Bien nice

I have a car. My car. In Mexico. My parents, being the doll faces that they are, decided to take a drive, in my car, from Atlanta to San Diego. Before you say it, yes, I know that I am spoiled.

As I dropped my parents at the airport and drove down the streets of San Diego, I actually felt like I was at home for the first time. Down the highway I sped south, Spanish oldies on the radio via 102.9. I was a little nervous about crossing in San Ysidro. I don't have a copy of my car's registration and I didn't get stamped out of Mexico again on my work visa, mainly because there does not appear to be an office that does it on the Tijuana side. And, I had a bad experience with the American migra Saturday morning.

Long, slow moving line. I always pick the slowest one and I knew I was going to be late meeting my parents. I watched American morons stepping up to the agents with driver's licenses and birth certificates, which always slows things up. Is it really that hard to get a passport if you are going to cross regularly? They were searching bags at the passport check, instead of at the X-ray machine. Finally, it was my turn. I presented my passport. "What are you bringing back from Mexico?", "I live in Mexico, I'm bringing..." and was interrupted. "Why do you live in Mexico?" the agent demanded. "I am on a Fulbright grant...", "A full what?" he asked, incredulous. "It's a State Department administered grant" I answered. It's weird. I never mention the exchange when the agents question me about my presence in TJ. I feel like I am holding something back and finally decided to just tell them, only to clarify things, to let them know that I am legit. Not to brag, just to clarify. "Where do you live in Mexico?" he continued. The line was at a standstill. "Tijuana. Aren't the two questions up?" I asked and added a little laugh to soften my remark. "Whoever told you we could only ask two questions was wrong. We will ask as many questions as necessary!" he boomed. "I was just kidding" I said, attempting to diffuse the situation. I had no idea that I was Public Enemy Number One. "What do you do in Tijuana?". "I'm a teacher" I answered. "Why are you so nervous?" he demanded. Because, dude, you are kind of freaking me out. "I'm sick of being in the line" I responded. "Have you ever been arrested?", "Yes" I answered. "For what?". Yeah, I did something stupid in my early twenties. Something victimless and non-violent. And obviously, I have never been arrested again. After I explained, he sat and typed on his computer for at least three minutes. "That's not all you were arrested for!" he stated, mentioning another charge I received for the same incident. "That charge was dismissed. I wasn't convicted. Search my stuff. I am not doing anything wrong" I answered. "The State Department sent you to Mexico?" he asked, as if I were a bank robber. Actually, sir, that would be a presidentialy appointed board that sent me to Mexico. "Yup. And they paid me" I responded. He finally let me go. I feel as though our country is being protected from all possible threats, including smart ass, passport carrying teachers on Fulbright grants. We are the ones you really have to watch out for. We're tearing the place apart.

I was waived into Mexico without even tapping on the brakes.

I decided to drive to school, give it a whirl. As I zig zagged over the road dodging potholes, I heard a walking student exclaim "La profe!". I seem so hapless most of the time that they probably think I don't know how to drive. I kind of like it. It's like off roading.

I am scrambling to get everything ready before our two weeks of Spring Break. As I sat in the teacher's workroom making lessons, I saw a teacher speaking to another teacher whom everyone says is a nurse. I believe she teaches one of the factory classes. I kept working, then noticed that the nurse teacher had inserted an IV in the other teachers arm, hanging the little bag on one of our lockers. The ill teacher sat for about fifteen minutes, while the contents of the bag emptied into her arm. People walked in and out, "Are you sick?" a few asked. When the bag was empty, I asked her if she was feeling better. "Bien nice," she answered "mejor".

Qué padre

"The flight is delayed about forty minutes" the Interjet clerk informed us. The Tijuana airport is not the worst place to be at 1:00am on a Friday night. Unfortunately, it is not the most useful airport. Most domestic flights have odd take-off times and our 11:55pm flight to Puebla finally made it into the sky around 1:15am.

