Now, having become acclimatized to Mexican summer, I would probably be like the Mexicans, and wear a jacket and even a ski hat whenever the temprature dropped so low. No kidding, I have seen them dress like that, especially during those few frigid days when it gets down into the 70's.
Its HOT here. Not Seattle hot but Bessemer furnace hot. I would melt down to a pool of molten protoplasm except for sweat. Not girly Seattle perspiration, but sweat that drenches my clothing and cascades to the ground, leaving a steaming trail behind that evaporates in seconds. Survival sweat. Sweat that accompanies me everywhere, even while taking a shower. Showers here just replace old sweat with new sweat. Pull on a fresh pair of shorts and a clean shirt afterwards and within a hundred yards they're both drenched and dripping. I drink oceans of Gatorade daily, pee teaspoons and never really catch up until the sun sets and the boat cools.
Activity around Santa Rosalia comes to a near halt around 1 o'clock. People retreat to the shady shelter of front porches hidden behind cooling vines, shrubs and trees, or better yet to the one or two rooms cooled by a window air conditioner. The unfortunate few who must be about hug the shady side of the street, darting quickly over broiling unshaded pavement. Its siesta time. I never could figure why a person would want to break up thier work day with an afternoon nap, but I get it now.
About seven in the evening the town starts to stir. Street vendors set up for the evening crowd that emerges as the sun sets. By eight things are in high gear. People are lined up at their favorite taco stand, the parks are filled with skateboarders and the ice cream pallor is standing room only.
Life is good again.
We were set to leave Santa Rosalia last night, bound for our hurricane hide a way in the Bay of Los Angeles, but some threatening lightening storms caused us to stay put. Maybe tonight we will start the overnight run north.