As an outtake that didn’t make the final edition to ‘Rick Steves: Europe Through the Backdoor’, I highly recommend it.

It is especially cathartic after 2 weeks’ culmination of mild stress, odd odors, and culture shock.

When I got off the train in Rome, I was inaudated with people, like the first scene from Saving Private Ryan except the bullets weren’t bullets, they were well-groomed, well-dressed Italians and international tourists rushing to their connection or final destinations.

I felt as if I had to find a safe haven as a student would go underneath their desk and cover their head in case a nuclear bomb was headed towards their way.

After about 10 metres of swimming upstream, I found a garbage can and bench combo to lay my bag on as streams of commuters and travelers hurried their way in the direction of whereever.

If Florence SMN was Newark airport, Rome Termini was definitely JFK.

When things slowed down and bearings were gathered, I thought it a good idea to actually visit the tourist information booth instead of attempting to navigate to my hotel by myself.

With plazas being so popular in Europe, it wasn’t as simple as making a right or left, or looking for a street sign, it was much more complicated than that.

Well, at least, it is for me.

In Florence, I had left the correct exit of the train station however I turned the wrong way, and it was quite frustrating doing a 359 degree roundabout with the equivalent of Frodo Baggins on your back.

This ain’t Lord Of The Rings, Rome ain’t Helm’s Deep, and I ain’t Sam Gamgee. Elijahs Wood on my back isn’t very comfortable.

Hmmm.

I digress. When in Rome, I located the ‘Informazione Turistica’ rather quickly considering my track record and known genetic defect that renders me directionally challenged.

And even though I took a number when I entered, there was nary a person waiting in line for tourist assistance.

I found that odd but was happy to see that I could take my time with them. I approached the two employees and as I got closer, I saw that they were in a midst of a conversation.

Though they were web aware that I was standing there waiting on them, they continued about their gossip/discussion as if I wasn’t.

This is nothing new, this kind of thing happens often, not just in Italy, but innumerable times in the US.

So I waited for them to finish their sentences, at which point, I expect a little better service for making me wait in a line when there was really no line at all.

Again with the expectations.

When in Rome, or in any other foreign land for that matter, I want you to know that my patience goes up and my anger gauge goes down. I want to be as polite as possible, I have this subconscious urge to be a good representative of my country… China.

(It doesn’t work, when asked where I am from, I guess saying “Oh, I am totally from Hong Kong” in a perfect midwestern accent red flags something)

Anyways, when they finished, one looked at me without saying anything, I guess that was my cue.

I had a few questions to ask and I started with

“Hi, um… ¿parla ingles?”

She nods her head and says “A little…”

“Um, where are the buses to get to Ciampino airport?” I asked, hoping to prepare a little for when I would leave Rome in 5 days.

She points her pen and says in her dry, raspy voice “Outside, I don’t know, other companies handle that”

Ok, that was helpful information.

Especially for tourists.

“Um, could I have a map?” pointing at her pad of maps she had on her desk

She tore a map from the pad and handed it over.

She seemed annoyed by my common request as if I was asking for her overtanned first born.

Her attitude bothered me.

Keep in mind, there is no one waiting behind me.

(I find out soon enough that there is a reason for this)

After glancing at the map for a moment, I go back for thirds.

I pointed to the nearest exit, right outside the tourist information office

“So, uh, which exit is that?”

Without saying one word, she grabbed the map from me, marks two “x”s with her pen and handed it back to me in one motion.

Now, I was getting angry.

My shirt began to tear at the shoulder and there was a hint of green jaundice coming over me.

Without looking at it, I said immediately in a decidedly less-happy tone

“UH What does that mean!?”

Raspella gave me a not-so-nice look, then replied in an unmistakably condescending voice-

“It’s really not that difficult.”

Seeing nothing but red, the Lakers, and Martin Lawrence, I fell to my knees as my anger took hold of my body. I covered my face with both hands as my shirt tore in several places, revealing my bubbling green skin…

“I’m sorry, I thought this was the information desk, you fucking scumbag!”

I think she said something back, but I couldn’t hear her over the voices in my head that insisted I jump over the desk and strangle her.

I crumpled up my ticket and threw it at her.

The ticket missed, but it landed on her desk.

As I bent down to pick up my bags and storm off, I saw the ticket fly back down in a velocity that could only mean she threw it back at me.

