Burying the Lede

The day started the same as any other, which meant I was seriously considering going to Las Vegas. It’s super close to Los Angeles, and you can get a nice hotel for practically free. (They recoup the money when their guests gamble in their casino, but I’m far too clever to fall for that. I always gamble in OTHER hotel’s casinos.)

Now granted, going to Vegas wasn’t necessarily the wisest idea. But I was feeling antsy. I’d recently applied for a bunch of jobs and I was just playing the waiting game. So my choice was either Vegas or San Diego. San Diego felt a little less adventurous, but it was only about two hours away, instead of Vegas’ five.

I decided to mix the two. I’d go to San Diego—but take my passport. After all, the border was only fifteen minutes away, and I’d never been to Mexico before. I could get my passport stamped. And anyway, I’d heard good things about Tijuana. Or at least, I’d heard things. They were probably good.

I did make an effort to do the San Diego thing. I went to Balboa Park, which is where San Diego keeps its touristy things like zoos and museums. But by going to places like these, I ran the risk of learning stuff. Far be it from me to do something educational.

So fifteen minutes later, I was crossing the border. Ask me how much fanfare there was! There was very little fanfare. I could have just as easily been crossing into Indiana. There was certainly no passport-stamping going on.

So it seems—and someone should probably look into this—all the street signs in Mexico are in Spanish. I got lost twenty seconds after I entered the country. The highway split, and I was left with two simple options: right or left. The highway signs were all Greek to me. (Except, again, they were Spanish.)

I chose left. "Always choose left in Mexico," as the saying goes. I pulled off the highway and actually did end up in Tijuana, which, if you ignore the graffiti on the buildings, the cracked, broken streets, the garbage piled on the side of the roads and the prostitutes lining the sidewalks, is still kinda a dump. I spent the majority of my time in Tijuana figuring out how to get out of Tijuana, which was no small feat—again, Spanish road signs.

Using my impeccable sense of direction (I know; I’m as surprised as you!) I made it to the road leading back into the US. Traffic backed up about half a mile from the border—and it took me well over an hour to make it that far.

When I finally made it to the border, they asked my license and registration. And I couldn’t find my registration.

And so, highly suspicious, border patrol was forced to detain me. For quite a while.

Please refer to the title of this post for more information on that last sentence. And tune in next time for part two: "How to Outwit Border Patrol!" (AKA "How to Wait Patiently at Border Patrol Until They Eventually Let You Go.")