Baja Boots

I stopped in San Bartolo to look for a hat. I’d left my Hawaiian lifeguard topper (made in Mexico) on Kaua’i — traveling light.

“No sombreros, lo siento,” said the vendor. But what’s this? Boots. Two pair in a plastic bag, leaning against the brick wall.

The woman brought me a chair and I tried on the brown round toes. They’re exactly my size. Everyone is happy. I pay, we hug, we part.

I walk differently in boots. My stride is longer and more confident. I question so-called authority, don’t wait for lollygaggers, and leave iffy situations sooner. The boots remind me not to tolerate discomfort or jack-assery. Polite, of course, but nonsense? I’m done.