Tijuana 2023, Part One

I. Lambert O.G.
II. Terminal Comet.
III. No shirt, no shoes, no problem.
IV. Let Me Fall Asleep in San Diego.
V. Beach Bums.
VI. 940 Dennery.
VII. Hacienda.

I. Lambert O.G.

Now I will walk from one end of the airport to the other. 

And this is what I did, four times out and four times back, Lambert Airport Terminal 1, July 22, 2023, a Saturday morning. 

The terminal was uninhabited toward the end, a gate for Spirit Airlines (SAVE) down there at the very end, kiosks and vending machines locked up, covered with loose black cloth.

After a while, a few other people started to find their way down there. I say, I’m on the plane now headed to Dallas-Fort Worth, cruising altitude. The plane is full and I’m hungry. Next time I need to get the aisle seat on the left-hand side of the plane. Armrest logistics. I’m right-handed trying to write and I’ve got a sturdily built woman’s left arm loitering along the armrest I need to land my right arm on in order to write on a plane.

My ears itch. I liked wandering the old Lambert Terminal, the original one. Brought back memories, even being dropped off out there took me back to flying out of that terminal with my family, when I was younger. Inside, the terminal has seen better days. There are leaks from above in multiple spots. I’m not sure if the leaks are coming from the roof or from HVAC ducts but there were plastic troughs placed on the floor beneath each leak, the troughs wrapped in black plastic bags in an attempt to catch and hold the leaked liquid. Some of these troughs were smack dab in the middle of the concourse, causing some traffic bottlenecks, especially when those trams ferrying passengers to their gates go whizzing by.

To walk down to the far end of the C gates took about fifteen minutes. Lookout, drinks cart just came down this narrow aisle. Watch your elbows, knees, and shoulders, please. Too late. The cart caught a bit of my left shoulder. Between the lady taking the armrest to my right and getting bumped by passengers, flight attendants, and the drinks cart on my left, I have nowhere to go and nowhere to be on this plane. 

But there’s the smell of coffee and I want some. Peanuts would be a nice touch. If I allow myself to get really, truly hungry, just about any kind of food sounds good. I didn’t want to eat anything substantial before getting on this flight. I didn’t want to chance my stomach not being “on board” with a BLT early in the day. I was a little nervous as I was leaving. B dropped me off; Hugo was in the back seat. I’ll be gone seven nights. That’s a long time. Feels like it, anyway. 

University City, the suburb of St. Louis where we live, was inundated by heavy rains this time a year ago, and I was in Tijuana. Some parts of the city suffered from serious flooding. I’ve been away plenty of nights between now and then, but never for more than a few nights at a time. I don’t take my departures as lightly as I used to. I like getting away but I don’t like being gone.

Some of the restaurants in the terminal were doing decent business. Starbucks, of course. The first of two had a constant line. The second one, further down the terminal, wasn’t as busy. Not everyone goes down that far. I was worried about having to pee on the plane so I didn’t get anything. I think I can make it to DFW; it’s really not a long flight, this first leg of my two-part flight to San Diego. A pit-stop, the only upside to having a connection.

The Chilis at Lambert had the most patrons. Business was slow but was picking up at Kingside Diner, as I walked by again and again. A smaller joint selling wraps was deserted for a while, but it eventually began to draw interest before I boarded. The Schlafly bar had a good crowd partaking. I would have loved to drink a beer, if I weren’t about to get on a plane.

The coffee has landed. I used to love drinking coffee on a plane. Catching that black coffee buzz. Especially on a night flight, the lights blinking below. Unfortunately, the only food offering is a Biscoff cookie-biscuit. I’ve had them before; they’re OK.  I wanted something with a little salt. I should’ve brought some nuts. Some salty almonds, peanuts, and cashews. Hazelnuts if you must, but I’d really rather not.

The woman next to me has covered herself in a shawl. Her and her husband are talking low, laughing, guffawing. Inside joke. I’m leaning out into the aisle. The shawl is Liz Claiborne brand, which used to be one of my mom’s favorites. Coffee empty, shoulder clipped by stewardess. Descent in 15 minutes, touchdown in 10. I should’ve brought some David Foster Wallace to read in DFW. Alas.

