Traveling Alone

It's been an exciting time here on the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula. So far, I've surfed the biggest waves of my life, had the best tacos ever, wound up in the wrong kind of massage parlor, had an incredible steak in the top-rated steakhouse in Cabo San Lucas that turned out to be a strip club, and been pulled over by La Policia.

Those are all stories for another time, but suffice it to say it's been fun and games so far. This morning, I'm going on one more trip to the surf beach, and then the event that I came for—a conference with other real estate investors—gets underway.

On my way to the beach yesterday morning, I talked to a friend back home.

He asked what it's like to travel without my wife.

I thought about that when I stopped for coffee at a little shop south of San Jose.

So far, it had been a beautiful morning.

I was up early to watch the sunrise. Since it was Sunday, there wasn't much going on work-wise, so I got an early start on the half-hour journey northeast to the place I wanted to surf.

The sky was blue.

It wasn't too hot yet, so I had the windows down and The Grateful Dead keeping me company.

I thought what a wonderful day it was, and how lucky I was to be here doing what I'm doing when I spied a little coffee shop, so I took the exit and pulled in.

OMG, the place smelled amazing.

Understand—I'm a coffee freak. I get excited about coffee like some people get excited about food, booze, sports, or whatever.

Like, I'll go way out of my way to get good coffee.

Thus far, I'd been a little disappointed by Mexican coffee. However, I could tell this place was excellent, so I was almost giddy as I placed my order.

"Quatro café americano, por favor."

I was hoping I'd said that right. I ordered this back at the hotel the day before and was served four coffees instead of the one extra strong coffee I wanted.

The barista knew her way around the equipment, and my anticipation over a perfect cup of coffee grew as I watched her load and tamp the portafilter.

Four shots, perfectly pulled.

From the counter, I can see into the glass cup, and the crema looks perfect.

It smells awesome.

The barista hands me the cup, and I take a sip.

It's really good!

Excellent, even.

But do you know what would make it even better?

Cream.

Thick, luxurious, full-fat heavy whipping cream.

"Quisiera un poco de crema por favor," I said.

"Lo siento, no tenemos ninguno.," she said.

Dammit! They were out of cream.

Oh well, at least I like black coffee.

Back on the highway, headed north to the surf spot, I took another sip.

It was good.

Really good.

And I enjoyed it.

But as good as it was, something was missing.

Without the cream, it wasn't perfect.

And that is precisely what traveling without Julia is like.