At this point, I had half a mind (the half that doesn’t use the 10%) to take Frodo off my back and throw him at the woman.

And as she laid there with hobbit on her, I would then swing Gollum (my messenger bag) relentlessly at her knees, all the while screaming

“YOU… NEED… RE-… TRAINING! RRARAAAGGH!!!!”

Of course I wouldn’t do such a thing, but the thought was satisfactory enough at the time.

So with two marks on my map, tattered clothing and veins popping out of my forehead, I took a deep breath and said

“I’ll do it my fucking self”

Before exiting, I took a second to take calm myself.

I walked out of Termini, looked at the map, turned it right, scrutinized the “X´s” that the Miami Vice reject had made, and matched up the streets.

“Hmm. That wasn’t that hard.”

Was it something that wasn’t obvious to me, something smart and scientific?

Instead of waiting or researching such answers, I was more than happy to partake in the whale-watching tours offered by San Diego locals, trips where one can see many whales from afar, perhaps even close enough to see one without binoculars and if you were lucky enough, you might get close enough to touch one.

I was satisfied, even excited to involve myself on such a journey, until one day I opened up the San Diego Tribune and noticed an article on whale-watching, but not the kind that they offered in the San Diego bay. I read with much interest about a little town called Guerrero Negro that was 430 miles into southern Mexico, daily trips were made out where whales slept, rested, and nurtured their young. And those willing to make the trip, were guaranteed to come face to face with the creatures.

After reading the article, simply seeing a whale from afar was no longer acceptable, I now lived for the day when I am able to make it out to Baja California on some foggy morning and encounter these huge yet peaceful creatures.

I spent the next week researching my best options. I wasn’t sure that it would happen as every tour that I came upon on the internet seemed to be way past what my financial expectations were for such a trip.

Following all my research, I had decided to contact only one of the tours. And that one tour was run by a woman by the name of Tillie Foster. Tillie’s whale-watching tour group was located in Ensenada and according to the info I found, she was a well-traveled Ensenada resident that put together annual whale-watching tours at a respectable price.

Even though I would be willing to pay a large sum of money to experience something that I have been enamored by since I was a child, the price was still a little out of my range. Tillie’s tours were, by far, below the price point of any of her peers but was still a little too expensive for my tastes. I decided I would contact her anyways and see how I could somehow make the cost of the package lower.

I received a reply from Tillie with some very good news (for us); a family of four had cancelled out at the last minute due to a family emergency. I really wanted to go and Tillie really wanted to fill the spots up as soon as she could, so we exchanged emails for the next couple of days going back and forth combing through the possibilities and options to come to a compromise.

I emailed Tillie several times and even spoke to her on the phone before we came to a concession. And then I became really paranoid about doing business with someone that operated outside of the United States, but Tillie had answered enough of my annoying questions, quelling many of my paranoid apprehensions about handing over a good chunk of US currency to a random stranger from Mexico.

After that, I verbally agreed to join her tour, I reserved two spots, one for myself and the other for my roommate and friend of many years, Eddie.

So we set up a place and time to meet up so as I could prepay Tillie for our reservations.

I met Tillie on a sunny Sunday afternoon less than 5 miles outside the US/Mexican border. I had a unmarked envelope with a wad of cash to give her a stack of US currency, I felt like a drug dealer, except for roughly two months worth of rent, I received a colorful folder with information about Baja California, restaurants, hotels and information about the whales we would come into contact with.

The last part really got me excited again and took my mind off all the little things that were bothering me about the whole exchange. I was going to not only see whales, but in many instances, I would get to touch them.

I chatted with Tillie for sometime and I got a good feeling from her, she was an older woman that was quite friendly and very easy to talk to. She spoke about her past and how she ended up in Ensenada. She spoke about what a great town it is to live in.

After 10 minutes or so of talking, she jumped back into her red pickup and zoomed off. I watched as her truck pulled out of the parking lot and I couldn’t help but wonder if I just got suckered.

So today was the day that we would travel 500 miles south of San Diego to Guerrero Negro, Baja California, Mexico. Specifically a lagoon named Scammons for a Whale Watching excursion. The gray whale spends roughly four months there after migrating from the north to the warmer waters on Baja California’s coast.

This is the tale chronicling the 3-day trip, which included a pair of 11-hour bus rides and an ornery cast of characters.

