revolutionary in training

When one thinks of Mexico, images of sunshine and beaches aplenty are bound to come to mind. My experience this past weekend was closer to vacationing in the midst of a tsunami. It all started last Friday when my friend, Rai, and I got dressed in fabulous spring outfits, complete with cute skirts and high heeled sandals, and headed down to the Tijuana border.

I had expected a long, desolate road of cacti and sand with a small border crossing and a chain fence. Instead, we were greeted by a busy town with endless signs in English and Spanish (none of which directed us to the border) and many a building in shambles. I wasn’t sure if we’d accidentally driven into Tijuana already, but we parked the car and went looking for the pedestrian crossing anyways.

After taking a wild guess that the brown building next to the McDonalds was our ticket out of the U.S., we came across a small sign reading “Parking and Mexico”. I peared around the corner to find a dark, narrow walkway winding up into oblivion; clearly we had found the “border”. We walked for what seemed to be days until we had crossed over the freeway and came to a a heavy duty turnstile and a sign reading “No guns”. Apparently we had reached the entrance to Tijuana.

Once through we accepted one of the many offers to take a taxi into town. Thankfully Rai speaks fluent Spanish and even lives in Zihuatanejo, Mexico, so after bypassing the dancing, white pharmacy mascots, and offers for a free mechanical bull ride, we soon found ourselves at a delightful little restaurant for an authentic Mexican meal. Just about to venture back into the colorful streets, we were drawn back by the onset of a rain storm… and the offer of free margaritas. Never one to turn down such generosity, we huddled up in the cold, sheltered from the rain by a line of staff bordering our table, and sipped at our strawberry drinks waiting for the sun to come out.

Meanwhile, our 25 year old waiter gave us (unsolicited) marriage advice which basically amounted to: “Don’t do it… and don’t have three kids before you’re 30.” He had left two of them in Maryland (basically the opposite of Mexico) where he works half the year and showed us pictures of his newest offspring on his high tech photo display, which put me and my lack of even the essential cell phone, to shame. After he went off to find Rai and I two band-aids for our matching foot wounds (thanks to our beautiful sandals), I bemoaned our sad state of affairs, “You know something’s wrong with the world when it’s raining in Tijuana and Sanjaya gets voted off American Idol.”

Finally, we decided that the rain wasn’t letting up and since we had been approached with offers to purchase everything but an umbrella, our kind waiter hailed us a taxi and led us through the downpour to our awaiting chariot. Using her fancy Spanish, Rai had the driver drop us off as close to the border crossing as possible. “Only two blocks that way”, he pointed. No problemo. Minutes later we had traipsed down a road which led nowhere and yet we were told again that we were only two blocks away. Perhaps there was an invisible – yet heavily guarded - portal into the U.S. and only those with the secret map could find it, I wondered.

By this time we were pretty much soaked through, standing in the dirty streets with chattering teeth as we looked around the busy commercial metropolis for some sign of the border. They say when the going gets tough, the tough get going, so we kicked off our shoes and proceeded through the rain to find the homeland we imagined was somewhere right before our eyes. There were people (with coats and umbrellas) everywhere… and plenty of laughs at the two white chicas in pretty spring outfits, carrying their shoes in their hands while wading through the murky swimming puddles of the Tijuana streets.

I couldn’t help but laugh myself at our very unexpected Mexican adventure. So there was no sunshine, warmth, or really even much of a border to cross, but as Rai and I eventually found a McDonalds, and thus the way back to the U.S., I wouldn’t have changed anything about our migration south. Sometimes the greatest things happen when you least expect it. So when they do, may I suggest kicking off your heels and enjoying the moment. And, if all else fails, happiness is only a Bublé away, come rain or come shine.