Travel Biography - Week 66.

The Journey Across the Border.

Note that all photos here are my own, taken in 1995.

Outside downtown San Diego, so far, the venues I visited lay north of the city. These were The Old Town, SeaWorld, and Mission Beach. When I had to walk from the Old Town back to the city after missing the last bus, I passed through Little Italy, a line of shops owned by Italian-speaking traders. At a grocery in that area, I bought that evening's supper, a packet of raw spaghetti and some bolognese sauce which were both cheaper than from the superstore I normally called at. It was a moment I thought I was back in Italy.

To the south of the city, the trolley tram took about half an hour to cover the fifteen miles to get to San Ysidro, a terminus station close to the USA/Mexican border. As traffic on the Route 5 freeway lines up at the border crossing, a footbridge carries pedestrians over the road, giving views of both sides of the border.

One particular day, after doing some shopping and visiting a launderette, I was sitting opposite a young man while having a light lunch. We got chatting, and he said that he wanted to visit San Ysidro. When I asked him whether San Ysidro was on the border with Mexico, he confirmed that it was, and if I was to take my passport, I should have easy access to Tijuana, Mexico's border town, once the home of the Tijuana Brass Band, fronted by the trumpeter Herb Alpert, whose wind instrument became popular worldwide, particularly in the sixties.

When I asked him whether he was crossing the border, he said that he wasn't, but asked me if I would like to accompany him as far as San Ysidro, and then I'll be free to enter Mexico. I thought that was a good idea, and agreed. Throughout the talk, I had gotten the impression that he was only interested in the trolley ride, to say that he had used it. My aim went further. To enter Mexico whilst backpacking the USA would add that extra sparkle to the whole transatlantic trip.

The Trolley at San Ysidro Station.

Together that early afternoon, we both set off to American Plaza Station, serving both the mainline Amtrak trains to Los Angeles and the local Trolley to San Ysidro. My companion seemed familiar with the system. He showed me where to buy the tickets and to board the tram with the logo San Ysidro displayed on the front. He cautioned me when the tram arrived, heading north, away from its destination, but we were to board it, anyway.

After leaving the station, the tram turned and headed east along C Street. Indeed, on that stretch, it was a city tram, subject to traffic lights at intersections as well as halting at designated tram stops. Then, fifteen blocks further on, the line turned southeast at City College, and as the tram left the city, it became more like a proper train, stopping at well-spaced stations dotted along the route until ending at the border terminus.

At San Ysidro, my companion said farewell after we both alighted from the tram. I was alone once more as I made my way to the border. A little further on, a flight of steps led me to a pedestrian bridge that passed over the freeway. On the road below me, there were several lines of cars, each slowly moving as every vehicle had to halt to show their passports at the road booths. Amazingly enough, there was no passport control for pedestrians. Instead, I passed through a gate down the stairs on the other end of the bridge, on the far side of the freeway and Ole! I was in Mexico.

At the Mexican Border.

As I walked along the street, I found the city centre street layout to have a symmetrical grid pattern as with San Diego and other American cities and towns. But unlike San Diego which fronted the harbour at San Diego Bay, central Tijuana was nearly seven miles, or eleven km inland from its beach.

Despite its symmetrical grid city street layout, Tijuana was very different from San Diego, as its buildings were considerably lower, mostly just two storeys high, although a few had three floors. There was more of a chaotic look and feel to the town with overhead power cables not only on each side of the streets but also crosses the road as frequent overhead cables. But I shouldn't be too surprised. I have just entered another country, itself a sovereign state with its own Government, its own capital city, flag, currency, language, and religion, that is, unlike the USA, Mexico was, and is, predominantly Roman Catholic.

I didn't feel encouraged to buy anything in Tijuana, as the Mexican currency is the Peso, and due to my spontaneous decision to visit for a couple of hours, I didn't visit a bank or a currency exchange kiosk in readiness. However, I would have been surprised if none of the shops so close to the US border accepted the US dollar. 

I did little in Tijuana except walk around to explore the town. However, nearby was a large church, the Church of St Francis of Assisi. I went in, and the 14 Stations of the Cross lining the wall reminded me of its Catholic affiliation. There was also a central garden, with a copse of palm trees that also reminded me that this part of the world enjoyed a balmy, subtropical climate. However, what I found rather astonishing was the number of dental clinics, each quite close to the other, and looking as though having formed a competitive cluster hugging the international border as if expecting to treat the rotting teeth of so many sweet popcorn and candy-floss-loving American clientele!

The Church of St Francis of Assisi, Tijuana.

Although I said that in jest, I have actually wondered whether there's a kernel of truth in the above statement. American healthcare is reputed to be so expensive, that a private health insurance policy is held by most citizens in the USA. And this could include dental treatments. Is there any plausibility of San Diegans actually crossing into Mexico to visit a dentist and paying a lower, more reasonable price for treatment? Indeed, I was able to see the possible reason for such dental clinic rivalry to exist in Tijuana.

