I am searching Amtrak routes. Why? I hate flying. I actually don’t hate to fly. It’s just the thought of flying in a mile high Pringles can. With the right amount of Margaritas I could maybe look forward to it. Unfortunately, Margaritas don’t last for months and it’s the time leading up to the flight that freaks me out. I have single handedly talked Delta into and out of non-cancellable tickets, four times, for the same trip. Once, we flew from Atlanta to Acapulco and drove home. It took six rental cars, one way each. You see, I am persuasive and imaginative. You’d think I could think myself safe. But, then I would be able to think myself thin….Anyway, as I pilfer the railroad routes, I find myself longing for the warm Carribean breeze of the Yucatan, where hotels are old monasteries, dressed in fuschia Bouganvilla. Or, I am sitting in waist high water in Playa Maya. Under the leaning palm tree, sits only a taco stand and a plastic table with four chairs. The water is aquamarine and it’s so clear, you can watch the fish swim past your knees. It’s completely Gilligan’s Island. Or sometimes, my view is a sunset from a tiled patio in San Miguel de Allende, overlooking the cactus and scrubbrush and faraway mountains on one side. Terra cotta rooftops and patios overhang scarred pastel walls of the city, in the other direction. Cobbled streets snake between sidewalks, half a person wide. Church bells ring in the zocolo. A tall stray dog passes me on the street. He seems to be in a hurry to get somewhere.