II. Terminal Comet.

We are about halfway from DFW to San Diego. Drinks are free in this ‘Main Cabin Plus’ part of the plane but I ordered another black coffee. I don’t need to start drinking yet. What’s the point of one tiny vodka on the rocks, anyway? There will be plenty of time for that later.

I turned on the overhead light for my seat. The switch was hard to reach, and I have long arms. I guess I needed to flip it on when I took my seat, before my plane neighbors sat down, so I wouldn’t be reaching across them. I’m on the aisle again, but on the left side of the plane. It should be better. The guy with the window seat was just standing there in the aisle, waiting for me to read his mind. If you need me to get up, you’re going to have to ask me. For all I know, the guy could have been looking for overhead space to place his carry-on. 

I’m pretty much against carry-on luggage but most people have one. Some carry-on “bags” are so heavy their owners cannot even lift them up high enough to get them into the overhead bins. I like the aisle seat but I’m like a buoy on the waves out here. Bump me, bump me, bang my shoulder, I live for this. One of the stewardesses cannot get by me without hipping my shoulder out of the way. 

Every time I fly I ask myself why I didn’t just shell out for a first class ticket. But then I hear the sounds of the silverware coming from first class and I know. They’re so smug up there in first class with their cushy, comfy, roomy seats. With their in-flight meals. I don’t fit in the main cabin but I don’t see myself among the first class elite, either. I just don’t like to fly. Once a year, maybe twice. Short flights!

I haven’t popped my headphones in yet. I was working on a sudoku. The solution took me a while, parts of both flights. But I love sudoku, the mental gymnastics. It’s a great way to pass the time on a flight. I cracked that last puzzle through sheer drudgery. I never felt like I understood why the solution was what it was. I suspect I am still missing the essence, the elegance of sudoku. I was making lots of process of elimination marks on the paper. I solved the puzzle but I did not intuit the answer. That’s next level. I’m just a hack.

The guy with the window seat raised the shade so it is suddenly, welcomely much brighter. About an hour to go. No longer hungry. Should be good on the bathroom front. I plan to take a Lyft to my hotel from the airport. I disliked my taxi experience leaving the San Diego airport last year. This flight is due in at 3 pm local time. I need to stop in at a CVS or a Target to shop for Lifesavers and Pringles. For my Secret Pal bag. And I need to find myself a good pee bottle for the tent, plus a little extra water to have on hand for tomorrow, when I rendezvous with the rest of the group at the airport. 

We’re all going to Tijuana to build a very basic house for a family there. We drive over the border in rental vans before arriving at a camp on the eastern outskirts of town run by a non-profit organization called Amor Ministries. The group I’m meeting is affiliated with a church in Burlingame, CA. The erstwhile husband of my wife’s sister is the head minister there. He hooked me up with this trip for the first time in 2018. I remain grateful to him; this will be my fourth time doing the trip.

The Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, aka DFW, was crowded, even cramped in places. There was a portion of the C Terminal that was newer and brighter, toward the end. There weren’t many people down that way. It’s a big airport. I was walking around to pass the time, and to get some exercise. I had several viable food options. McDonald’s, Chick-fil-a, one place that had some sushi on offer, another with an Asian noodles theme. Or I could’ve sat down at Pappadeux’s, for some Cajun flavor. 

Ultimately, I opted for Shake Shack. I ordered a double burger and a side of fries, all of which I annihilated in about three minutes. The burger was a little crispy; it’s that so-called “smash-burger” style. The bun was good; I would’ve liked an onion on the burger. The fries were crinkle-cut. I was satisfied, even happy. Seventeen dollars, which sounds about right for a decent lunch at an airport in 2023. They were doing plenty of business.

After I ate, I resumed my walk, to help the food settle. I went back down toward the end of the C Terminal, for the openness, for the quiet, for the light. A guy slowly jogged past me in loafers, made his way up to one of the gate desks. They had been calling his name on the loudspeaker but he was too late. The door to that gate had closed a few minutes earlier. The plane was still there but the accordion-like connector had been retracted. He was told to go back to gate 25 to see customer service. 

