David Andrade

As Memorial Day weekend approaches, many of us here in the US are planning some alcohol and BBQ fueled down time with friends and family. I, however, am whisked back to a fond memory of how I spent Memorial Day last year, south of the border in Mexico with two of my best friends. So why did I go to Mexico? Well the answer is long but here is the condensed version: My cousin Tank and I decided to take our friend/little homie/mentee, Reck, to La Mision, just south of Rosarito as a present for completing his Masters degree from USC. We figured a few days of Mexican sunsets, wine country exploration, and debauchery on the streets of Tijuana would be good for all of us, but especially Reck. We booked a large 3-bedroom condo on a cliffside in La Mision and left LA on a Thursday morning. The drive into Mexico was simple enough. Take the 5 to the border, cross over, and remember that things like traffic signals, traffic lanes, and stop signs are merely suggestions. Our condo was sick. High ceilings, three bathrooms, three bedrooms two parking spaces, and a view of the Pacific with a large patio to drink beer and BBQ on. This is exactly what I imagined adulting to look like when I was suffering through statistics and economics in grad school. This is living. We took an ounce of weed and an ounce of psilocybin mushrooms for the journey. Our plan for the weekend was to have fun, drink a little, explore the local area, but also explore the inner workings of our minds. Our first morning in Mexico had arrived. We rolled some joints and took off to Puerto Nuevo for some lobster breakfast. We found ourselves on the patio of Angel Del Mar in Puerto Nuevo ordering buckets of Pacificos and Modelos and smoking some quality California sativa. The wait staff didn’t mind and even offered up lighters and ashtrays. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Are you allowed to do that?” My answer, “Who knows?” We tip well and collectively operate under the ethos thatit is better to ask for forgiveness than permission. This and a little common sense/street smarts will make for a way more interesting experience. The view was amazing, overcast morning skies and nothing but ocean as far as the eye can see. Our bounty of food arrived, lobster tails, rice, beans, tortillas and all the necessary accoutrements to ensure a delicious culinary experience. We must have been the only people in the restaurant for at least an hour. This was pretty awesome, we relished the moment, we got to smoke and eat like kings on our “private” patio until other guests arrived. My guess is this is what being Wiz Khalifa or Curren$y must feel like. We drove Tank’s Silverado which we jokingly dubbed the “Narco Truck” as we felt it would do better than my BMW on the dirt roads in the Valle de Guadalupe. Now I want you to close your eyes for a second and imagine what wine country in Argentina, Spain, or California might look like. Mexico’s Valle de Guadalupe is as pretty as any of those places and less expensive. It is easy to forget that this is even Mexico. This place could be Europe, it could be Mendoza, it could be Santa Ynez but its Mexico. We found our first winery stop and decided to skip the bullshit wine tastings and just order some food and bottles. We lit up, poured up some reds, and destroyed our first round of appetizers. The scenery was beautiful, we were surrounded by lush vineyards. Chill music was playing in the background as we sat, drank, and chatted. There were even a few tables of beautiful girls near us sipping wine and enjoying brunch. Upper class Mexico is vastly different than the images portrayed of Mexico by Fox News. These people looked and sounded like folks in Malibu despite being Mexican. We hit a few more wineries, shot a ton of photo, smoked a few joints, drank some amazing wine, and ate all sorts of delicious meats and cheeses. It turned out that our neighbor in the condo was Yasiel Puig’s personal chef and he gave us the 411 on the Valle. According to him most the of the kitchens in the winery area are led by top chefs in Mexico and Southern California. The cuisine is diverse, charcuteries with a fusion of Mexican flavors. Pastas, meat dishes - you name it, they have it, and its done incredibly well. We hit the jackpot. Our chef connect, David Fuerte, suggested a few places including El Cielo, Finca, and Dona Estela. We made sure to take note and visit these places. El Cielo had a horse ranch on the property. We got to hang with some horses for a little while before making our way to the dining area. We petted these majestic animals. We spoke to them. They understood us. At one point a horse walked clear across the grazing area straight toward me. I gazed into its eyes as it approached, doing my best to project strength as he sniffed around my groin. I was terrified to make any sudden movements - horses may look cute and shit but up close that beautiful bastard’s head was the size of my torso, one snap of those jaws and