Leaving Tijuana

I’m not exactly sure how we wound up in Tijuana a second time. Maybe I was drowsy after a big lunch and grunted agreeably when someone said, “Hey, wouldn’t it be fun to go to a heartbreakingly depressing slum that sells cheesy souvenirs to tourists?” Or, maybe I wasn’t even in the room when the nonsensical decision was made.  Maybe it was just assumed –- me being the fun-loving guy that I am -- that I would gleefully jump at the chance to wallow in squalor and sleaze again south of the border.

The adventure began, innocently enough, with a trip to San Diego to attend a 50^th wedding anniversary bash for my wife’s Uncle Joe and Aunt Aggie. It doesn’t take long to notice that life is good in San Diego. It’s a sun-splashed coastal city with pristine beaches, charming adobe buildings with red tile roofs, historic Spanish missions, and highway signs that clearly tell you how close you’re getting to the border of Mexico.

“7 MILES TO MEXICAN BORDER CROSSING,” one jumbo sign screamed in chimichanga size letters. And then in slightly smaller letters:

“Have You Thought This Through?”

“4 MILES TO MEXICAN BORDER CROSSING,” a follow-up billboard firmly cautioned, adding the gentle reminder:

“You Can Still Turn Back, You Know. No One Will Tease You.”

“1 MILE TO MEXICAN BORDER CROSSING,” bellowed an ominous eight-lane banner, asking with chilling directness:

“Who Shall We Notify in the Event of Your Disappearance?”

 My wife Sherry and I and several members of her family were in a van cheerfully chatting away about discount Kahlua and Mexican pharmaceuticals while these signs whizzed by unnoticed. Her cousin Mary, who was piloting a second vehicle filled with family members, was in charge of leading all of us to a public parking lot on the U.S. side of the border where we would take a shuttle bus into Mexico. At least that was the plan. That strategy quickly disintegrated when Mary left us in her dust and we failed to read any of the billboards warning us to reevaluate our lives and make an emergency u-turn.

“Oh shit,” said Sherry’s Uncle Joe from the back seat. “We’re heading into Mexico.”

“What? But . . .  I thought we wanted to take the bus in,” I stammered.

“We lost Mary and passed the exit for the parking lot,” Uncle Joe announced. “There’s no turning back now.”

“Wait,” Sherry protested from behind the wheel. “I’m not driving a rented van out of the country.”

“We don’t have any choice,” Uncle Joe made painfully clear. “And from this point on, I’m just a hitchhiker that you fugitives picked up back in Mission Bay.”

At the border checkpoint, we explained our dilemma to the Mexican crossing guard, asking if we could simply turn around, head back to the U.S. side and take the shuttle in. As he conferred with another crossing guard, both gesturing disdainfully in our direction, we got the idea that “simply turning around” was not in the cards for our hapless band of La Bamba bums.

“You must drive through and follow signs back to border,” he snarled, motioning vaguely in the direction of downtown Tijuana.

“Which way do we go?” Sherry asked anxiously, hoping to buy a clue.

“You drive now!” the crossing guard barked, creating a sense of urgency in the van that got us all on the same page.

“Let’s go!” we all blurted in unison, causing Sherry to thump the gas pedal and send the van lurching forward like a drunk at a Mariachi dance.

As we forged on to find our way along Tijuana’s turbulent streets and alleys, we realized that following signs back to the border was going to require several things we didn’t have going for us: luck, a sense of direction, and the ability to read Spanish.

After enough wrong turns and bad moves to offend a Macarena instructor, I rolled down my window at a stop light and asked a couple of locals how to get to San Diego. I did my best to overcome the communication gap by ingeniously saying the words “San Diego” with a Mexican accent and violently shrugging my shoulders. They smiled and pointed in a direction that seemed promising. How naive we were.

Faster than you can say “La Cucaracha,” we found ourselves in a restricted commuter lane that featured curbs on each side to effectively “lock us in” as we headed back toward the border. The crossing guards viewed this as an act of terrorism.

“Halt!” yelled an enraged guard, as a pack of Mexican federalés converged on the van.

“What? What’s wrong?” Sherry asked, taking care to keep her hands where they could see them.

“You are not authorized to use the Sentri commuter lane. Out of the van, everyone.”

“Officer, we didn’t realize we were in the lane until it was too late,” I ventured apologetically. “We just want to leave Tijuana and take the shuttle bus back in.”

“I’m just a hitchhiker these wackos picked up in Mission Bay,” Uncle Joe chimed in.

“Silence!” our friendly border guard erupted. “You are in violation of 19USC1433(b)(1). Your vehicle is subject to seizure and monetary penalty may be assessed.”

I suddenly pictured being horded off to a Mexican jail where I’d have to dance naked to “Tequila Boom Boom” for the pleasure of a prison guard named Mr. Manny. A commotion snapped my attention back to the crisis at hand: it was long-lost cousin Mary, who had followed our exploits via cellphone since losing us on the highway. She had just hoofed it in from the bus depot.

“This is bullshit,” Mary declared to the crossing guards. “They’re not paying you anything and you’re not seizing the van.”

At this point I adopted Uncle Joe’s alibi, pointing to my chest and mouthing the words “hitchhiker” as the federalés glared in our direction.

And then, something truly miraculous happened. Mary jumped in the driver’s seat of the van, yelled “we’re out of here” and took off. I slumped down in my seat in case there was gunfire and pictured Mr. Manny the prison guard again demanding that I sing “Hot,Hot,Hot” with the sombrero on this time.

“How did you know they would let us go?” someone asked Mary from the backseat.

“I didn’t.”

“What do you mean you didn’t?” I bristled from my spot underneath the glove compartment. “You were just rolling the dice back there?”

“We don’t have all day to see Tijuana,” Mary pointed out. “If you guys want to get something to eat and do some shopping and sightseeing, we need to get moving.”

Gee, and I wanted to see if I could create an international incident at the U.S./Mexican border.

What was left of our day in Tijuana was anticlimactic after our frenzied arrival. All I remember are buckets of Corona, margaritas, corn chips piled high with melted cheese, and an all-round gratefulness to be alive.

Whatever the guiding forces were that got us out of Tijuana unscathed, it was a life-changing experience that made me absolutely sure of three things about my future: 1) It would not include another trip to Tijuana, 2) I would never again risk my life to save 15% on a bottle of Kahlua, and 3) If someone named Mr. Manny ever asks me to “dance like a donkey” during Cinco De Mayo, I’m dancing like my life depends on it.

At least until cousin Mary shows up.