It had been a long day. I ventured into a project with my three hundred students, something I have avoided in the past for fear of grading them. "Profe, how do you say light-skinned in English?" I was asked over and over again while the students attempted to describe themselves on their poster boards. I have entertained this question multiple times with my African-American students in my Spanish classes in Atlanta. I was surprised to learn that in Spanish, not only are there morenos and people with piel claro but that they also have skin that is moreno-claro, which apparently means dark-light. How could I tell them that they are a fine group of Mexican bobcats, no matter how dark or light they are?

I actually slept, only to be roused by wheels hitting the ground in Mexico City around 4:00am. Due to a two hour time difference, the sun was up and Saturday had already begun. We caught a bus to Puebla and I promptly went back to sleep. Alec jostled me awake to see a smoking volcano on the outskirts of Puebla.

Who knew Puebla was so nice? All cities should have at least one ash capped, smoking volcano that is visible from the depths of an attractive, colonial city. I was completely swept up. I could go there - I saw universities, what the hell am I doing in dirty old TJ when places like Puebla exist? I found myself plotting, contemplating. When I've pondered extended, expatriate style experiences, I always imagined going to attractive places. I'd trot around, exist in a lovely environment and live an exotic, culturally different life that would wow my friends and neighbors. "Oh yeah," I'd say, "my apartment is 500 years old. The Spanish built it! Feel like getting a coffee?" Something tugged at the back of my mind. Anyone would want to live in Puebla. Or Madrid. Or countless other attractive cities worldwide. But could I do my superwoman antics there? Though I am obviously attracted to the pretty places, something in me wants to stay in the ugly places. It makes me feel useful. Not that I am saving anyone in TJ, but I feel like maybe I could if I could ever get my shit together.

We met up with some other teachers from the exchange and got a pinche awesome tour from one of our fellow exchangers who is living in Puebla. We ended our day at what must be the smallest volcano in the world. Mexico specializes in odd things. When I studied in Guadalajara during my undergrad, I was privileged to see the smallest mummy in the world in Guanajuato. I have now also seen the smallest volcano. An impromptu carnaval celebration erupted in the street by the volcancito. Mexico is not so hot with time. Apparently, even something like carnaval can be celebrated, well, really late. An extremely friendly woman with a series of biblical names - Maria Magdalena Guadalupe de Jesus y Moises - or something like that, started chatting us up. Things got a little awkward when she mentioned that Haiti got hit by the hurricane because they are voodoo devil worshipers. I really wanted to ask her which biblical sin Mexico committed in the eighties in order to merit their devastating earthquake, but just kind of said mucho gusto and wandered away.

As we sat on top of the smallest volcano in the world, I heard the chirp of my crap ass amigo phone. "Hey..." my sister said "have you gotten any weird emails this weekend?" she asked. "Huh? I'm in Puebla, sitting on a really small volcano. What's up?" I answered. "Some consular workers were murdered in Juarez" she told me, "They are evacuating the families of the embassy staff in a bunch of border cities, including Tijuana". No matter where I go, TJ just can't keep it's paws off me. I could see where she was going with this. Was I going to get sent home?

We picked up a paper and saw some pretty grisly stuff splashed all over the front pages of all of them. "OBAMA INDIGNA" one screamed. "71 MUERTOS EN UN FIN DE SEMANA". Apparently, Mexico went crazy again this weekend. We hopped on Diego, our Volaris plane, and headed back to the border. Soldiers screened our luggage to see what we were bringing north. I actually don't think they were looking for fruit. We passed the federales and drove along side the border wall as we pulled out of the Tijuana airport and through the maquiladoras that line Otay.