my junk would be gone. I had never been to the Valle de Guadalupe before despite hearing about it in the past. I was too immature on my previous trips to Tijuana to even care about wine tasting, but I am glad we did this. We decided to explore the area a bit and ended up wandering through a Mexican cemetery overlooking the valley. Tank stayed in the truck. Reck and I wandered. I love cemeteries. They are peaceful. Sometimes there are amazing statues and artwork. This place did not disappoint. The view was gorgeous. Beautiful rolling hills of green grass down below with interesting statues and memorials to deceased loved ones near us. This town is rural and it was interesting to see how people in rural Mexico memorialize the dead. Wreaths were laid in some places, notes and flowers in others. One guy had a large horse head statue on his grave marker. Reck and I lit up a joint and talked about how we got here. He is a former gang banger turned social worker. He had just finished his MSW at USC and was on the job hunt. I am a former fuck up turned entrepreneur/adventurer. Our paths crossed as a result of Reck and Tank’s relationship in a gang. Such a beautiful set of friendships emerged from a traditionally terrible place, LA gang life. We stared at an empty gravesite and wondered who that might be for. We talked a lot about the choices we have all made, good and bad, and how we are lucky to be here on Earth, alive today and not 100 years ago. Our generation is the luckiest. We have never known real pain. We know what it is to have leisure time. We can travel. We can extend adolescence. We are living our version of the American dream. We are also sitting in the middle of a Mexican graveyard smoking weed and taking in the view. Life is good. Reck and I talked about the future. His plans for his life. My plans for my life. The serenity of the graveyard. I know this all sounds weird but it made total sense at the time. Life wanted us there. La Mision is a small village situated next to the main highway and the beach. There isn’t much there other than good surf breaks, a gated community, some beachfront mansions, and a small area with shops and a restaurant. We ate breakfast in La Mision on Saturday. During breakfast, we decided to divide some mushrooms and spend the day exploring the “spirit world” at the beach. We had an unexpected guest at breakfast, a handsome rooster. This fucking guy just hopped on to an empty seat at our table and quietly watched us talk and eat. We all felt it was a good sign and decided now would be the best time to eat the mushrooms. I had my journal, my camera, and a bottle of water. I was ready to enter the “spirit world.” The weather was lovely. The temperature couldn’t have been more than 75 degrees, a light breeze grazed our skin here and there, and the skies were blue and free of clouds. I typically take mushrooms on a quarterly basis for therapeutic purposes and I have always wanted to photograph the experience. This was as good a time as any but I must confess that I was a little nervous. I feared my occasional clumsiness might lead me to ruin my camera gear by dropping an unprotected lens in the sand or water. Luckily that didn’t happen. What happened instead was magic. I have taken mushrooms with Tank and Reck many times before. We have shroomed with various friends and family members and it is amazing for the soul. Imagine taking 3 years of psychotherapy and condensing that into a few hours over the course of an afternoon at the beach. When you are done you feel like the stress and weight of the world, of adult life, are lifted. You have a renewed sense of being and purpose. The sun is more radiant than before. The rays of sunshine are warmer, so much so that they warm your soul as much as your skin. The air is fresher than ever before. Your lungs expand with joy and gratitude after each breath. Your mind allows you to love again. Your heart beats full of blood and love for one another. Strangers, mom, dad, bullies, your soul mate. You love them all without judgement. This is what taking mushrooms in a therapeutic fashion has brought into my life and I assume into the lives of Tank and Reck. We each felt the tickle of the mushrooms and began to walk around the sand. I dug my toes deep into the cold part of the sand. This felt amazing. Tank did cartwheels before heading into the water, I pulled out my camera and shot photos. There is something comical about a 240 pound man named Tank doing cartwheels on the beach. Its even funnier when this man is covered in tattoos and lacks the grace of a tumbler. Big scary guys aren’t supposed to do this but I am glad he did. As I was shooting photos of Tank I began to witness something amazing unfold nearby. About 30 minutes earlier we had walked by a used tire on the beach on our way to finding an area to claim as our own for the day. I recall seeing this tire and thinking it was an eyesore on such a beautiful stretch of sand. After we settled in and...