After a stressful drive from San Diego to Ensenada where we were to meet our fellow tourists, we arrived on time as the rest of the group was boarding the bus.

Part One.

hat included my directionally challenged self attempting to find my way to a hotel in a city in a country that I was not familiar with all the while wondering that when I got there, if there would be a bus waiting for me or was Tillie laying out somewhere on a Mexican beach resort laughing it up hundreds of dollars richer.

Ed and I handed over our larger bags to be placed underneath the bus, we then boarded and quickly found some open seats towards the back. We situated our bags and ourselves as quickly as possible then awaited our departure. As departure time came closer, I watched as Tillie board the bus.

Tillie scanned the seats and smiled.

Something was afoot, I could feel it.

Tillie then grabbed a microphone and said…

“Testing. Testing. Testicles.”

I looked over at Ed, nodded my head and said “awesome”.

Ed pulled his Padres baseball cap over his eyes, slumped down into his seat, and hypothetically asked “What kind of trip is this?”

Needless to say we were off to a great start.

Part Two:

Going by Tillie’s smile, all was accounted for and going just fine. She welcomed us, gave a brief overview of all the features of the bus, the snack cooler in the back where we could help ourselves to; bananas, apples, peanut butter cookies and a variety of pop.

And we were off for a

You know that urban legend where a young child stuck their arm out the window and had it chopped off by an oncoming vehicle? I now firmly believed that it must have happened in Mexico. The highway was the width of two passenger buses lined up side to side, metal against metal, with a margin of error of give or take 1.5 feet. Add to that that there no shoulders, that’s ever a smaller leeway for little Armando to stick his arm out the window and making arm-waves.

I watched nervously as tour bus after tour bus, semi-truck after semi-truck whizzed by the Baja-Rama, each seemingly closer and closer than the last.

The fact that we made it there through winding mountain roads was a tribute to our bus driver and those that drive this highway on an everyday basis.

We stopped at Mama Espinoza’s for lunch, a small family-owned restaurant that looked as a two-pump gas station should have been attached and a scruffy old man named “Cookie” with a cowboy hat covering his eyes napping on a wooden chair.

I’m sure Tillie had worked out a deal with Ms. Espinoza to bring her some business in exchange for a discount, but I am not sure Tillie had much of a choice because I hadn’t seen much other than cacti, other tour buses and mountains.

specifically a lagoon called Scammons, whales come here to mate, feed, give birth every Nov to april.

Part Two:

If you were expecting to dial zero and ask for a wake-up call, your spoiled American ass must have been expecting a phone in your room.

“It’s all good” you’d say “we’ll just set the alarm clock.” I would then reply to you that you apparently didn’t take inventory when you entered the room.

Option three was setting the alarm on our cell phones, but Sprint PCS’ coverage was spotty in Guerrero Negro, Baja California. With the rough Spanish translation of “Spotty” equating to “nada”, we had no way of knowing the local time and thus no way of awaking at the right time for our trip.

Luckily, Tillie was experienced and had us covered. She introduced us to a short burly Mexican man whose job was to come knock on our doors at 7am. “He’ll be up all night” ensured Tillie. We looked at the man, who was already looking in our direction. He smiled and nodded his head in agreement, probably thinking to himself “This is the cushiest fucking job i’ve ever had.”

That was going to have to be good enough for me.

I awoke Saturday morning in Guerrero Negro to a pounding on our door.

His bed being closest to the window, Ed awoke first and walked to the window. He pulled back half the drapes, peeked out at the gravel lot, smiled and announced in a sportscaster’s voice-

“Tillie with the backscratcher!”

After we shared laughs for about 10 minutes, we quickly prepared ourselves for the apex of “Baja-rama”.

We walked across the gravel lot and risked out lives trying to cross the road to where the company that provided the bus over to where the whales stayed. Our bus made its short-15 minute trip over to Scammon’s Lagoon where we saw other adventurers wandering about.

Having lived in the litigious United States all my life, I expect to have my hand held every inch of the way and I thought the 4-hour tour would actually be 15 minutes of actual whale-watching and 3.75 hours of instructions how to defend yourself just in case a whale attempts to peer pressures you into smoking.