I was walking back that way once I had reached the end of the terminal, the edge of the airport’s solar system. No choice but to turn around, like a comet being pulled back in the direction of the sun. Up ahead I could see a long line of people. They seemed out of place down there in that relatively sparse section of the terminal. They weren’t lined up to board and they weren’t waiting for sandwiches from Chick-fil-A. No, they were queued up at C25, Customer Service. The last place in an airport anyone wants to be.

III. No shirt, no shoes, no problem.

Dateline San Diego. The part of the city called Ocean Beach. I have stumbled into what must be the best view I’ve ever had from a hotel room. The ocean, the surf, surfers, a long pier, boats, palm trees, happy people. The sound of the surf, the smells of taco joints and of burning reefer. A bachelorette party, motorcycles, a party bus that doubles as the Taco Tour Bus. Lifeguards taking down hazard signs. The sun setting on San Diego. 

Still a few surfers in the water. Some families, several bums, a few junkies, the odd motorcycle gang. A street singer crooned out “Folsom Prison Blues” earlier. Now, “Moondance.” Seagulls, stairs to the pier, a parking lot constantly turning over while also perpetually full. Free parking, four-hour limit. Dogs, so many dogs. Tourists, locals, line blurred between the two. Case in point that surfer with the Chicago Bears hat.

It’s probably going to get annoying here when the sun goes down but right now I’m enthralled. Sliding door open, balcony with a view, sun glinting off the sliding surf. I can see the ocean through the keyhole of my door.

Later. I have been out to Target, albeit to a smaller version of their traditional big-box store. Then I went to Krisp’s Foods. They also have a location in downtown San Diego, to which I’ve been several times. You can get just about anything at Krisp’s. Then I went to Mike’s Taco Stand. I had one mixed seafood taco (fish and scallop…no shrimp?) and one straight fish taco, probably mahi mahi. I bought three more tacos, which are now in the fridge. Those’ll be tomorrow’s breakfast and brunch. 

Unfortunately, I failed to find what I consider to be the prototypical i.e. standard, classic, sine qua non Lifesavers. My Secret Pal has asked for them and I intend to deliver. Gummy Lifesavers will not do. Mint Lifesavers are not acceptable. 

I’ve had a couple of California’s finest libation, i.e. Bear Republic’s Racer 5 IPA. That beer and this ocean? What more could I ask for? As soon as I write that, pang: Brook and Hugo. I miss them. A motorcycle pops and revs, weaves in and out of the crowded parking lot. I would not want to be in a car down there. This place is like San Diego’s take on the French Quarter. Now there’s a chorus of car horns. Autos stacking up.

People wade into the ocean as the sunlight softens to orange. Parents with kids. It makes for a good photo but it’s more than that. Skateboarders, bikers, cyclists, old vehicles, fancy new ones, cars missing their front end, SUVs packed with surf boards, dogs craning their necks out the window.

No shirt, no shoes, no problem. Driving home barefoot from the beach in an old Ford Ranger, two surfboards hanging out the back. I need to record some spending. American Airlines bag, $30. Shake Shack, $17. Lyft, $26. TGT, $28. Krisp’s, $48. Mike’s Tacos, $43 or $44. Room tip, $10.

What seek we
those of us who wish
to be legitimate but
better ways to spend
our time?

Winding down in Ocean Beach. ”My time” it’s 11:30 p.m. Here, just half past nine. I am reading Charles Wright in bed, aloud. It’s part of my practice, if I’m doing it right. Practice? You talkin bout practice? It’s been the best way for results, enough bread crumbs to make a trail. Me, reading poems aloud wherever I am, a heartbeat, a signal past the void.

IV. Let Me Fall Asleep in San Diego

They were setting fireworks off down on the beach. There was a bonfire. The voice of Whitney Houston boomed from a a car radio, the bass rattled the speakers, the sun sank. Then the music stopped, a fire truck appeared, and Venus rose like a mad star in the west.