I was tired this morning. I trotted into school at my regular hour, 1:15 in the afternoon. The streets were mysteriously devoid of walking students and there wasn't a line at the gate to get in. Profe Rafa was already teaching in his classroom. What the hell was he up to starting class fifteen minutes early? How did he get the kids in there? Few teachers were in our workroom. Finally, I asked...¿Qué hora es? "Two fifteen" one of them answered. What....? "Come with me" one of the teachers requested. "I'll go with you to the office to explain that you didn't know the hour changed". "It changed in the United States" the secretary told me. Yeah, but I live in Mexico. I don't have some heat seeking radar that just knows what happens in the U.S. "Don't you watch TV?" she asked. "No, yes" I stammered, "I wasn't in Tijuana this weekend. I was in Puebla. The time didn't change there!" "Ohh," she said. "The rest of Mexico didn't change. Baja California has decided for the first time to just change with the U.S. Having different time from San Diego really messed up all the people that cross to work". I felt pretty crafty. Down right clever.

It didn't really matter anyway, they went ahead and canceled a lot of the classes. One class was canceled for Día de la familia. Each group of students had to bring in food items and one lucky member of the group got to take the whole basket home. The students screamed and clapped while each winner walked up to collect a basket full of toilet paper, Corn Flakes, pasta packets and canned tomatoes. Kids in the U.S. probably wouldn't have even picked up the basket if they won. I found it weirdly touching when these kids smiled and grabbed their baskets with a look that said "Thanks. My family could really use this shit. I'm taking it".

I never got that email.

The Happiest Girl in the Whole USA

I just can't seem to get in the swing of things. I have less than four months left. And then it's back, back, back to the inevitable question: What am I going to do next? How have I pissed away so much time?

Almost every time someone gives me a present, it ends up making me sad.

My anxiety has been building. I haven't done half of the things I wanted to do here. I didn't do half of what I planned to do in Madrid either. Just when I might be getting it, it is time to go home. This happens to me on ordinary vacations too. I know the last day is going to come and I am going to be miserable to return to work. I tell myself everyday to make the most of it, ENJOY EVERY MINUTE. But it doesn't help. The last day is still miserable.

It has rained four Saturdays in a row, killing any hope of getting out of the house. Last Saturday, I was determined to do something. Tijuana may become unlivable in the rain but San Diego does not. We visited one of the museums in Balboa Park. Even though the trolley is full of creepy people, I like riding it. I like the yogurt advertisements at the 5th Avenue station. Big cones of strawberries and blueberries filled with brightly colored yogurt. I have no interest in trying their product, I just like the pictures. I like the trolley service area too. All those big barns where the trolleys go to sleep at night. I always sit up at those parts of the ride.

School can't get into the swing of things either. In addition to two sick days and the two days I had to spend in Mexicali, enough classes have been canceled to add up to an additional three days. Classes have been back in session for four weeks, minus seven random days of class suspensions. I never thought I would complain about something like this. But, I have come to love my students and I want to leave them with something. Every time I get some momentum going, we take a day off. Or two. Or fucking seven.

We have next Monday off and Alec and I are headed away from the border and off to Puebla. The weekend after that, my parents are coming to San Diego. After that, two weeks of Spring Break that I will spend all over the Baja California peninsula. I like the busy times, the travel times.

It's just the normal times when I get a little crazy.

*Holden Caulfield, The Catcher in the Rye.

Stockholm Syndrome

"You are invited to attend the opening ceremony..." the email said. I had to think about it. Go to school at 8:45am for some ceremony though I didn't have to work until 1:30? Hmmm. But, generally when they say "invited" they really mean "required". I decided to go. I was out sick last week for two days and figured I had better make an appearance.

As soon as I entered, I was hustled to the front by my principal. "I want to introduce you to the crowd!" he announced, referring to the six hundred odd students standing in the sun. I was placed in a line with the superintendent of our school system, a representative from the federal education system and the police chief. And then, I was introduced and told to address the crowd. Something happens to me when I am forced to speak in front of hundreds of people without notice, in Spanish. For the second time within one week, I became a mumbling, unintelligible mess. "Gracias!" I ended, and ran away after about thirty seconds of gibberish.

