We got back into the car. I hid my California ID and debit card, in the glove box. I’m in the habit of not entering foreign countries with plastic. Not because I’m concerned that someone will steal my identity, but more because I don’t want to have to deal with bureaucracy if they did.
Whenever I walk around in Latin America, I assume I’m going to be mugged. It’s never happened, but it makes me feel safer in a way. When you expect that someone will rob you, if it actually happens, you don’t feel so bad.
We got to the trolley station, and waited for the train that would take us to the border.
Fifty minutes later, we were four stations from the end of America, and the trolley stopped.
Service was out for the next two stations. So we jumped on a bus, passed through neighborhoods that looked like Mexico, and got back on to the train.
Three stops later, we were at La Linea.
The bridge took us over the freeway. There was plenty of unilateral traffic. Heading south was also a breeze, by foot. We passed underneath signs telling us not to enter the country if we were coughing. We walked passed Mexican border officials without glancing in their direction. Even though we were technically in Mexico, it didn’t seem official until we walked through a gate, and we were greeted by grinning taxistas and wafts of diesel.
When we told him we were headed to La Querencia, the driver said he knew exactly where it was. Then in typical fashion, he asked three other drivers for directions.
I always argue with cab drivers, because I know they’re trying to cheat me. Except in San Francisco, where the drivers are so amusingly insane that, the extra money I’m being charged feels more like a cover to a great show. But hell this was Tijuana.
“¡Cinco dolares!”
“Sí, cinco dolares, per person.”
“¿¿¿WHAT??? ¡NO!”
“It was a joke.”
I really need to chill out on cab drivers.
Rock-n-roll van
We got to the Zona Gastronomica, with food and drink on our mind. The driver left begrudgingly with five dollars, even though he insisted that we’d agreed on 6. We were in a parking lot that held two movie theaters, a rock-n-roll van, and a gourmet restaurant. We weren’t quite hungry enough for high-end cuisine, so we walked towards a minaret to explore. We stopped before we got to the Sam’s Club, because we realized that nothing exciting could possibly be in that direction.
We walked up to a main street and found a billiards hall. We played pool and drank Dos Equis, until our intoxication could no longer cure our hunger pangs. We went to the tortería connected to the hall, and bought three carnitas tacos. The meat was light, almost like a thick deli cut. It reminded me of the best sandwich in Mexico City.
After the apertif, we made our way to La Querencia, a gourmet restaurant underneath a travel agency in a strip-mall. The décor was modern industrial, accented by stuffed game that you’d expect to see at a lodge in Montana. The patrons were the Tijuana elite. Men were drinking wine from decanters, and a group of surgically enhanced women chatted in a private room.
The mesero brought us rosemary bread, and a tray of salsas. We drank amber beer, as we debated what to order: Crepas de Huitlacoche, betabel con vinagre y queso azul, Mahi Mahi tartar, and the truly inspiring pulpo flambeado en tequila.
Pulpo flambeado en tequila
The thirty (US) dollar p/p meal was completely delicious. I’d recommend it to anybody visiting San Diego.
At this point we were drunk.
We were considering chatting up the Real Housewives of Tijuana but good taste prevailed. We figured that these women may have attained wealth by the means that scare Gringos away from Tijuana. So we did what any self-respecting gentleman would do in this case. We went to find ice cream.
Across the movie theater parking lot, passed the TGI Fridays, and beyond the Dairy Queen, we found Tepoznieves. We walked around the store tasting every flavor. I eventually settled for cactus fruit and coconut con rum
.
We decided to do something authentically Mexican, so we went to Soriana, the Mexican equivalent to Wal-Mart. (Though not the Mexican Wal-Mart, that’s Bodega Aurrerá.)
We admired the avocado prices.
We left when we discovered the air-conditioner was not functioning to the degree that I’d hoped for.
