Literally engulfed by the sea, Baja California is an island with one loose end. I approve of their taste, for they leave me the drought I prefer. Though I like a good swim, I find the beauty of marine life less companionable than that of the scorpion, and my idea of a good day at sea is to lie on a hot rock reading Conrad. What compels me is the landmass of Baja California, a continuation of that most prodigal of North American deserts, the Sonoran. Split from the main, it has spawned divergent species, some found nowhere else.
Human culture is also an offshoot with odd adaptations.
Best of all, the landscape doesn't blur into other landscapes. Sheared off by the sea, it is finite, framed. That goal, to be sure, recedes like all mirages, for no land is so shriveled in space as a human lifespan is in time. This urge to consume a peninsula started casually. I had spent three years in Spain, playing the piano in nightclubs, basking in a new language.