Crashing a Funeral in Mexico

December 13–16, 2025

Leaving Arivaca requires passing through a border checkpoint, where the officer asked me exactly one question: “With the AC on the floor in the back, does it get hot back there?” Given that temperatures here sometimes hit 120 degrees, this was not small talk. Unfortunately, I have never once sat in the back of our car and even if I did, it's not that hot in Kennewick. He still let us through, even though I failed to answer his question satisfactorily. 

We rolled into Tubac, an artsy little town, and hopped on the historic Juan Bautista de Anza National Historic Trail headed for Tumacácori National Historical Park. A few miles in, I mentioned to George that it felt like we were going the wrong way. He assured me that if we were, the trail would eventually loop back. I asked why Juan would intentionally go miles out of his way just to double back. Just like I thought, he wouldn’t. We were going the wrong direction.

 

On the ride we spotted two javelinas, which finally explained why Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge felt so empty earlier: all the animals have relocated to tourist towns.

Tumacácori itself was fascinating—the remains of an old mission dedicated to the O’Odham people. We learned things. We appreciated history. Then, once sufficiently educated, we biked back to Tubac and wandered through shops and galleries.

Next stop: Nogales, where we camped just outside town in the Coronado National Forest. Only it did not look like a forest. No tall trees, no canopy—just some determined bushes doing their absolute best. 

Our evening grocery run at Walmart felt like crossing an invisible border—everyone spoke Spanish and half the cars had Sonora, Mexico plates. Normally we toss trash at Walmart, but every bin was full, so we drove to the local church we would be attending the next day and used the dumpster. We pay tithing; this felt fair. When we pulled up and our lights hit the dumpster, at least nine cats exploded out and scattered. Hopefully our trash offerings were appreciated.

Sunday we attended a tiny English ward that had just been upgraded from a branch; comparatively, the Spanish ward the next hour was massive. After church, we walked across the border into Nogales—which, helpfully, has the exact same name as the Nogales we’d just left. This makes conversations very clear and not at all confusing. We tried a traditional dish called mochomos—dried, deep-fried beef on a tortilla with guacamole. It was… not great. We gave the leftovers to a homeless couple, who were genuinely grateful, which immediately made the food feel more successful than it deserved.

We wandered the city and ducked into a Catholic church we thought was having Mass. The priest kept talking about death. That’s when we noticed the casket. We had crashed a funeral. We slunk out quietly, wondering how we’d missed seeing the hearse on the way in.

George then got an $11 Mexican haircut—the best he’s had in years. Sadly for me, I am usually the one who cuts his hair.

The line back into the U.S. was long, packed with Mexican people on their way to Christmas shop. We watched folks heading back into Mexico loaded with bikes, toys, and chocolate stocking stuffers from Walmart. Capitalism in motion.

After Mexico, we slowly headed back to Pheonix where we intend to fly to St. Louis for Christmas. But first a Boondockers Welcome stay in Green Valley. Our hosts were lovely and invited us to sit around a patio fire and chat for a few hours. The fire felt a little unnecessary at 70 degrees, but apparently this is what passes for chilly in Arizona. We enjoyed learning all about Green Valley from them.  

Green Valley is an upscale retirement community with more activity clubs than a college campus and community centers stocked with hobby equipment—woodworking tools, quilting machines, and basically anything you could ever want to try. All free.

The catch? You generally only leave Green Valley if you get so old you have to move in with family…or you die. It has the vibe of one of those slightly unsettling movie utopias where everything seems perfect but no one ever talks about where people go when they suddently vanish and their house is for sale fully furnished.

As a result, the town boasts an incredible nonprofit thrift store, The White Elephant. It’s funded entirely by estate donations and gives all its profits to charity. Our hosts cheerfully pointed out furniture they’d scored cheaply thanks to someone else’s misfortune—ahem, death.

Still… I could absolutely see myself living there.

The next day was spent at the library, where the most notable event was being loudly hit on by an older gentleman who couldn’t hear. Our entire conversation was shouted. George sat across the room, thoroughly entertained, taking pictures and texting the family group chat.

That afternoon we continued our crawl toward Phoenix with a stop in Tucson. George used OnX to find what he thought was a great free spot to camp on the nice side of town. However, the road narrowed. Then worsened. Then became impossible. I always dread bedtime for this exact reason.

Thankfully, we got stuck just past a “wide” spot. Nevertheless, we attempted a 21-point turn and failed spectacularly, so we decided to sleep right there and revisit our predicament in the morning with fresh eyes.

The spot was sloped and the trailer refused to level. Our bed is in the back—well past the axle—so George spent the night convinced we were going to tip the trailer, roll down the hill, or somehow accomplish both at once. Translation: he was fully glued to me all night while I slept with one cheek hanging off the bed.

The trailer did not budge all night.

At the crack of dawn, George executed a brilliant maneuver involving backing up as far as possible without hitting a saguaro, uncoupling without rolling down the hill, and re-coupling from the opposite side. We escaped. Despite the idea of free camping surrounded by million-dollar homes, the experience made us deeply appreciate our prior trash-filled, free, homeless camp with easy access.

Because we were up early, we drove through Saguaro National Park East at sunrise. It was stunning—quiet, golden, and finally convincing. I now recommend the park. Just not the west side.

There were tons of cyclists on the scenic drive, and we wished we were among them, but George had an appointment for a free blood test. Gotta do that preventative care.

We consoled ourselves after the appointment by riding the Tucson loop one last time. Construction forced creative detours, including biking through a tent city and several deeply sketchy areas. For reasons unknown, this ride exhausted me far more than the last time. I was tired at mile 2, but I made it. 

Rather than tempt fate with another nighttime fiasco, George found us a Harvest Host to stay at. This one was called Invision Wellness, which sounds very serene until you learn it was essentially the back parking lot of a business, just off a busy road, where cars roared past late into the night.

Now, I genuinely like the idea behind Harvest Hosts: you stay “for free,” and in exchange you buy something to support the business. It’s wholesome. It’s community-minded. It’s also a problem when the business sells things you absolutely do not want.

The steak place? A win! This place? Chinese medicine.

Two issues:

1. Given the choice between taking time for a massage or riding my bike, I will choose the bike every time.

2. These massages were… not your normal massages. Wierd is the word I would use.  

Luckily, the owner also ran a nonprofit that provides Chinese medicine services to people with disabilities. That I could get behind. So instead of buying a massage I didn’t want, we donated a modest amount to her charity and slept peacefully in the parking lot, spiritually balanced and financially absolved.

Our final day in Tucson was spent doing laundry and working before heading to the temple. After all, happy 31st anniversary to us! While there, we ran into a couple we knew from way back when we lived in Maryland. Like… 23 years ago. The husband immediately recognized George. That is an impressive memory.

I, on the other hand, have a very troubled relationship with faces. Even familiar ones. For example, one time during the chaos of Alan’s wedding, Jake (George’s boyfriend) went out for a run wearing a ball cap. When he returned to the house, I asked him to remind me of his name. He thought I was joking. I was not. I’m fairly certain there is a real medical condition for not recognizing faces, and I probably have the mild, socially awkward version of it.

The next morning, we slowly pointed ourselves toward Phoenix, ready to trade eternal summer, border crossings, and surprise livestock encounters for Christmas in St. Louis, where it is currently a frigid 8 degrees.

Seasonal whiplash: activated.