Apparently that’s not how they do it in Mexico. The moment we got off the bus, they “handed” us life jackets with nary an instruction of how to put one on and before you knew it, we were boarding the ponga with no video seminar to coach you on what would happen if you were accosted by pirates.

Pirates attacks and whale peer pressure be damned. Our little speedboat was off and running and it had not even been 10 minutes since we got off the bus. We sped through the waters, our motorboat bouncing roughly up and down, up and down on the water…

“This is doing wonders for my back.” Ed exclaimed, trying to speak over the buzzing motor

The boat only stopped once to circle around a bouie where several seals were laying out. We did a circle around the seals either to give photo opportunities to those with cameras or to catch their stench from every direction.

After the smell killed any preconceptions of how cute seals used to be, we started up again and sped over to our destination.

Our motorboat began to slow and we obviously were getting close to the area in which the whales stayed. I felt like Steve Irwin except not as tall, without the accent nor as annoying.

At that point, my expectations were low, even though I saw photos of past close encounters. I passed the evidence off as one would view a scrumptious menu image of a hamburger knowing what you would actually receive when they plopped that sucker in front of you would not resemble the mouth watering piece of sacred Indian cow that you ordered only 15 minutes before. Bottom line, it never turns out the way you expect it.

As we crept further into the lagoon, everyone was quiet. keeping their eyes open for any sign of the massive creature. “Over there!” someone said, this was the first sighting and it was simply a misty gush from a blowhole about 100 feet out, we ooh-ed and ahh-ed, not knowing what was in store for us in the very near future.

The second sighting was less than a minute later and much closer (about 50-60f eet away) as someone pointed to one of the huge mammals come up for air and just as quickly go back under, we ooh-ed and ahh-ed again, and again not knowing what was in store for us in the very near future.

Then there was silence and all we could see was open water and the two other pongas that accompanied us on this tourgroup.

They came right up to the boat so as you can pet them… At times you didn’t know what to do and where to look… and on one occasion there were three surrounding our boat! I must have seen a whale 80-100 times with several occasions where we were able to pet them. The babies were the ones that were most curious, 99% of the time it was the youngens that approached the boat to be petted and played with, with Mother in tow, menacingly right below them. I can’t tell you how intimidating it is and how small one feels when one of these massive creatures are underneath your 15 foot 10-passenger ponga.

Many many times using their blowholes and coming up for air, several times where they stick their heads out of the water exposing their eyes, and a couple times where they “breach”… this is when 3/4 of their body comes out of the water, exposing almost their entire body only to have gravity take over, forcing them to come splashing down onto their backs… amazing. I didn’t get a photo of the last action as I was too busy gasping and pointing.

The most amazing thing about the whole whale thing was that you were in THEIR environment and THEY came up to the boat voluntarily! THEY allowed you to pet them! What other animal is like that?

If you are EVER in Baja California you must go… let me know if you are still having problems with the link and I will reinvite you to the album.

The babies were the ones that came up to the boat. They were most curious and apparently the mothers kept a short yet liberal leash on many of them. Three separate times a baby whale came right up to our boat, stuck their head out, to be petted. Many times the baby would protrude its head out of the water to be petted and just seconds later you would see the mother, all 50ft and 4000 lbs of her, underneath your ponga quietly supervising the interaction. Several times the mother was so close that she actually burshed up on our boat. The most incredible memory.

Summary:

Certain words need to have some ground rules before their usage. The word “amazing” is one of them. Its becoming way overused which in 80% of the cases are probably misusages of the word.

Now, the three hours I spent out in Scammon’s Lagoon was amazing. It is an experience that cannot be described with words nor pictures. For humans to venture into a mammals environment is exciting, but becomes even more so when the mammals recognizes you, approaches you under its own accord, and allow you to pet them as if they were common domesticated housecat. I had to constantly remind myself that I wasn’t at SeaWorld but a natural habitat where whales chose to be and were not captured and caged like at a zoo, where petting an animal is heavily regulated and supervised.

Not to say I didn’t enjoy the rest of the trip (I like to say “I enjoy traveling but not the actual traveling part of it) there were untouched landscapes featuring huge cacti, beautiful rock formations and cultural authenticity.

I recommend Tillie Foster’s tour, she and her assistants are experienced and very accommodating. In addition she is by far the cheapest tour out there. If you want peace of mind when traveling down to see the Whales at a low cost, then I suggest you contact Tillie for her next tour!