22:25. I’ll try to sleep soon. I drank all of the Racer 5. One an hour for six hours. I’m tired. There has been some noise—a disturbance—from and through the wall of the room next door. Unhappy fella complaining to whoever else is in the room. I have resorted to headphones to block out the noise.

My compatriots’ flight from Burlingame gets in much earlier tomorrow than I realized. Dan texted me. If that flight really gets here at 8:05; and if Frank is also rolling by at that time (to take us to the rental car branch), then might we be getting to the rendezvous point at 940 Dennery with hours to spare? Might we get through the border and into camp unprecedentedly early? We might.

I don’t have anything else important to do tomorrow morning, anyway. I have tacos for food, I have in-room coffee. I might be calling a Lyft as soon as 7:30. Nothing will be open before then. I can always look for the Lifesavers at the Von’s or the Walmart once we get to Dennery, the big shopping plaza where we meet up with reps from Amor Ministries, the not-for-profit that hosts us in Tijuana.

I am still excited to lie here with the balcony door open, the sound of the waves ceaselessly coming through. I will try to nod off here then. Let me fall asleep at least a few more nights in San Diego.

V. Beach Bums.

Well, I made it the whole night with the balcony door left open. That was a good test, last night. There was a lot of noise, all the way through the morning. Inside, outside, next door. The sound of skateboards, their wheels in scraping revolution. Cupping, thumping, hopping a curb.

There is one surfer in the water, two more headed down there now, 5:54. And a fisherman with his rolling cart of tackle. At first he seems to be going the wrong way, away from the beach. But then he makes his way up the alley ramp, which ties in with the walkway leading to the pier. Pier fishing!

There is not much surf out there now. Quiet. Someone was strumming a guitar, quite pleasantly, throughout the four o’clock hour. Right below my balcony. It was bliss.

Now a dog is running along the beach, loving life while its owner records the scene on their cell phone. Now the dog is chasing a seagull.

Then there’s this eclectic group of beach bums. Do they live out of cars in the parking lot? Are they dealing drugs? They seem to be knit into some loose fabric that hangs about the place. Men and women, some shabbily dressed. Cut-offs, hoodies, baggy clothes. They are set up along a low wall that runs parallel to the edge of the beach. They were there yesterday, there at first light today, presumably there all night. What exactly do they do? Grift? Panhandle? Is it a collective?

One of them, thin and black with a bright orange hoodie has off-and-on been picking up trash in the parking lot with a grabber tool. Another guy, wearing a red hat and accompanied by a dog, picked up something else and put it in a trash can. Is this their deal with the police? Keep the lot clean and you can loiter?

Another fisherman wheels a cart replete with rods and other tackle up the alley ramp, headed for the pier. It’s cloudy, cool. Smell of grilled fish. The couple in the room next to me had a bad night. Initially, I could hear the guy’s voice coming through the wall. It had a certain tone. My voice has sounded like that at times, though not recently.  Full of shit and worry. Storm clouds swirling above. Probably some alcohol involved. They must have gone out after that but returned separately. Because at 1:30 he was out in the hall, banging on their door.

“Elise, come on, let me in! I just want to talk.”

I was able to slough it off, sleep through it. I don’t think she let him in; not then. No sign of them now. Where do they go, the people of the night?

Ocean Beach. It’s a hot-rod, make some engine noise at 3 am kind of a place. Not exactly my thing. Small doses. But even with my door open, the street noise largely melted together, became background. Sitting out here this morning I have already caught an early whiff of weed. I could get a contact high just sitting out on this balcony for a few hours. I am downstream of someone’s kush and coffee and I don’t mind.

Could the source be my balcony neighbor, as yet unseen? I couldn’t tell if anyone was in the room on the other side of me, which shares the adjoining balcony. Never saw anyone over there, never heard anyone over there. But maybe now I have smelled their exhale, a mere ten feet away. Maybe they open their sliding door and blow smoke quickly out? Or maybe it’s someone sitting and smoking on a balcony below me. Maybe it’s the guitarist. 

I’m not going to be here much longer before I call a Lyft and head back to the airport. These Sunday mornings in San Diego have been peaceful. Sound of the surf never hurts. 6:55a.

