Walking into Tijuana for a torta

The LISC conference in San Diego ended at 11:00 a.m. and I had arranged my flight for 4:35 p.m. in case I wanted to make a run into Mexico. Since everything had gone very nicely at the event (I gave a lunch presentation and it was very well received), I was up for a little adventure.

The modern red San Diego Trolley runs to the San Ysidro border from downtown, so I did my final packing and was out of my room by 11:18, out of the hotel after dumping my bags by 11:30, on the trolley a few minutes later. It’s maybe 15 miles to the border, past ship yards and a big Navy facility, past trailer parks and plenty of “affordable” housing, in a scrubby, gullied landscape.

Off the trolley, I acted like I knew what I was doing by following the crowds up a series of ramps and pedestrian bridges that led to the clanging metal turnstiles that were the entrance to Mexico. Dangling steel bars on the turnstiles keep them from turning backwards and they sounded a loud beat that pumped up my adrenaline, though I tried to act like the Mexicans around me, as if I had done this many times before.

I’m in. More ramps on the Mexican side through a market area taken over almost completely by pharmacies selling inexpensive prescription drugs. I knew I didn’t have much time because of the possibility of an hour or more wait to reenter the U.S., but I didn’t stop at the first taco stand, or the second one either, because I wanted to get further into the city.

More concrete ramps, lined with souvenir sellers (but not the aggressive kind), a pedestrian bridge over the trough of Rio Tijuana, and into the city. Now I figured I could stop, and after walking past the first couple places found one that looked good.

“¿Hay comida vegetariana?” I asked. “Claro que sí,” she responded. I went on to describe the torta that I would like, egg and avocado with lettuce and sour cream, the works, and she seemed to think that would be good, though she suggested perhaps some jamon (ham) to spice it up, to which I politely declined. “¿Para tomar?” I ordered orchata, only a bit worried about whether the water is filtered.

Chips, two fresh salsas, a bowl of limes, then the orchata. A few minutes later the torta arrived, hot and wrapped in foil. I don’t want to diss the Hernandez torta place at Lunt and Clark, but this was a fine torta, and big: two eggs with crisp edges, beans, avocado, tomato, lettuce, crema and good bread. An older Mexican sat down two tables over and ordered a bottle of Tecate and for a second I thought, ohhh, that would taste good, but I wanted to keep my edge in case I encountered any unforeseen difficulties.

Finished with lunch, I paid the $4.50 American border price and was on my way, walking fast the way I had come and then following the signs for the border crossing. The line was visible from the bridge, two blocks long at least and getting longer, fed by another bridge and a bus stop on the main highway. By the time I got there it was doubling back on itself, so I took my place and shuffled forward with everyone else, hoping I was in the right line, and decided I was when I saw that it was a mix of 90 percent Mexican and 10 percent American or tourists, including a redneck Marine mechanic behind me who was chatting with a retired redneck woman who lived in Mexico but hated Mexicans. Pretty entertaining listening to them, including stories of when the Marine had been in the brig or in Mexican jails.

We shuffled and shuffled, 20 minutes, 40 minutes, an hour, with maybe five or 10 people with canes or brazen younger people moving themselves up in the line, which ticked me and others off, so when an able-bodied Mexican man cut in front of me, I said to him something like “so the line isn’t important to you?” and when he gave me some unintelligible excuse I said something else and then the woman in front of me came to the rescue and told him in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t just cut in like that, and he retreated with a sheepish look on his face.

That didn’t keep others from making jumps ahead, but I let them go even though I was getting worried about making it back in time. I started practicing the phone call I would make to Pam, saying something like “My bad. I won’t be home until tomorrow.”

But we finally made it into the border guard building and we separated into different lines, and mine ended up stopping dead because the passport agent left his post, while the other lines moved nicely, so a guy behind me decided to jump to another line, which caused a general outburst of protest from others (maybe I was one of them). One of the guards intervened and asked him to move back, and then she told someone else in line to get off his telephone (“not allowed in the building”) and now it was getting exciting.

The guy on the phone said something rude to the guy who had jumped the line (both were Americans), and he wouldn’t get off the phone when the guard asked him again, so she said “Hey I need some reinforcements here,” and four or five guards appeared to sort things out. It was determined that the line-jumper had indeed jumped the line so they gave him “preferential treatment” and walked him across for some further interrogation. My line started moving again, I presented my passport, she asked if I was bringing anything back, I said no, she let me through and I made a beeline for the trolley.

Long story short (okay, not so short), I made it back to the hotel by 3:15, got my bags by 3:25, got a cab for the 10-minute airport ride and cleared security by 3:55. Time to spare! I’m writing this on the plane and will post it later tonight. When the flight attendant offered me a beer for $4, I said yes. It is cold and tastes wonderful.