We contemplated our options. One ecstasy pill,
check. Two 20-year-old women looking to party,
check. Location was the hard part -- where can
you party your brains out and act like an idiot
without getting into trouble or running into
your parents' friends? As if by way of a
very close bullhorn, the answer came to each
of us simultaneously, jolting us from our repose
and alighting the dark interior of my car with
hope -- TJ!
Any kid who reaches the age of 18 in San Diego
knows about the endless clubs of Tijuana offering
cheap beer and margaritas to those young adults
who are old enough to die for their country but
not to drink in it. We followed the masses of
military boys and college girls to Avenida Revolución,
where bars blasting everything from techno music
to the Beastie Boys were set next door to each
other.
Teens stumbled from one discotheque to the next.
We chose one and paid a couple of dollars for
an endless drink supply (a luxury afforded only
to females at these clubs). Kids ordered "poppers" for
their friends -- one would point out a victim
and pay a few bucks to an employee of the bar.
The employee would track down and capture the
victim and either sit the victim in a chair or
simply hold the victim's head while he proceeded
to pour tequila straight from the bottle into
the victim's gullet. When enough had gone
down, he would grab the targeted one's head
and shake it like a madman.
This happened to me once. Surprised to spot
the man with the bottle heading toward me, I
dodged and ducked my way through the crowd until
I was caught. A chair appeared beneath me in
the middle of the dance floor, and the pouring
began, after which was the inebriation-inducing
head shake. I hate tequila, but I managed
to stumble back to my strawberry margarita (a
drink in which the taste of tequila is masked
with citrus and sugar) without puking. I never
learned who ordered the popper. Probably the
older man who hit on me a few minutes after it
was administered (at the time, I was 18 and he
was around 35).
I'm sure if something like poppers existed
in the Gaslamp there would be lawsuits, but the
kids in TJ never think to tell, especially when
they're crossing the border against their
parents' wishes. Every joint on Revolución
reeked of spilled beer and tequila. Shortly before
4:00 a.m., when most clubs closed, those two
fragrances were joined by the stench of vomit
and urine.
Return to the Border
Eight years had passed since my last excursion
into our neighboring country. When recounting
teenage antics with friends at a recent soiree,
I bluntly announced, "TJ sucks. Unless you want
to get wasted, laid, or annoyed, there's
no reason to go down there."
"En el contrario," said my friend Eddie. "There
are plenty of cool places to go -- you just don't
know about them."
"Right," I said. "I forgot I could get a knock-off
leather purse."
"You have no idea," said Eddie. "Name the day,
and I'll show you myself."
Eddie was born in Irapuato, a city located in
central Mexico. He has been a resident of San
Diego since the age of nine and attended high
school with me at Bonita Vista High. After graduating
from UCLA with a communications degree, he entered
business with his father, conducting market studies
for American and Canadian companies wanting to
do business in Mexico, mostly for the electronics
industry.
Now he works at the San Diego Lesbian, Gay,
Bisexual, Transgender Community Center. To put
this in simpler terms, Eddie is a gorgeous and
happenin' Cabana Boy, a man-about-town who
is known -- and liked -- by many. But I wasn't
convinced he could make TJ better than it was
in my memory. I called his bluff, demanded proof,
and made a date.
We left early on a Saturday morning, taking
the Interstate 5 from Mission Hills to the Mexican
border. I insisted on driving but refused to
drive into Mexico; I don't know the laws
of the road, and I recalled that the cab drivers
in TJ were almost as bad as those in New York
City -- it's better to be driven by them
than to drive near them. I turned off
at the exit marked "Last U.S. Exit" and followed
the road to the parking lot north of the border.
"Eight dollars a day" was painted in red on
a sign by the lot's entrance. I pressed a
green button for my automated ticket and parked
my car, then did as my father taught me and made
sure nothing visible on the floor or seats might
tempt a desperate vagrant to smash a window.
Annoyed with my checking and rechecking, Eddie
pushed onward, muttering about paranoia.
Getting into Mexico is easy. We walked
the span of a city block to the first of two
metal turnstiles -- a rusty, clanky way to let
people in but not out. We made our way down the
sidewalk, on either side of which construction
workers were building tall, solid walls. Perhaps
these are intended to block the unattractive
view of the endless line of vehicles waiting
to enter the United States.
Finally, we stepped into a clearing where dozens
of shiny yellow cabs waited while their drivers
flocked to oncoming foot traffic and solicited
fare. Children selling Chiclets, Oaxacan women
displaying jewelry on the sidewalks, men hustling
painted ceramic statues of Jesus and Marvin the
Martian, this is the TJ I remembered -- except
this time, everything was lit by morning sun.
Eddie nodded at the closest of the cab drivers. "Paseo
de los Héroes, por favor," Eddie
said as we sat on the dark blue velvet seats
in the back of the cab. Paseo de los Héroes
is the main drag of TJ -- that is, if one does
not count the tourist-laden Avenida Revolución.
We were halfway to our destination when the
cabbie cursed in Spanish and jerked the car to
the left as a woman cut him off. At the next
stoplight we pulled alongside the woman and discovered
the cause of her erratic driving -- she was brushing
her teeth. Where does one get the water? Where
do you spit? We jutted forward and then ahead
of her as the light turned green, and I found
myself relieved that I wasn't able to discover
-- by way of witnessing -- the practical side
of driving one's car while performing hygienic
routines.
We were dropped in front of a building that
resembled Pac-Man -- a large cement sphere with
stairs on either side acting as the curvy arms
coming out of the videogame character's head.
Right where Pac-Man's mouth would be was
the entrance to the building. Uncanny. This building
is the Tijuana Cultural Center, and at five stories
high, it is the city's largest local history,
science, and art museum. Here there is an Omnimax
theater, galleries, a bookstore, and another
theater that is home to Baja California's
symphony orchestra. People come to la Bola (a
local nickname given to the big brown ball) to
attend concerts, theater, writers' lectures,
and science and history conferences. The fountains
outside the building were not flowing this Saturday
morning, but children frolicked in the noncirculating
water.
"Pretty cool," I said, after Eddie had explained
what went on inside Pac-Man. "Are we going to
see an exhibit?"
"Nope," he said. "We're not even going inside.
We're going over there for a mimosa and something
to eat." I followed his gaze down the busy street,
seeing only buildings and giant statues at the
center of each major intersection. I later learned
that these were statues of important historical
figures such as Cuauhtémoc, the last emperor
of the Aztecs, and our very own Abraham Lincoln.
