Young. Foolish.

I can’t remember why I ended up in Las Vegas when I was 19 years old.

There was definitely a road trip to Southern California that morphed into a week on the beach in Ensenada where I lived off tortas because they were $1 a piece. Margaritas must have been damn near free. I was broke back then, but I remember stumbling in the sand to the drink cart enough times that the man slinging them would yell “Uno màs!” in mimicry of my slurry españglés when he saw me coming.

I have a handful of memories from Ensenada. I have a kitschy resin ashtray embedded with seashells and glitter that is still one of my favorite things (even if I don’t know which box- or which shed- it’s in). I have a cedar box of sand dollars that I killed- not because I was willfully cruel- but just an ignorant desert child who didn’t know they were living creatures. Young. Foolish.

I’ll get back to Vegas, eventually.

I liked Ensenada better.

We finished the week at Nana and Tata’s house, a small adobe not far from the beach. Nana fried endless piles of fish for tacos and Tata presented a tequila flight, bottle by bottle, excited to have a young woman drinking mate. The friends who brought us to the home would remark on Tata’s progression each time he left the room.

“He’s going to get the blue one.” Tata returned with a skinny, 30” tall bottle of blue something-or-another, or whatever was next in his collection.