The Long Loreto to La Paz Chapter
Yes, I know. You’ve probably already watched me on Instagram dancing with cacti and climbing waterfalls in Central America, and now you’re realizing I’m only just writing about Halloween. Halloween! That means this blog is a full two major holidays and a minor breakdown behind. But look—Shevanigans is slow, we all know this. What you didn’t realize is that my writing pace is even slower. So, here we are, catching up… in late March… to October. It’s fine. Time is a construct. Onward!
We rolled into Loreto, a charming little colonial town on the Sea of Cortez, that looks like it was designed by someone who just woke up from siesta and thought, “You know what this place needs? Mission-style architecture, cobblestone streets, and palm trees. Lots of palm trees.” The town has just enough charm to make you want to buy a straw hat and start a side hustle selling artisanal sea glass. It was once the capital of the Californias (yes, plural), which gives it historic street cred, and it’s got a cathedral, a malecon, and enough tacos to feed a medium-sized film crew.
I pulled into a shady campground spot and immediately clocked a VW bus tucked behind a tree, which is kind of like spotting another person at a party wearing your exact outfit and immediately knowing you’ll be best friends. The bus belonged to a retired police officer, Andre, from Quebec, who fit into his VW like a man who has definitely taken apart and rebuilt every piece of it with a wrench, a sigh, and a strong cup of coffee. We got to chatting, and I instantly adored him—equal parts bus whisperer, travel enthusiast, and accidental life coach.
Soon Spencer arrived (yes, I was speeding ahead of his Sprinter like I was trying to win Baja 1000), and we all settled into some light beverage therapy. Mine, of course, was a Tecate 0.0, which, shockingly, is really good. I know! Mexico, of all places, has outdone itself in the non-alcoholic beer game. Back in the day, we all rolled into Mexico for spring break with only one phrase: “Dos cervezas por favor.” Now it’s, “Dos cervezas sin alcohol por favor,” which is significantly more syllables for significantly fewer regrets.
We were in Loreto for one big reason: Halloween. (Well, two reasons—they also have matcha lattes, which I consider a major pilgrimage-worthy event.) Anyone who knows me knows I live for Halloween. It’s the one time of year where dressing as a forest nymph, zombie librarian, or sexy dishwasher is not only acceptable but expected. It’s theatre! It’s silliness! It’s my Super Bowl. And, as it turns out, it’s also super important to Spencer, so we agreed to spend it together in the only Baja city that seemed remotely interested in fake blood and fang teeth.
The morning of Halloween, we attempted to recalibrate our crumpled spines with a yoga class. I sat there listening to my bones creak like a haunted house and promised myself I’d do this more often… a promise I promptly filed under “Lies I Tell Myself.” Spencer seemed equally contorted, and afterward we limped to his favorite breakfast spot, where he’d already befriended the staff (because of course he had), and we refueled with actual nutrients for once.
Not long after, Jonas and Mathilda arrived in their noble steed, Johnny the VW, with baby Alma bouncing around like a caffeinated sock puppet. And thus, our camp circle was now four vans, two dogs, and one extremely excited rescued soul.
We took to the streets, hoping to witness some pre-Halloween action. The town square had been dressed for the part, but no one was there. Like the world’s saddest haunted house. We parked ourselves with drinks (matcha for me, obviously), waiting for something—anything—to appear. Finally, a smattering of adorable kids showed up, dressed as devils, zombies, and slightly confused Day of the Dead characters. One had coffee grounds on his face to simulate, I believe, the pustular complexion of a lesser-known horror villain? Freddy Krueger’s barista cousin, maybe? Whoever he was, we applauded them all, because the effort was A+, even if the turnout was more trick than treat.
That evening, we tracked down a local bar promising a Halloween party, and to their credit, they delivered candy, drink specials, and a prime view of a spontaneous Halloween parade. Cars, motorbikes, even police cruisers zoomed by, drivers in creepy masks, sirens blaring and everyone having a blast. We ended the night dining on seafood in a sand-floored restaurant where I sipped Heineken 0.0 and felt smug about my hangover-free future.
The next day, it was time to pivot to Día de los Muertos, Mexico’s vibrant and profound celebration of life and death. It’s not just a costume party—it’s a heartfelt tribute to loved ones lost, with altars (ofrendas), marigolds, candles, food, and sugar skulls to invite the spirits back for a night of remembrance and joy. While Baja isn’t known for huge celebrations, La Paz does it up right, so I set off in search of ancestral vibes.
