The only gringo in town

On my third day in Ensenada, Ruth came into the kitchen with some news.

“You’re gathering a following here.”

Apparently, the residents of Avenida Abasolo had been noticing my every move. In this neighbourhood, a white guy obviously stood out. Ruth reported that most times she left the house, someone would sidle over to ask about the fair-skinned visitor.

Most of the time, Mexicans weren’t so covert about it. In the streets, locals would often ask where I was from, or comment on my blue eyes. At the taco stands, they’d jokingly warn me to be careful with the spices. Often, the children would just stare at me. Ruth called it “Bieber Fever”.

But that’s just the reaction from strangers. So far, the Mexicans I’ve met have opened up their homes, kitchens, or passengers seats with kindness and enthusiasm. Mere hours after arriving in Ensenada, Ruth, Erika, and Enadina welcomed me into their family. At successive Christmas dinners, Susy would never stop refilling my plate, while Javier continually topped off my glass of tequila.

My experience in San Quintin, a small town about 200 kilometers south of Ensenada built around the Baja highway (the only paved road in town) was a whole different level of immersion. No gringos, no English.

But when I arrived with at Trino, Olivia, and Karol’s house with my friends from Ensenada, I was eagerly adopted into the home. I had planned to stay two nights. I stayed six.

Being the holiday season, we spent most days meeting up for meals and day trips to the ocean with their massive extended family. They’d feed me nonstop, trick me into eating chili peppers whole, and show me how to drink tequila like a Mexican. “Gilberto, tu eres Mexicano!”

Sometimes, I’d drive around town with Trino (who worked nights) and Karol (his mischievous six-year-old boy) so they could introduce me to different friends, family members, and locations around town. Other times, I’d pop over to Olivia’s hair to say hello to her coworkers and cruise the strip outside the store.
More often than not, these experiences would result in unexpected and rewarding conversation with total strangers.

I’ll admit, there were times when I’d feel like a bit of a circus act. When the pace of conversation quickened, I’d sit there lost. Often, the family would urge me to say goofy things, just for a laugh. And, of course, Ruth would always have fun trying to embarrass me in public through my lack of Spanish. But after two weeks in Baja California Norte, I couldn’t have imagined a warmer welcome to the country.