This is what happened when they ignored the warnings for a honeymoon in Mexico..
Artwork
Credit Femi Dawkins
Personal Journeys
By MARK SUNDEEN
They told us to not go to Mexico. Too dangerous: drugs, machine guns and black-masked kidnappers. But it was January, the dead of Montana winter, and we unbolted the back seat of the station wagon and transformed it into a camper, a mattress in back, curtains over the windows, surfboards on the roof.
Over the next five days we climbed the Rockies in a blizzard, were married on a frozen lake in Oregon, then chased the sunshine south and crossed the border at Tijuana. Our honeymoon was open-ended: We had to be home sometime in May. The officials pasted a decal on the windshield that allowed us to drive as deep into the country as we wanted.
The first night we slept on a bluff south of Ensenada over the Pacific with the doors locked. In a few days we were brave enough to bump down a long dirt road and boondock at the laguna with the hatch flung open, campfire glowing and whales huffing through the night. On the Highway we were stopped daily at military checkpoints, where boys too young to shave cradled big rifles and peered into the glovebox.