VI. 940 Dennery.

These days get away from me. I’m in the Home Depot parking lot in one of our rented mini-vans. This van, the one I’ll be driving, is a Toyota Sienna with 86,400 miles. I got excited when I looked at one of the tires (driver’s side, rear) and saw a Michelin Defender tire there. Then I realized there’s only 2/32 worth of tread left on it. When a tire is worn to that point, it needs to be replaced. 

Then I walked around the vehicle and noticed that none of the four tires match. This van had less than a quarter-tank of gas in it when we got it. One of the other two vans we rented was on empty. We had to go get it filled before we could even get on the highway to head down here. I realize that it’s cheaper to rent vehicles at an off-airport site, but these are some questionable rental vehicles. Is it worth it? 

Car Rental Help Center. That’s what the place is called. It sounds like a made-up name, almost a joke. The guy was nice. They were short-staffed. We had to fill out a fair bit of paperwork on account of taking the vehicles to Mexico. I felt bad for the woman in line behind us.

I’m hanging out while the group is here or there in this Dennery Road shopping center. Panera, Paradise Buffet, McDonald’s in the Walmart. I ate my last remaining taco, the so-called Tijuana taco: steak and beans. Not bad. Then I ate a few handfuls of almonds. Drank water from what will be my pee bottle (it first contained grape juice). So far it’s just me and a new guy named Peter in this van. I guess we’ll add a couple more people; I’m not sure. I wait and I see.

Believe it or not, it’s raining here and it has been for an hour. Not hard. Light but steady. A drizzle. We haven’t seen much drizzle in St. Louis. I like a drizzle. This is the part of the trip when I’m wishing I had another night or two in San Diego. Then I careen from that wish to wishing I didn’t have to leave B and Hugo behind for such a long time. I’ve got some anxiety, is what I’m trying to say. I’ll feel better when we make camp.

It is very convenient to have a Home Depot parking lot be our rendezvous point. I had plenty of time to go in and get what I needed. Frank had read my blog post about last year’s trip. I was talking about flying with far fewer tools; buying what I needed at Home Depot when I got to San Diego. He said he sent me a reply but I never got it. Did it go to my junk mail? 

In his message, he told me to pack light. He drives his Ford truck dubbed “Big Blue” across the border; brings along a bunch of tools including extras and lost-n-found items from past trips. But I didn’t want to depend entirely on pulling from his extras so when I went into this Home Depot I bought a 16-inch hammer (smooth-faced), a saw, a pair of pliers, and a small tape measure. I figured a small tape measure would be better for making measurements when I’m cutting shorter pieces of wood for birdblocks and fireblocks. I also picked up a couple of cheap brushes, for tar work.

Then I went and filled up the tank on this Sienna. Not cheap. I went inside the gas station store in search of a roll of the original, hard-candy Lifesavers. Negatory. Then I found a sack of what I presume are individually wrapped OG Lifesavers in the Von’s grocery store at the other end of this sprawling plaza. Then I drove back over here and went back into Home Depot to use the restroom.

VII. Hacienda.

Safely now we are tucked away at camp. It’s warm. The border crossing was a little different; more involved. They wanted us all to get out of the vehicles and walk through the customs checkpoint. We never had done that before, not in my time.

They wanted the Entrada portion of our FMME forms. Then we had to perform a perfunctory act. We could leave almost all of our luggage behind in the vans but we each had to bring one bag with us through the checkpoint to send through an X-Ray. Good bag, bad bag. I’ll take the good bag through. In this case my fanny pack, which went through the scanner and down the conveyor belt, airport-style. When my bag came through I stood there for a moment. I was waiting for someone to tell me I was OK, or my bag was. But they weren’t going to do that. They would only have said something if there were a problem. Get your bag and go, mochila adios.

Otherwise the cross was uneventful. We took the toll road. Cuota. Follow the signs for Tecate. 151 pesos. What is the exchange rate? We discussed it in the van, which filled up, by the way. In addition to Peter, there’s Doug, Tim, and Wade. Tim and Wade are father and son…

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Check back here in a week or two for the second installment of Tijuana 2023…