teeeeeeeeeeejuana!

I had a roommate once who, after sousing ourselves completely at our then-favorite watering hole in the East Village, without further provocation threw a fistful of eggplant marinara at a female friend who accompanied us, jumped off his barstool, and ran screaming into the night. We recovered him the next morning, and some weeks later finally managed to collect most of the things he'd left behind and/or strewn about the city, the last of those his wallet, which he'd fortunately (if inexplicably) used to prop up the short leg in the far rear corner of his bed rather than donated to a homeless man somewhere along whatever route he chose home. To this day, none of us have any idea what any of it was about.

Since, that has been the rubric by which I judge all crazy and potential crazy. When I meet a new person, I ask myself, "Do I think this person is capable of assault with pasta in red sauce? Better?" There is a worse, more-serious sort of crazy that goes well beyond the scope of that particular incident, but it's not the sort of thing one might look on as a positive trait in a person. I had never until Tijuana expected to get that vibe from an entire city. Needless to say, an excellent time was had by all. I think. Fairly soon into it, exhaustion and disorientation had taken away any sense of bearing I might have had otherwise.

This was hatched over beers with Ed on a Tuesday night. Mikhaela had invited me and anyone who wished to join to attend her boyfriend Gabo's 37th birthday party at their place in Playas de Tijuana the following Saturday. There were supposed to be four bands, potentially a whole mess of people, and a huge quantity of food and drink. Deciding that this indeed did bear all the markings of a good time, plans were made (I use this term in the loosest sense imaginable), and Ed showed up mid-Saturday in his bright teal Honda Civic to make the trip south. Eschewing the motorbike was a mixed blessing. Air conditioning made traffic more tolerable, but left us sitting in it much longer. Ease of travel for the bulk of the trip on highways would have been met with massive slowdown in the brutally pot-holed roads south of the border. Not that there was really a choice in the matter regardless. All of Ed's mounts are out of commission for one reason or another at the moment, and two-up through traffic on the ZRX was not an option either of us wanted to pursue.

After a long burn through some scenic bits of southern California and a last-minute drag of the car to make sure no stray ammunition was floating around in the hatch (HUGE problems if you get caught bringing guns or ammo across the border), we made Mexico in not-terrible time. Mika and Gabo welcomed us warmly once we finally found parking, and quickly plied us with beer.






This is a picture of worlds colliding.



Mikhaela, one of my oldest friends (I met her on our first day of college) and Ed, who I'd previously met twice through an internet motorbike forum.

Soon after we arrived, one of the bands started to trickle in as well. Warmup and practice. This guy was quoting Jaco Pastorius. (Extensively.)




An aspiring luchador with Mika:




The sun set high, almost, and faded into a long dusk that saw more people trickle in, food being prepared, fires lit, and the party finally gaining momentum.
















I have no idea who these people are, but they were adamant that I take this photo.




One of my favorite aspects of the party was that it included everybody. All ages. All classes. Coming from a place where early- and late-twentysomethings usually segregate themselves at parties, it was something of a shock. This was perhaps compounded by my relatively weak command of Spanish. Still, I was that much better off that Ed, who spoke absolutely none. The party continued into the night, devolving further into chaos. Beer was omnipresent, especially after a run to Oxxo, the Tijuana equivalent of 7-Eleven. My credit card company will be amused with that one, no doubt. Mika eventually evicted everyone from Jody's (the next-door neighbor and general co-conspirator) apartment to extinguish the advances of a particularly amorous (and catastrophically drunk) Mexican.






















And yes, it was a little blurry like that by the end of the night. That couch proved my least-comfortable accommodation thus far on the trip, so some degree of blurriness was welcome. As I drifted off into the blackness, I had no idea what was in store for the morning, beyond promises of tacos and confirmation of whether the glass of water I'd consumed just prior to bed was, in fact, safe to drink.