I paused at a beach for lunch with Mathilda and Jonas, then continued on to La Paz, where I found The Peace Center—a humble little oasis in the middle of the city that may not look like much, but it feels like everything. The owners are kind and generous, with a full kitchen, hammocks, a shaded palapa hangout, and a collection of adopted cats who have decided they own the place. I parked under a tree across from Spencer who was spring cleaning.
Later that evening, I headed into the communal kitchen to make myself a humble cup of tea—because I am nothing if not a cliché wrapped in matcha and chamomile. And just as the kettle began its gentle hiss, I was met with a sound I did not expect to hear in Baja. Not mariachi. Not reggaetón. Not even an overly enthusiastic rooster (for once). No, what came bellowing out of the speakers was the unmistakable baritone of a man belting “Look Down” from Les Misérables. You know the one—gritty prison laborers, French revolution vibes, dramatic shuffling of chains. As I paused, mug mid-pour, I heard a second voice, live and booming in harmony. Turns out, the owner of the Peace Center is a passionate musical theatre aficionado and was in full-blown duet mode with Jean Valjean himself. The entire courtyard became an impromptu Parisian prison yard, except instead of oppressive chains, there were hammocks, purring cats, and a light breeze rustling through the bougainvillea. A revolution of relaxation.
As the musical gave way to silence and the cats resumed ownership of the palapa, I made my way back toward Shevanigans—only to be intercepted by Alex, the Canadian motorcyclist camping in the corner, who, as it turns out, is basically a Swiss Army knife in a mesh tent.
Alex, hailing from British Columbia and clearly forged in the fires of practicality, is a man who travels with little more than a smile and the firm belief that everything is fixable. While we could not be more different in our culinary leanings—me with my matcha and avocados, him living his best life with a plate of steak so large it could have been a saddle—we found common ground in the glow of broken electronics.
You see, the LED light outside Shevanigans had snapped after a single use. Every so-called “expert” I’d consulted told me it was a goner. Unfixable. Kaput. Time to buy a new one. But not Alex. Oh no. Alex, equipped with nothing more than a camp stove, a screwdriver, and the ghost of MacGyver whispering in his ear, proceeded to solder the broken connection back together.
And it worked. It worked perfectly.
So now, in addition to being serenaded by a French revolutionary in flip-flops, I had my outdoor lighting back—thanks to Alex the Great, my light in soldering armour.
With tea in hand, Valjean fading into the distance, and Shevanigans once again bathed in the glow of repaired dignity, I finally stepped out for a walk along the Gulf of California promenade, Finn in tow, grumbling at the unspeakable injustice of walking beside a giant body of water he wasn’t allowed to launch himself into. The streets sparkled. The air was alive. I charged toward the main square, expecting the festivities… only to find nothing. Because of course the Day of the Dead would be held at an entirely different location. So I trudged (with the kind of dramatic sigh only a determined walker can muster) across town to the stadium, where I was hit with a sensory explosion.
Three stages. People swaying by in dramatic skull faced costume. Altars. Music. Food. Art. Everything.
Finn, not wanting to miss out, decided to join the fun by swiping a young girl’s floral headdress right out of her hand. She cried. He didn’t care. I apologized profusely and tried to frame it as “his way of honoring the day,” but even I didn’t believe it, nor could I fix the slobbery mess of wires in his mouth.
We sheepishly wandered through the altars, watched the dancers, sipped kombucha that may actually have changed my gut bacteria forever, and just when things felt perfect again—one of the altars caught fire. A rogue candle had been placed lovingly among the offerings, and suddenly, we were all bolting away from smoke and flames as a mariachi band as determined as the musicians on the titanic, bravely continued playing through the chaos.
Only in Mexico.
Once the smoke cleared, the celebrations carried on, unbothered by the near-immolation of the afterlife. There was something about it—this beautiful mix of celebration and solemnity, chaos and reverence, that reminded me why I love traveling. Why I love this trip. Why I love this lifestyle. And why I will absolutely never trust Finn near costume flowers again.
After two city stops and more emotional whiplash than a telenovela, I knew it was time. Time to head back to the quiet. To find the stretch of open beach where it’s just me, Shevanigans, and one wildly misbehaving retriever (who doesn’t retrieve by the way).
Until next time, when I’ll almost certainly still be behind on the blog but well ahead on the memories.
Sheilagh, Finnigan, and Shevanigans
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