Cabo Day Four

 Another slow day I filled primarily by watching documentaries. At the end of the day, someone brought up the idea of going into town. Into town we went. Cabo San Lucas is a weird place. A couple decades ago this was a tiny unheard of fishing village on the sand in Baja. In the late 80s the government decided to make it a designated tourist zone. Read: sacrificial lamb territory. Attract all the worst tourists to one particular place so they don’t come to Oaxaca demanding an English menu and a blended margarita. It’s working.

After four decades of attracting every degenerate in Southern California that can figure out how to buy a plane ticket, Cabo San Lucas more closely resembles Newport’s Balboa Blvd than anywhere in Mexico. If you come here you won’t need to speak Spanish beyond whatever you think you’re supposed to say to ask for another beer (I’ve heard so much butchered Spanish) and you certainly won’t need to exchange any currency. The cheap parts feel like the worst parts of California’s Mexican-American culture watered down for the thoroughly unadventurous. The expensive parts look like Calabasas but with more English speaking staff.

Not really for me. After my obligatory beer at Cabo Wabo, I took a cab back to the hotel. My uber driver dutifully gave me a rundown of all the resorts the cute single girls stay at. Next time next time.