Quite a lot of folks were there from the superintendent's office in Mexicali. One approached me and asked if I was going to Mexicali with them, that day. Huh? "We'll take you by your house so that you can pack a bag", they instructed, "We'll be back to get you in an hour!". I ripped damp clothes off of my clothes line, forgot my contacts and a hair brush, and was whisked away to Mexicali. Four solid days without a teacher for my students. Oh well.

We stopped by a couple of nice hotels in the centro so that my drivers could collect their things; they had stayed the night in Tijuana. As we headed to the highway, we passed another campus of my school system that is basically right around the corner from where I live. Muddy, dirt roads lined the neighborhood and shanties lined the paths. Uniformed students poured out of the school. It reminded me of some of the rural areas in Laos. I was surprised that such third world conditions existed in Tijuana. Not completely surprised, but to say the least, saddened. "Look!", one of my cohorts called, "There is the academic coordinator's daughter!". Banda music played on the radio and the border wall twisted and turned on our left as we drove to Tecate. We ate some carne asada tacos and stopped by the bread place to pick up some of Tecate's famous bread. We passed through the military checkpoint and headed for La Rumorosa.

"We're going to visit another plantel" my drivers told me. "It's an extension". We pulled into the town of La Rumorosa, something that I didn't know existed. And for good reason. "No one stays here" they told me. "There aren't any jobs. Everyone goes to Tijuana or Mexicali or the U.S. But there are some kids here and the community asked us to start a school". We pulled up in front of what used to be an abandoned orphanage. There were three classrooms with some chairs and tables and beaten up whiteboards. It was freezing. People were wearing winter coats and stocking caps, inside. They have a student population of 50. I was shown a rickety kitchen with a sink and an old, tiny four burner stove. "The tourism students practice culinary arts here" they told me. Everything became very clear to me at that moment. I knew that I wanted to work there.

They told me that they would take me to another extension. They said that it was in a "humble" neighborhood near Tecate and that Americans had helped build whatever semblance of a school was there. I was curious, very curious. But for now, we headed to Mexicali. Música romantica played on the radio. We arrived at a hotel and I was told to call them if I needed anything, but might want to avoid going out alone. I waited for their car to pull away, put on my coat and headed out. As it was 6:30 and I had nothing to do, I decided that I needed beer and nail polish.

Breakfast with the superintendent, 8:00am. Or 8:20am, Mexican time. I barely ate. He wanted to smooth things over about my schedule difficulties. I told him that changes were made after I contacted Mexicali. "Good, good, good, we want more exchanges!" I was told. I told myself to be confident and attempted to drive my point home. I wanted them to understand that if they were willing to treat me, their exalted guest, so badly, the superintendent really ought to think about how the Mexican teachers are treated at that school. Deaf ears. "We want more exchanges!" was the only thing that rang clear. I know it's not my place. I had to try. I worry that I didn't try hard enough.

"The roads from Mexicali continue in Calexico" I was told. "We used to be one city". We were driving to the big event. We arrived at another plantel that was cloaked in students and press. The governor was coming. I was escorted to the front row. The governor of Baja California was introduced to the crowd along with another slew of distinguished guests. And then, I was introduced. At least they did not ask for comments. I have to admit that I wasn't too comfortable being within five feet of the governor, considering the nature of some of the violence here. I was especially concerned when we had to pose for huge group pictures and I was thrust at his side, sporting a ridiculous thumbs up! I got to sit in on his press conference. "How do you feel about the recent announcement from the U.S. that Americans SHOULD NOT visit Baja California and that Tijuana is one of the most dangerous cities in Mexico?" was the first question. Oh God, what did my government do now? I was interviewed afterward by a reporter. The inevitable question: Do you feel safe in Tijuana? "Nothing has happened to me yet" I answered, and stared back at her. Yeah, the hype about Tijuana is overblown. Come one and all? Well....no.

We never made it to the extension near Tecate.

