I’m going to be brief, consider this post more of a “proof of life” construct than a thoughtful essay, or revelation with regard to some little known spot in the Baja.

As of our last  communiqué, the Roving Bugs had left Los Frailes, just a stunning little spot, in search of some small corner of the world where there would be a few small amenities that would allow us to lay down some temporal roots, shower (fresh running water, preferably), and have unfettered access to a little thing we like to call “electricity”.

Dad is writing a novel, after all, and it is nice to be able to plug the laptop in without worrying that the refrigerator won’t run out of power.

So we took the Hippo with us up to Los Barriles, and nosed around for a week, looking at houses, campsites, and several RV parks, and we settled on a new home that, over the past three weeks, we are just over the moon about: the East Cape Resort and RV Park (we lost the Hippo to mainland Mexico, and it was tough to let him go).

So, Dad, if you’re reading this, you can now proudly tell your friends that your son, daughter in law, and two grandkids live in a trailer park in Mexico.

But the truth is, in this instance, a fabulous departure from that dull descriptor.

I, of course, haven’t really been the full beneficiary of everything our environment has to offer.  I am, in point of fact, writing like it is my job, because it is my job, and so every morning I get up, make some coffee, mess around with the ladybugs and then head to the office here where I have shamelessly taken over a small table under a palapa and get to work, and as of this moment (April 14) have managed to get roughly 65,000 words down.

That’s a lot of writing, and I am at it for a solid eight or so hours a day, but anyone who has ever seen me type before wouldn’t be too impressed – I’m an eighty words per minute guy when I really get going.  Plus, there’s the yet to be resolved “quantity vs. quality” issue.  I’ve only solved for half of that equation thus far.

But it is also my excuse for the lack of recent posts – as it turns out, writing full time takes a lot of time.

For Val and the girls, trailer park living has been nothing if not wonderful, and the gallery below will prove it.

We’re not so much living in a trailer park as we have been afforded permission to camp in the midst of a lush, tropical botanical garden.  Palms shade us.  Enormous bougainvilleas spray pinks and purples and violets everywhere we turn.  A pool cools us at midday, when I permit myself a break and we play “Deadly Puffer Fish vs. Baby Sea Lions” and escape the sun in the gloriously temperate water.

The girls keep a calendar here that would make any Manhattan socialite’s head spin.  The moment they wake up they head off.  They might head over to Graham and Dee’s casita to give them flowers.  Perhaps they will visit Ralph and Susan to compare notes on their favorite games.  Or, they’re off to visit Julie and Marshall, proprietors of a marvelous, fully restored, mid twentieth century school bus to play with their dog or “help” Marshall with his leather work.

If they’re feeling up to it, they’ll go ahead and run down to Bobby and Dianne Lee’s campsite, play with their boundlessly enthusiastic collie, Dezzy, or maybe catch a boxing lesson or two – and why not, because Bobby Lee has trained dozens of fighters in his career, including a host of US Olympic Team members.  Leonie, as of this writing, has a hell of a left cross.

Or they are in the pool, fraternizing with any of a dozen of the very happy, incredibly warm people that winter here and, essentially, crowdsource their own grandparents.

From the point of view of this particularly tough overlanding family, where we are right now is about as luxurious and restorative a place as we can possibly imagine.  Val and I are already working on a scheme to get our own parents to seriously re-evaluate their retirement plans.

Could it really be this fabulous?

Have a look – you tell me (you can click on any image to start a slideshow and enjoy my pithy commentary):

So, this is what our trailer park in the desert looks like… lush palms and various tropical trees provide a healthy canopy, and Red Beauty is collecting dust from simply sitting still – her first true rest in seven months.

Marshall and Julie’s phenomenal 1946 Chevrolet Bus. To say we were collectively green with envy would be an understatement.

Our neighbor at the park, Bea, lent us her paddle board. The girls were up an moving around on it within seconds.

Val getting into the action, with the SilverFish along for the ride.

Mermaids in the Sea of Cortez.

The Old Man and The Sea.

Bobby Lee, pro boxing coach, seen here getting the girls ready for their fist boxing lesson.

Bobby trains a band of local kids who don’t have much of anything. Val shocked, I mean, shocked them by leading them all in a “warmup” one Saturday morning. The latin male psyche is not ideally suited to have a gringo woman do more push-ups than they can…

Bobby faces his worst nightmare: two southpaws, simultaneously.

The old man shows the SilverFish how to teach the bag a little respect.

At least Leonie is wearing gloves…

Leonie, I will say, took to boxing pretty quickly.

Sure, she’s carrying her right a little low, but she’s only setting me up.

The left cross. That she knows how to do this is going to come as a big surprise to someone, somewhere, someday.

Theresa, who not only owns and manages the resort we’re staying at, also can’t stop herself from rescuing horses. She found this mare in such bad shape she didn’t even know it was pregnant. A month later, two horses for the price of one.

The foal, a philly, just twelve days old in this picture, was every bit as curious about the girls as they were about her. Just a beautiful animal.

Theresa makes introductions all round.

The filly will never know just how much Theresa deserved this kiss.

Sylvie walking Lucky, a rescued pup, who lives next door to us at Bea’s place.

Bea’s big dog, Indigo, being taken for a stroll by Leonie.

Dianne, Bobby’s wife, bringing some semblance of order to Sylvie’s manic, golden curls.

Ooooh, man. A forty something year old airstream rescued by fellow park dwellers Jenny and Joe.

Photographic evidence of what happens when vanity is left at the border, and a thousand miles of unkempt hair breaks loose at happy hour.

New hat for Sylvie. Also, mom’s drink under attack.

Paging James Montague… this beauty is waiting for you in Los Barriles. For you, a very good price.

Sylvie dares one of our friendly groundskeepers to hit her with the water hose.

She, of course, gravely miscalculates his interest in soaking her from head to toe.