Two hours later, we were in Ensenada.
A minor resort town, Ensenada even boasted a modest port that could birth a massive cruise liner. Which it currently did. The thing looked impossibly big and shiny, like a skyscraper lying on its side. Or a mother ship docking from outer space.
“ Let’s head to the waterfront,” said Sanchez.
“ That’s what I always say.”
He led the way, and soon we were cruising down mostly-clean streets that reminded me a bit of Key West. One thing stood out immediately.
“ There’s no graffiti,” I said.
“ Not here,” said Sanchez. “But never very far.”
We moved down a narrow street peppered with outdoor cafes, tourist shops and random street stalls, all crowded with Caucasians moving around in small, protective herds. If anything, the Corona advertisements had become even more prolific.
Sanchez spotted me looking up at an overarching street sign that seemed to be advertising the local fresh markets. And Corona Beer. In fact, the beer logo was nearly twice the size of the real purpose of the sign, which was to advertise the various shops.
“ Don’t say anything, gringo. Yes, we Mexicans like our Corona. Let it go.”
“ I’ll let it go, if you quit calling me gringo.”
Sanchez rolled his eyes. In his world, we had a deal.
We cruised further along the street. A street vendor was selling fresh churros. The cinnamon scent somehow wafted into my partially rolled-down window. I think it was a sign. I pulled over and bought a couple of bags.
Sanchez shook his head. “Churros? Really?”
“ They smell heavenly.”
“ They do.”
“ They’re like longish donuts.”
“ Whatever you say.”
We snacked and drove and soon we came upon a narrow street lined with open stalls. And now another smell assaulted my olfactory.
“ The fish market, I presume,” I said.
“ You presume correct.”
“ Negro Mercado,” I said. “The fish black market.”
“ Right.”
“ And why’s it called that?”
“ Because they sell just about anything here. Legal, illegal and everything in-between.”
“ Would they sell shark fins here?”
“ We’ll see, but that’s sort of a hot topic. Shark fins attract bad publicity these days.”
“ And tourists shop here,” I said, noting the many gringos pouring in and out of the huge building as we cruised slowly down the side street.
“ Right.”
I wasn’t sure what we were hoping to find here, but the Negro Mercado seemed as good a place as any to begin our search for the La Bonita. S anchez had me park near an empty stall, and as we both got out, we brushed the cinnamon off the front of our tee shirts.
“ Hard to be badass when you’re covered in sugar,” said Sanchez.
“ Speak for yourself.”
“ Here’s the plan,” said Sanchez, ignoring me. “No one in there is gonna talk to me with you around. So entertain yourself while I ask around.”
“ I’m good at entertaining myself.”
“ J ust try not to look so white.”
“ I’ll do my best,” I said. “But no guarantees.”