The love that won't shut up

I haven't been walking to school. It's a bad habit to start taking taxis and I decided to break it yesterday. As I walked, the soldiers came into view. Straddling both sides of the street, camouflage, ski masks, armored desert vehicles, automatic rifles, a guy manning a gun turret. I slowed my walk.

You're wondering now, what to do, now you know, this is the end...

Cars were stopped and trunks were open, a soldier abruptly thumped the base of his rifle and I raised my hands and slowly walked through. It was endless. And then I saw the taxi. Full of my carpooling students. Five, seven of them, crammed into one cab. When the soldiers stopped them for revision, instinctively, I stopped. I am an adult. I am their teacher. They are just kids. I was paralyzed. I am a foreigner. I knew I had no say here. I'm used to having to take care of my students. But here, we are all on our own. The soldiers let them pass as the kids waved at me through the windows of the cab. My ipod kept singing to me.

And he's related to you, he's related to you, he is waiting to meet you...

I am starting school just like I started it the first semester, on the shit list. I received a horrible schedule that I have been fighting both tooth and nail. It wears on me. My fellow teachers have been rallying around me. "This is shit" they tell me "they are taking advantage of you when they should be happy that you are here". After going up the chain by meeting with the principal, academic coordinator and union head, I was still getting stonewalled for schedule changes. Teachers started slipping me the phone numbers and email addresses of the superintendent of our school system. "Call him, write him" they advised me "Just don't let them know that I was the one that gave you the number..." I told them that I would write an email and bring a copy to school so that they could proof read it. I presented it to Profe Julio when I arrived. Throughout the day, teachers were knocking on my door. "Can I see the copy?" the asked. "Can I bring it to Nora? She wants to see it...put in a word for us. They treat us like shit".

I am not here to stir things up. But, I have always had a problem with relinquishing my rights. Even if teachers don't have any in Mexico. Why don't they strike if they are so unhappy? I have one word for you: Oaxaca. I am in a weird position. They want me to stand up for myself and in turn, stand up for them. I can do that. I can tarnish my career aspirations to vocalize our mutual discontent. It just kills me that the only reason I have a voice is because I am not from here.

My odd sanctuary has been the classroom. It never has been before, if anything, it was the highest point of stress in my life. The kids have been happy to see me. They weren't sure if I was coming back. While teaching a lesson on adjectives, I asked them to think of an adjective in English for every letter of my first name. "H?" I asked. "HOT!" the boys called out. Ay, Díos mio. Sometimes I think I am my best self in the classroom. I keep my demons in control, I am not too crazy and I am polite. My darling Gloria hugged me when she showed up for the first time on the second day of class, because she heard that I had asked where she was. And she still tells all of the other students that I am her mother. While revising the attendance list from one of my devilish electronics groups, I saw a heart drawn on the paper. "La profe y yo" was written in the middle.

I don't know how I can leave them.


*Title lifted from the Opal Foxx Quartet
*You're Wondering Now, The Specials
*Nude as the News, Cat Power

Malasuerte en Tijuana

"I'm sick of having guns in my face" one of my co-workers commented. "No kidding" another seconded, "the military has this whole hill surrounded".

I wanted to get out on Saturday, do some things. The rain slowed us down. Even light rain makes the dirt roads in my neighborhood impassable and fills and overflows the potholes of the paved ones. I settled for a trip to Comercial Mexicana, Tijuana's Wal-Mart, which is not far from our house. And has some pretty cool stuff. As Alec and I emerged from the store, loaded down with bags, we noticed that the road was blocked off by police officers and sirens were wailing in all directions as more arrived on the scene. We took a taxi instead of the bus home.

I really needed some Expo markers for school, so we decided to hit the papelería too. A man with a rifle stood on the sidewalk that lead to the store. Alec and I both stared at the ground and tried to give him a wide berth. "¡Buenas tardes!" he greeted us "Where are you from? ¡Bienvenidos a México!" The guy really seemed to be trying to be friendly, not to freak us out. I guess I am getting a little sick of having guns in my face too.

