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 In "A Window Seat to Guadalajara", the narrator invites us on a journey that is as much about internal rhythms as it is about geography. Framed by a business trip from California to Mexico, the piece gently transcends the trappings of itinerary and logistics to become a quiet meditation on movement, culture, and camaraderie. The writing is warm, observant, and quietly funny, offering a blend of travelogue and personal vignette that rewards the attentive reader.

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"A Window Seat to Guadalajara"

By Harry Arabian

We left Santa Ana Airport at 7 a.m., bound for Dallas with plans to catch a connecting flight to Guadalajara, Mexico, where we’d be meeting with regional distributors to pitch our logistics software to new markets in Latin America. From my south-facing window seat, I waved—mentally—to the folks on the ground in Orange County, the white sails dotting the Pacific, Catalina Island rising in the haze, and the early morning hikers scaling Saddleback Mountain.

As we flew inland, Southern California unfolded beneath us: Palm Springs, the Coachella Valley, the shimmering Salton Sea, and the never-ending stretch of the Imperial Dunes, like a golden ocean frozen in time. I tried to focus on reviewing our talking points, but the shifting terrain outside kept pulling me back to the window.

By the time we reached the Arizona–New Mexico border, the landscape transformed into wide open deserts, dramatic canyons, and rugged mesas. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the Rio Grande and El Paso on the horizon. Soon, we were soaring over West Texas—flat, stark, dotted with oil fields, wind farms, and roads that disappeared into the horizon. When Lake Ray Hubbard finally came into view, followed by the sprawling Dallas-Fort Worth airport and the distant skyline, it felt like arriving in another world.

To my left sat Dan, my ever-drowsy assistant and father to twin girls. He had dozed off as soon as we took off. I nudged him awake with an elbow.

He blinked, groggy. “Are they serving breakfast? Thanks for waking me.”

A nearby flight attendant laughed. “Sir, you're in economy class. Breakfast is for first class.”

“Were you dreaming of warm eggs and sausage?” I teased. “We’re in Dallas already. Time to hustle to the next gate.”

We arrived at gate B44. Our connection was supposedly right next door at B45—until Dan squinted at the boarding pass under the dim airplane lights and corrected me. “This says C45. That’s a long walk.”

“But the good news,” he added, grinning, “we pass the food court on the way.”

We made our way across the terminal, riding escalators and conveyors past glowing signs for fast food chains and hurried business travelers. Dan spotted an Einstein Bros. Bagels and declared, “Their signature sesame bagel with egg and sausage. I’m getting two.” I found an empty table to rest my legs and quickly checked our email for any updates from our Guadalajara contacts.

Ten minutes later, Dan returned triumphantly with breakfast and coffee. Just then, Buck Owens’ twang drifted from the speakers: “Pour me another cup of coffee, for it is the best in the land.” It was the perfect background—an anthem of routine, rest, and camaraderie.

Soon enough, we were airborne again, this time southward over the suburbs of Dallas, then passing Austin, San Antonio, and the rolling Texas Hill Country. When I saw the Rio Grande ribboning below, I knew we were crossing into Mexico. The Sierra Madre Oriental loomed rugged in the distance, a welcome to dramatic terrain, deep valleys, and dusty plateaus.

Around 3 p.m., we flew past Lake Chapala and over the famous Tequila Valley, where blue agave fields blanketed the land like patchwork quilts. We were nearly there.

Dan, now seated on the aisle, was busy checking emails. Twenty minutes before landing, one came in from our contact, Mr. Zamansky. Due to a massive traffic jam, he wouldn’t be able to meet us at the airport. We'd have to arrange our own ride downtown to our hotel near Plaza de los Mariachis.

“No worries,” I said, still watching the glint of sunlight off Lake Chapala. It was hard to feel frustrated in a place this beautiful. “We’ll hire a taxi.”

“I already reserved a rental car,” Dan replied.

“You really do work better with a full stomach,” I said, smiling.

After breezing through customs, we approached the rental counter. The clerk, in a crisp West Coast accent, checked Dan’s license and announced, “We’ve got the perfect dune buggy—it seats four individual hikers.”

“A dune buggy?” I asked, puzzled.

Dan shrugged. “I failed high school Spanish.”

Still, Dan navigated us safely through the streets of Guadalajara using his phone’s GPS. The roads buzzed with a kind of organized chaos—mopeds weaving through cars, street vendors selling mango slices, and bursts of Spanish pouring from shop radios. At the hotel, we dusted off our suits and checked in. The receptionist handed us a welcome gift: a bottle of tequila and a basket of cactus fruit.

Right on cue, Mr. Zamansky arrived, breathless but smiling. I held up the cactus fruit and asked, “I know what to do with tequila—what about these?”

“Never too late to add another fruit to your collection,” he said.