I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher: the Mexico Chronicles, segunda.

Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring.

The first time we went to Mexico, we walked across the border into Tijuana. The sky was clear and bright; it was a great day to take my first stroll on foreign soil. After marveling at Big Pink, I had been nurturing my excitement to explore the real deal; even though I was well aware that Tijuana has all of the authenticity of a shopping mall when it comes to Experiencing Mexico, I couldn’t contain an inner squeal (and possibly a few outer ones).  Despite the high level of laziness that set in after I moved out of a city where I walked everywhere to a state where one must drive everywhere, I didn’t even mind (at first) that we were setting off on foot.

We breezed through the border crossing, to my amazement. I was under the impression that crossing the border was a to-do, but at that point, nobody was terribly concerned with people entering Mexico.  Navigating the border structure was a bit of a hike, but all over there were distractions to keep me from bemoaning the physical activity–namely, merchants. Selling things. All over the place. As we moved closer and closer to Tijuana proper, I felt a creeping sense of déjà vu; the vendors had begun repeating themselves, offering literally the same merchandise as someone else had been selling a few paces back. Children approached us with Chicklets and hope. (Actually, some of them were pretty street-hardened, and barely batted an eyelash when we said “No, thank you.” Or perhaps they weren’t good at English yet.)

I would discover later that the soul of Tijuana clashes brightly with the general feeling of the rest of the country–even the rest of Baja, even the other tourist cities.  Walking through the city, we found block upon block of shops spilling their wares out into the street, selling anything, everything, and cheap–tchotchkes, t-shirts, all manner of decorative items, pharmacies, liquor stores. Restaurants promising excellent dinner deals featuring bad margaritas:  slushy, weak, tasteless, and tiny for all that. Street vendors selling churros and cigarettes. We turned a corner onto a seedy avenue, and I saw my first honest-to-Christ prostitute, framed in a dark doorway and looking out into the street; maybe looking for her next embrace or simply taking a moment to herself, for reflection. The streets brim with the hustle of trying to eke out a living, against the odds and a significant amount of competition.

We ate, we smoked, we walked. I would later remember the sensation of being real among illusions during our first and only trip to Las Vegas, a colorful veneer over down-and-dirty life. This may be what draws me, or what drew me, despite the obvious tourista bent of the city; unlike so many places in America, places crammed with strip malls built to corral the gentry into mindless exchange of cash for goods and services, places that have a false sense of propriety whitewashed over the wildness of human desire, the dirty places, the unkempt, seedy places, have character under the facade. Other places are all facade.

The only hiccup to an enchanted day–crossing back stateside was a nightmare for your faithful blogger. I stood hours in ill-equipped shoes, not a bench or even a likely curb on which I could rest. By the time we crossed back into San Diego, my crankiness level had escalated from “tolerable if sarcastic” to “ready to embark on a five-state killing spree.” My lovely husband put up with my kvetching as only he has the patience to do. I was sour the whole drive home. But I was also in love with a strange and wonderful place, the likes of which I’d never before encountered.