We got curious. What happened while we were in Comercial Mexicana? A cop got gunned down. In traffic. In the middle of the street. The street we have walked up and down a million times. He was headed for work at the police station next to our house. "Four murders in one hour!" the Frontera newspaper blared.

I haven't been to Casa del Migrante in a while. The bus driver didn't notice that I was getting off behind another guy and started driving. I jumped out of the moving bus while carrying a ten pound block of processed ham and headed down the street. I could hear music from far away. What was going on? A street party for Casa's church! I went inside and greeted everyone, I was pleased that they seemed happy to see me. "Let's go eat!" Raquel said happily, grabbing me up and taking me to the street with Gabriel and Rogelio. A little stage was set up and music was thumping, all of the songs I've heard a million times here sounded new and good. Tamales, enchiladas, elote....all for sale for some San Felipe church money.

...con las espadas desnudas a abrir aquellos cuerpos desnudos y delicados...

I had a smile permanently plastered to my face. Our lovely semanarista friend from Casa was dancing and slapping his own booty, then breaking into giggles. The horchata servers spontaneously broke into a line dance, take it down, bring it up, hold it there, keep it going...a kid ran by in an orange hoodie with a pumpkin face on the front and a stem rising out of his head, chasing a dog that was as big as a horse.

...como la flor, tanto amor, me diste tú....

Didn't they know we were all going to die?

I went to mass with the migrants again. I wanted to. My head was swimming. I tried to pretend like I was going along with the whole thing; I didn't want to be disrespectful. The migrants seated behind me took communion and came back to their benches behind me and remained on their knees. They were engulfing me. I normally would hate something like this, weird human proximity, but it oddly made me feel good. Until I heard the sniffles, the crying. My bones started feeling heavy, like a physical pulling and I was sinking into sand. My head was swirling and I looked straight up, pulled my chin up and tried to fixate on a single object, which unfortunately happened to be a bloody crucified Jesus on a cross.

I found La Doña outside of the church and asked her if I could help her cook next Sunday. "Of course" she said "of course".


*Brevísima relación de la destrucción de las indias, Bartolomé de las Casas
*Como la flor, Selena

Las mañanitas

"And then, goosebumps appeared all over the body we were about to embalm!" one of my fellow teachers howled "Chinga! The girl was alive!". Friday night, on the eve of a three day weekend, the administration at school had decided to keep us until seven o'clock. I worked most of the day, making tests and materials for the upcoming semester. By five thirty, my eyes were having trouble focusing on the computer screen. The rest of the teachers were seated in a circle in the freezing cold sala de maestros, while one of the math teachers told us stories about a stint he did working in a mortuary. "One time, I had to go to the scene of an accident. A really bad one. Bike accident. Blood was everywhere and then I noticed change spilled all over the ground. Two pesos, five pesos, ten pesos....I had forgotten to bring bus fare to get me home and I decided that dead people weren't going to need the change anyway and I started scooping up the pesos, even the ones with blood on them." Groan, howl and hysterical laughter. "The next day, I picked up the paper and there was a picture of the scene and way in the back, I saw myself, hunched over, arm extended, haciéndome un pendejo".

I was up at 5AM the following morning and got a taxi right outside of my house. Two blocks away, we were stopped at a military checkpoint. A couple of large camouflage trucks lined the street and a soldier manned the gun turret. Cars were stopped and trunks were opened. A man stood with his arms over his head and his shirt pulled up to reveal his belt line. A ski masked soldier waved us through. The biggest, roundest, brightest moon hung in the dark sky.

Sometimes, in moments of adversity, I imagine myself singing "Stand" in front of an audience of my detractors. I have this really spangly dress on and look, well, awesome. I usually sing the howling Sly parts. Sometimes I play guitar too.