While I was sauntering through the streets of Tijuana, I wondered what it might have been like to backpack across a country so different from the States, Europe, or even Israel. Being a poorer country, would I have been able to do it? Would the budget stretch further? Or could I have fallen victim to a drug gang in one way or another? Yet, I have heard of backpackers finding adventures in such countries, whether it's the beaches of Alcapulco or the Aztec ruins, both in Mexico, or the Inca ruins of ancient cities, found in Peru or Ecuador. Or even tracking through the thick jungle of Brazil. I once knew an undergraduate who hiked through the jungle of Brazil. However, I'm also aware that lone backpackers to these locations are far and few between, although those who do venture out are more likely undergrads or graduates taking a gap year, and like the one I knew, they usually venture out as one in a group.

Eventually, after passing shops where the traditional wide-brimmed Mexican hats were displayed for sale, I made my way back towards the border. At the tourist precinct was an arch overhead with words which read, Come back Amigos. Thank you for your visit. That was the only English script I saw in the whole of Tijuana, even then the Spanish word for friends was retained.

A street in Tijuana, Mexico.

When I got to the border pedestrian bridge, after climbing the stairs leading up to it, all I saw was a lone US passport officer standing aside and waving us through (it was approaching evening and there were quite a few of us returning to San Diego). Reentering California from Mexico was very easy. I made my way back down, followed by a short walk to the waiting trolley tram, its bright red exterior making a contrast to the rich green leaves of the nearby trees.

The return journey to San Diego I made on my own, as I didn't see the young man who accompanied me until I arrived back at the hostel.

Preparing to Move on.

In 1995, I spent five nights at the AYH which was housed in the YMCA building on Broadway, making my stay in San Diego six days long. This particular hostel was the best I have ever stayed, and no other hostel around the world could quite match it. I made friends there, including my roommate, the Aussie builder. By sharing the bedroom with him, a seed was planted in my mind that opened the possibility of visiting Australia sometime in the future. However, he vacated his bed one night before I did, hence the first four nights were shared. For the fifth night, I had the bedroom for myself. Also, the two Scottish brothers left at the same time, but just before leaving, the better-looking of the two wanted a photo taken of us all together as a group in the dining room. He then stood directly behind me, his hands on my shoulders and his head directly above mine whilst someone else took the picture. To me, his pose was unusual.

Tijuana is semitropical.

There was a young Jewish woman hostelling along with us. When she heard that I was preparing to move on in my travels, I said that I would like to make the AYH Santa Monica my next stop. She, along with another female friend, asked me to make a bed reservation for myself whilst still here in San Diego. This was something new to me, as I have always been an "off the street" client, especially here in the States. But even in the mid-nineties, it looked as if changes were coming.

After I made the booking, she did too, at the same hostel. That means we could travel together. She was looking to me for protection, especially on the transit across Los Angeles from the Greyhound Bus station on East 7th Street to the Santa Monica hostel, some seventeen miles or 28 km across the southern Californian metropolis.

I spent the morning in San Diego before the Jewess and I got together to board the Americruiser for Los Angeles. However, before boarding the bus, I returned to my hostel bedroom to vacate it. While I was still there, a young Japanese backpacker entered the bedroom, having just checked in. We instantly recognised each other, as we met and became friends at my last stop, Pheonix. I felt sorry to leave just as he arrived. I'm sure that we could have spent some time together and enjoyed each other's company. I almost regretted making the advanced booking at Santa Monica. Had I kept to my original way of travel, I could have simply gone downstairs to pay for an extra night here in San Diego. But as it was, it was too late.

The two of us embraced, and then I picked up my rucksack and sauntered out, never to see that bedroom ever again.

Tourist Plaza, Tijuana.

Sometime later, the Jewess and I boarded the Greyhound Americruiser bound for Los Angeles for a 120-mile journey over two hours from San Diego to downtown Los Angeles. As we entered Los Angeles, I could see that she was becoming nervous and leaned on me for protection. After we alighted at the bus terminal, I went to find out if there was a local bus to Santa Monica. Fortunately, there was a direct link on Route 4, for our final destination.

The #4 bus crept slowly across the conurbation, rather like taking a London bus from Tower Bridge to Hounslow, on the western edge of Greater London. Eventually, we saw the Pacific coastline as the bus pulled into Santa Monica to reverse back to Downtown L.A. The two of us made our way to a nice-looking building on 2nd Street. At the reception, we both paid our fees - I paid for the next four nights, and we were assigned our beds in the appropriate dormitories. On payment, we were given our receipts and told to hang on to them throughout our stay.

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Next Week: I wake up to a shock.