"Are you kidding me?" I hissed to Eddie.
I couldn't believe my luck. I was already
geeky past the point of control to be seeing
the recently released sequel to a movie I loved.
I could never have imagined watching it on such
a massive screen, in such a lush theater, and
with what proved to be an impressive sound system.
For all of these reasons, the movie was awesome.
The only downside to my Mexican movie-watching
experience was that we were directed to exit
the theater through doors down by the screen.
If I had known, I would have gotten there much
earlier to have my share of time in the lobby.
I could have hung out there all day and would
have turned right around to buy a ticket to a
different show, but we had another appointment
to make.
Dinner with Diego
We walked back to Paseo de los Héroes
and caught a cab (the rides turned out to be,
on average, three or four bucks each). We arrived
at the restaurant within minutes. Eddie had arranged
for us to dine with Diego Moreno Maldonado, author
and resident of Tijuana. La Diferencia was the
restaurant of Diego's choice; we found it
behind a tuxedo shop. I was grateful to be wearing
flat shoes as we crossed the cobblestone driveway
(those stones were set so far apart, the gaps
could swallow half my foot, and I could only
imagine what they'd do to heels).
Eddie and I waited for Diego in the barroom
adjacent to the restaurant. The chairs were wicker
with bright yellow and blue floral-patterned
cushions. La Diferencia's staff was expertly
dressed -- the bartender's uniform had all
the fixings for a tuxedo, minus the jacket. Fifteen
minutes later, a middle-aged man sporting wire-rimmed
spectacles, a salt-and-pepper beard (mostly salt),
and tweed dinner jacket approached our table
-- Diego had arrived.
He had notebooks and novels in one arm, which
he set on the table as he joined us. A waiter
materialized seconds after Diego's hand went
in the air -- the server took the prominent man's
order for a tamarind margarita. Diego was already
animated without the assistance of alcohol.
"You see this?" Diego said, lifting his arm
in a sweeping gesture toward the ceiling. I looked
up at the concave bricks that formed the raised
area above us.
"Each brick was individually laid. The workers
used no form for this," he said. In addition
to his writing, Diego is an architect and had
helped design La Diferencia. Currently, he works
in urban planning and land control for many of
Mexico's cities.
Eddie, man of connections, thought I might
want to meet Diego because he knows much about
the Tijuana that Eddie was attempting to prove
existed. Diego wrote Salsipuedes, a book
about the history of TJ. Salsipuedes, the
fictional name Tijuana is given in the book,
is also the name of a bar Diego hopes to open
soon. His latest novel, The Man Who Came from
the South, is about a detective/tango instructor
whose attempt to solve a string of murders takes
him from TJ to San Diego neighborhoods La Jolla,
Hillcrest, and Kensington. Diego is convinced
that the main character of this book, Tony Distancia,
has much marketing potential -- he told us he
had already registered the character's name
for its assured future success in the entertainment
industry.
After a few drinks (I'd been sobering up
with Diet Coke while the boys sipped their margaritas),
a waiter appeared with menus and asked us to
follow him to our table next to the large fountain
in the center of the dining room. The receded
ceilings in this room were smooth, painted blue;
birds chirped away in cages that were placed
at the top of four columns, giving one the sensation
of being outside.
Our waiter handed the Mexican men a dark menu
-- mine was light; it must have been apparent
to the staff that I spoke not a lick of Spanish.
The menu, though decadent and vast, was challenging
for me. Things like crocodile, ants, and cilantro
made my face scrunch. I went for simple and ordered
a plate of cheese as an appetizer. I'd never
been able to eat cheese without bread, but after
the first bite, I popped chunks of the hard,
wet stuff into my mouth. I considered this fancy
Mexican cuisine, but one restaurant reviewer
described La Diferencia as "traditional and exotic
Pre-Columbian, Mayan, and Aztec recipes."
"There are fabulous Chinese restaurants in town," said
Diego, pushing his spectacles into place on the
bridge of his nose. "More authentic than those
of San Francisco's Chinatown. Some of the
best in Western culture."
"Why?" I took the bait. Diego explained that
years ago, Chinese laborers came to Mexicali;
there were thousands of Chinese to every hundred
Mexicans in town. Chinese families, according
to Diego, opened restaurants that have been passed
down through generations. Diego insisted I try
the local Chinese restaurant called Chan's
Cuisine. I told him I'm much too comfortable
with my Americanized version of cuisine chinoise to
branch out, but if I felt daring one day, it
would be on the list, just before skydiving.