As I rode the trolley to San Diego, the big bright moon was replaced with a big round fire red sun that quickly changed the sky to a light blue color. I escaped being accosted on the train. It is always someone, "the thing", as my niece called it, a rough, anglo man (?) that wore garish makeup that had seated itself across from me and stared at me violently before requesting a piece of gum. I turned it down, as I only had nicotine gum and wasn't sparing a piece for a weird stranger. It turned it's attention to an older, Mexican woman and requested a piece of gum in Spanish. The señora stared back at it darkly, without responding until "the thing" finally looked away. Or the insanely drunk woman who aggressively seated herself with Alec and me, began a relatively intelligible conversation, picked up her phone and asked her caller if she "fucked her or was her mother?" and then proceeded to tell us the exact same story for the third time in a row. Or the "friendly" old men that creep over to my area and interview me about every aspect of my life. Nope, just lots of people crossing the border to work, coffee in hand and Spanish newspapers in front of their faces.

Yes, there is an irony to the fact that I had to leave Mexico only to re-enter it by air in order to spend my birthday weekend in Los Cabos. My family met me there. Have I mentioned that my family is awesome? While a lot of Americas won't even go to Cancun anymore for fear of swine flu or drug violence, my mother, sister and twelve year old niece have just made their third trip to Mexico in the last six months. My mother plows right into Tijuana and trots through the centro, buying souvenirs and tacos just like she is in Atlanta. My niece always wants to be in the street, where she can buy elote and Mexican sweets. As for my sister, if adventure had a first name it's H-O-L-L-Y.

I arrived in Los Cabos a couple of hours before my family, and presented my new visa to the migra agent. Trouble was afoot. "I just picked it up yesterday" I explained. "No you didn't" he said haughtily, pointing to the issue date of the twentieth while scooping up my passport and visa and walking to an office in the back. Great. Insisting on speaking in English, he pointed out that I hadn't been stamped out of Mexico when I crossed the border that morning. Shit. His accent was difficult to understand and when I asked for clarification about some unintelligible thing he said he snapped "Pay attention" as if I was a stupid child. "You like that little box you sit in all day, don't you? Makes you feel powerful. It's especially nice to talk down to some American woman too, isn't it? Do you have a hard on?" I asked, or I wanted to ask as I stood there, quietly and politely. I finally made it through, picked up the rental car and drove around a little, then returned to the airport. I popped the plastic lens back into the frames of my sunglasses and placed myself between the taxi drivers, waiting to see my family pop out of the airport doors. I am not sure why Americans go so crazy on vacation. Older, proudly alcoholic men walked around with open beer bottles. One carried a six pack of Dos Equis, popping open a new one whenever he saw fit. Brand new pedicures and golf clubs cruised by me. An older American woman with huge fake boobs walked slowly by, precariously balanced on very tall heels, with a chihuahua riding on her shoulder.

Ahhh, what a weekend. Warm breezes, seafood and humpback whales that would have impressed National Geographic. Yeah, Los Cabos is pretty heavily touristed and there is a damn good reason for it. Quicker than I wanted, I was back on flight to the U.S., so that I could return to Mexico. I sat in a sports bar in Phoenix that proudly advertised Bud Lite! and watched Fox News. It made me wonder which planet I was on while the commentators battled a one sided debate about why gays SHOULD NOT! be in the military. One of the "strong points" of their "debate" was that homosexuals would sue if they had to do extra push ups. Well, that sounds reasonable....their program was quickly followed by a commercial featuring G. Gordon Liddy selling insurance. I certainly trust Fox News and their advertisers.

I was seated again next to Marines on my flight to San Diego and quickly found myself back at the border. I remembered to get stamped back into Mexico, only after being invited to dance by the migra agents while they stamped my visa on the wrong page. As I walked past the ICE agents in front of the turnstile, they quickly pushed past me and zeroed in on a young, Mexican cholo with a small backpack, completely ignoring the much larger bag I was dragging.

And then I was home.