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 The morning of our side trip to Todos Santos, my ankle is still twice its normal size, developing the most interesting coloration, and cannot be moved in one direction, not good signs. Several strong cups of java, a modest breakfast , handfuls of Advil and a stiff upper lift find me aboard the big blue bus for a 1 ½ hour trip to the city . Our tour guide gives up the local history, telling us interesting details about the area. The “natives” apparently live as they have always done, subsistence farming higher up in the mountains, and everyone else here is from another part of Mexico. I suspect the natives may be on to something as we pass yet another golf course, several villas, several more corporate giants and even more hotels. We see few swim able beaches, those that are safe we find hardy surfers in beautiful azure water.

We ease into less development; country that is more open and topping a crest in the road suddenly see a lush green valley, with hints of roofs peeking through ~Todos Santos. It has very narrow streets, real cobblestones, planted center dividers~ how our driver manages the turns is a marvel to see. Disembarking the first thing I notice~ warm but no humidity, we are now on the Pacific side of Baja and cool ocean breeze’s reach me~ point one in the cities favor. We walk to the Church, as biggest building it will be our meeting point for those who wander. We decide to follow the tour guide, over hill and dale to the cultural center for a quick review of the past. I am dragging one foot as quickly as I can and am a good three blocks behind the tour, but my friend stays at mid point so we do not get lost, just cannot hear what the guide maybe saying. Yet the eye revels much; this is old colonial Spanish architecture, adobe, with thick plaster, arched doorways, and high walkways. One door that stands out in my memory, with weathered old red peeling paint, that talks if one has the ears to hear of years and events long ago. The town itself it quiet, small full of friendly locals and many shops full of silver, local crafts, pottery and many fine art galleries. There is a Gringo News paper, a “green edition” of a local magazine and the smell of good food everywhere.

 We enter a “newer” building, circa 1870’s, and the first thing we see are beautiful murals done by unknown artists depicting Mexican history. All of the walls have these murals, but only two have been saved from wind, rain and the effects of hurricanes. We cross a plaza; there under a huge old tree is a recreation of a casa, complete with landscaping and even chickens in the coop, their version of Pioneer Village but on a small scale. We enter the rooms, they have the usual displays of oil paintings of past mayors, a series of native artifacts, many old black and white photos from the ages past and then the hidden treasure….there hung among several local art works she hangs, unheralded, and sap that I am, a lone tear escapes my eye…a Frieda Kahlo. She is one of my personal art heroes~ politics not with standing~ and while all the info is on small cards (left my reading glasses at the hotel) it looks to be the real thing. Others from my group, Texans who speak only Spanish, are near and notice my obvious rapture, I mutter “real”? They respond “si” and help me with my camera to get the flash on. I am not sure who is more amazed, me at finally seeing a work up close or they, that I, an obvious very white woman, even knows who Frieda is. There are two hanging there, self portraits .This is a moment I will not forget.*edit* I have done a small search for the art I saw and so far can not find reference to this particular work, but recently new art from her hand was found and these look real enough*. However, bah humbug even if these turn out to be “in the style of“~ the magic of art, surrealism at that, crossing language barriers and uniting a disparate group in wonder is not to be pooh-poohed. It was my hidden treasure.

 We wander about a bit, eating a sumptuous meal at the Hotel California, lamb burger with blue cheese and caramelized onions on locally baked bread, my companion having sea and turf quesadillas .A food mystery here~ we get the required chips, salsa and guacamole, but also a warm mystery dip the color of the setting sun, very mild heat but savory. An elderly gentleman plays classical guitar, as the fountain splashes and the ever-present sparrows look for a hand out. I am in love with this town, the spirit of these people, this place~, even as my ankle continues to swell. (*apparently, I have broken a small bone, so I write this through a pain pill haze*.)

The magic of the orange bracelet is long gone; some things linger deep within my soul. Perhaps because I was born in Santa Barbara, my early memories of Fiesta, the horsemanship, the wonder of seeing flamenco great El Greco, my love of Spanish Missions, even with all those accompanying horrors, I respect this culture so. It is an integral part of me, and my state. The final question remains is Mexico really gone as California becomes the land under my feet? Politically I suppose so, but Mexico is still a spice that has shaped our state ,as a native daughter I can not forget that. I recommend a visit.