We found a cab to Revolucíon, to buy fancy tequila. The owner of the shop was the most informative dispenser of tequila information of all time. He explained that everyone’s fave Patron, was owned by the shampoo maven Paul Mitchell, and that it’s not bad, but it’s not really worth it. They’ve invested way more money into calling it ‘ultra-premium,’ then actually making a quality drink. Sammy Hagar’s Cabo Wabo is equally fraudulent. The owner of the store suggested some great, affordable tequilas. We were being inundated by smoke from the taquería next door. We told the owner we’d be return.
Mariachi's need privacy when they take calls.
Down Revolucíon we passed the donkeys masquerading as zebras, the mariachis on their cell phones, and he merchants aggressively hawking SpongeBob blankets. We found another Soriana, and figured tha it was the cheapest place to buy. We each picked up a bottle of Corralejo. It’s that blue bottle that every Mexican family has in their home. The price was 15 dollars, if you bought it with a credit card.
They didn’t take off the discount at register. Instead they give you a card (valued at 118 pesos) to be used another time.
Worthless.
We got back to the street, and decided to let the asshole club promoters trick us into $1 beers. We sat over Revolucíon, the mesero brought us $1.50 coronas. An employee promised free shots, as long as we tipped him. It was hard to shake him, but he quickly found another patsy. The man with the “Cabo Wabo” tattoo accepted the offer.
We thought about what we’d do with our 118 peso gift card. It became evident that our best option was to cash it all in for candy. Kisses. Lollipops. Tamarindo. We would then bring this candy to the fine strippers at Adelita’s.
The cab driver jokingly asked us if we were going to Adelita’s. He called us silly gringos. We gave him mini-cupcakes.
We were dropped off in front of the Stripclub-cum-whorehouse. (I’m often uncomfortable when I try to use Latin phrasing, though surprisingly not in this instance.) Adelita’s looks like any seedy strip club, there’s a bar, mirrored walls, and a pole in the middle for dancin’. The difference here was that the strippers who weren’t dancing, stood around showing off their assets.
We sat in a booth near the stage. We knew that we had to get out of Tijuana by night fall, or the seedy underside of the city would rear it’s nasty head. And its first stop is always Adelita’s.
“No more than 3 beers!”
At first I thought the whole thing stupid. I had no intention of having sex with these prostitutes. And just think of all the implications about race, class, and gender. I was quickly persuaded to enjoy myself, when I realized that the woman standing next to me was no longer wearing clothes.
We opened the bags of candy, and the strippers flocked to it, like ants to—candy.
Their favorite candy was “Pelón Pelo Rico” a tamarind and chile paste that comes out of a plastic dispenser that resembles a crayon.
Between beers, I went into the bathroom. Above the toilet a sign read: “Vive tu independencia, con los mejorés shows eroticos.” Dear the free world, you have not truly lived your independence until you’ve see the BEST erotic shows.
My cohort had convinced a group of strippers to sit at our table, by dispensing an entire bag of Hershey’s Kisses. They’d walk over, look around, and quickly snatch a candy. One was already sitting at the table, chatting up my friend, when I sat down. Instantly, she turned around and started talking to me, obviously this was because I was way cooler than my friend. But probably it’s because my beard makes me look like I’m more willing to pay for sex.
“¿De donde vienes?”
“Soy de Sonora.”
I pointed east.
“Sí, very good.”
The waiter came by to see if I wanted a drink. No I had reached my quota.
He came back with a Coronita for the lady, and then expected me to pay. Um sir, now I’m pretty sure that she gets free drinks, why in the world would you want me to pay? Oh of course, this was all part of the scam. She looked at me meanly and promptly walked away.
It was getting close to dark and the management at Adelita expected us to be spending more money, so we ran outside, and found a cab straight to the border.
We crossed into the United States, before the sunset. A train was waiting for us. We left Mexico with a decent buzz, three bottles of tequila, and a sweater that was swiped from Adelita’s, that read: Sexy Glam.
It was a fine afternoon south-of-the-border, and we didn’t even get sick or kidnapped. I’d recommend it to anybody.
¡Viva Tijuana!