Diego was unable to join us for dessert, but
Eddie and I stayed on to sample the sweets, which,
along with the cheese, were my favorite bits
of the meal. For an entrée, I had ordered
some lamb taquitos and found them to be much
too gamey for my taste (I like 'em raised
in squalor and pumped with hormones for that
processed, American flavor).
Paparazzi
After dinner, Eddie and I were blessed with
a second wind -- in the form of cappuccino. We
were hoping to catch a "no rules" fight at Baby
Rock, the legendary club of my high school years.
We made it to the building, but the doors were
closed, and the bouncer told Eddie they were
at capacity. Two ambulances waited eerily behind
us. Apparently, dirty fighting is popular, but
seeing those ambulances on hand, I imagined the
typical injuries of such a fight were ghastly.
I wasn't disappointed to be missing the carnage
-- on to plan B.
A friend had told Eddie about a new club called
Balak, far from the dregs of Revolución.
Eddie and I hailed a cab in front of Baby Rock
and asked to be taken to Balak. We were deposited
in a desolate parking lot in front of a giant
structure. Peering up at it, I thought, this
is the closest I'll ever come to seeing an
ancient Mayan temple.
The single-hued natural stone edifice loomed
above us. To the left of the entrance, which
was hard to discern from surrounding stones,
was a fountain with spouts as high as halfway
up the mountainous wall. Trying to take it all
in, I stood between two colossal Mayan statues
-- placed like lions or gargoyles guarding their
master's castle. The only sound we heard
was the distant humming of cars that passed on
the freeway across the road. We saw no other
people.
"Look over there," I said, pointing to the neon
sign that topped a one-story building to our
right; it appeared dwarfish next to a beast like
Balak. The day had been warm, but the night chill
was making me want to dance, music or no music.
"Let's go in," I said. "It'll probably
be warmer in there, and we can ask someone what
time Balak is supposed to open."
After walking under the white, blue, and red
neon letters that formed the word "Paparazzi," I
had expected to see signed photos of Hollywood
legends framed on the wall. Instead, we had stepped
inside a Greek palace -- plaster busts of Roman
gods adorned the walls, marble columns led to
a sky-painted ceiling; the lighting, plants,
and dark wood throughout...this place has got to
be owned by a gay man, I thought. Eddie, in his
gayness, and I, his personal fruit fly, loved it.
An adorable boy wearing black shirt and pants
approached us (we were the first to arrive, I'm
sure) and asked me a question in Spanish.
"Can we buy a drink?" I asked. Giving Eddie
a translation break, we feigned single-language-ness.
The cute thing held up his finger as if urging
us to wait a moment and scurried away. When he
returned, he had a beautiful young girl on his
arm.
She said, "May I help you?" in perfect English.
Her name was Paulette. She was a native of Tijuana,
and despite her colloquial English, she had visited
the States only a couple of times. She wore her
silky brown hair straight down her back, occasionally
twisting it around with her hands and tossing
it over the front of one shoulder. Paulette informed
us that Balak wasn't supposed to open until
10:30 p.m. It was 8:45.
"Would you like something to eat? Sushi, perhaps?" she
offered.
"No thanks, we're stuffed," I said.
Paulette moved naturally behind the bar. After
trying unsuccessfully to explain to her how to
make a lemon drop (my drink-of-the-month), I
settled for a tall vodka tonic. A tasty nut mix
kept us occupied. "There's always room for
nuts," Eddie said. The employees of the place
were gathered at one end of the bar, where they
watched Pirates of the Caribbean on the
television above them.
Relaxing, we rocked out to American music that
was pumped through hidden speakers around the
bar and lounge areas. We were there long enough
to hear the Scorpions sing "The Wind of Change" three
times, which is the same number of drinks I imbibed.
When Def Leppard came on, I bid Paulette adios
and beckoned for Eddie to follow me back to Balak.
Dancing the Night Away
While we had been busy drinking at Paparazzi,
a velvet rope had been put up around the entrance
to Balak and a crowd had begun to gather in front.
The nightclub is open only Friday and Saturday
nights. On Fridays, the club welcomes anywhere
from 1500 to 1800 drinkers and dancers, many
of them Mexicans from as close as Tijuana and
as far away as Mexicali.
