I am sitting cross-legged on the floor of Mendoza's modest show-room, a cement shack painted yellow and stacked with blankets and tapestries for sale. About a dozen tourists from around the world sit in clusters around me, watching Mendoza's 80-year-old mother prepare the wool for spinning

When you ask someone how their trip to Mexico went, no one ever says, "Eh, it was OK." No. It was either a glorious weekend on a beautiful beach with free-flowing tequila. Or it was a terrifying experience involving Federales and free-flowing tequila. Rarely, if ever, are there any in-betweens.

We all crave that sweet serendipity of being in the right place at the right time: When the Northern Lights are most likely to dance; when that sleepy scruff-bucket town transforms for its once-a-year fabulous fiesta; or, when a mass mob of whales gathers at the nearby reef.