Tea in Tijuana
It was embarrassing to me that, despite having lived in California most of my life, I had never visited Mexico. I had been to Canada, Germany, Ireland, Korea, and even the Philippines, but never Mexico. A business trip to San Diego finally gave me the chance—the border was just 25 minutes away. Friends warned me it was dangerous, depressing, and filled with beggars. Even the rental car clerk cautioned me. As I drove south, I hesitated. Was this worth the risk?
Curiosity won. I parked the car on the U.S. side and walked over the border. I found a humming mob of taxis on the other side. After a short drive, I said, “Aquí, por favor.” The driver pulled over to the curb. “English is okay, my friend.” As I stepped out, two men rushed over, each urging me toward their restaurant for a Corona. I chose a restaurant called The Caves, decorated with Flintstones memorabilia. The waiter smiled broadly, spoke in English, and attended to my every motion while The Doors blasted in the background.
He brought me a bucket of Corona and handed me a menu featuring glossy photos—you just had to point. When I asked for a recommendation, he cheerfully suggested everything. I ordered enchiladas and steak, well done. I never order steak well done, but I allowed fears of Montezuma’s Revenge to inform my choice. “Oh, and guacamole,” I added. I ended up eating so much guacamole that I didn’t have much of an appetite for the enchiladas.
After high tea, Tijuana style, I wandered Avenida Revolución. Tourist shops bulging with trinkets lined the streets. Purveyors of cheap massages called out to me. In desperation, one man shouted, “Hey, hey—massage! Massage! Girls! Pretty girls! Hey, hookers—we’ve got hookers!” The mix of seediness and spectacle reminded me of Bourbon Street in New Orleans—except New Orleans doesn’t hide the sex.
On my way back to the border, I got lost. Tourist stalls faded into quiet streets. Dogs lounged in the shade. Old men worked on cars beneath open hoods. Suddenly, fear intruded on my thoughts. I focused, looked straight ahead. Fear kept my fuzzy, beer-soaked brain alert until I finally saw the signs for the border and crossed back into the U.S.
Later, a friend told me, “Tijuana isn’t Mexico.” At first, I agreed. But thinking about it, I realized that Tijuana is as much Mexico as New Orleans is America—both are tourist traps shaped by outsiders, yet are undeniably part of their country’s culture. Beneath the neon and noise, there’s still something genuine.
