign country.

Once we arrived in Rocky Point, however, it was obvious we were in Mexico. We made our way to the plaza, found our hotel, unpacked, and set out to explore. Shrimpers hawking their wares. Shopkeepers imploring that whatever we wanted they had at a price we couldn’t refuse. Even the restaurants had representatives on the streets, menus in hand, trying to entice us inside for dinner. It was only mildly annoying, quite colorful, and very uneventful.

That first evening, we settled for dinner at the Friendly Dolphin, a safe choice overlooking the bay based on recommendations from some of the locals. Back at our room we uncorked a bottle of wine and settled in to our third story patio to watch the sun set on the bay.

The next morning, emboldened by our warm reception, we ventured out for a breakfast experience we had been told not to miss, a German place called (in fractured English) The Coffee’s Haus that featured homemade apple strudel. After two tries walking from our hotel and back to our hotel for more directions we found it. The strudel was good, but The Consort’s chilaquiles were even better.

After a trip to the harbor to check out the fishing boats, we spent most of the day at a couple of spectacular but mostly deserted beaches. The U.S. travel advisory seems to have taken its toll. The Consort said she had never seen Rocky Point so dead.

As our lone full day in Rocky Point wound down, we made a purchase of art. As you can see from the photo, I embraced the Mexican art world. Our purchase was a metal mermaid painted, we were told, with car paint. It would surely last a lifetime.

After another happy hour on our patio, we decided to try, of all things, an Italian restaurant we had discovered the night before just up the street from the historic Posada La Roca Hotel, where Al Capone allegedly stayed. The Mare Blu Bistro, owned and staffed by Mexicans, was spectacular, and so was the bottle of Mexican wine (yes, Mexican wine) we consumed. The multi-award winning winery is called L.A. Cetto, and we were so impressed we brought a couple of bottles home.

We were also most impressed with a wonderful waiter named Roberto Padilla. It was he who made me realize during the course of dinner that this column needed to be written. A young Mexican man, Padilla was gracious and helpful as he guided us through a dinner in an Italian restaurant owned and operated by Mexicans, a restaurant, Padilla pointed out, that had just been named the best in Rocky Point in some sort of annual competition.

He recommended the two entrees that had won the competition for them, Chicken Florentine and Chicken Franchesca. We each had one and shared.

The moral of this story is that Rocky Point is absolutely safe for Americans. We always felt welcome wherever we were. Even at the police station where The Consort insisted on asking for directions to a marketplace.

It seems to me the warning about traveling to Rocky Point is part of a bigger American problem – living in fear. Ever since 9-11, we have been afraid of our own shadows. But life is not without peril, and a life lived in fear is no life at all.

How soon we forget what FDR once proclaimed: “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.”