A Gringo's Guide to Crossing the Border

Getting into Tijuana is easier than getting into Applebee's. Getting out of Tijuana is considerably more difficult; and there is rarely a basket of riblets involved.

The only prerequisite to crossing the border to Tijuana is physically being at the border. Short or tall, young or old, fat or skinny, black or white, friendly children's television personality or ruthless terrorist...if you happen to be at the border, feel free to cross into Tijuana.

I park my van in one of dozens of overnight parking lots and follow a steady stream of pedestrians past a large gate and down a crowded but fast moving corridor. Before I know it, I am in Mexico.

Nobody seems to care.

Several hours, hundreds of refused solicitations, and an awkward lap dance later, it's time to return to America. This, it turns out, is not nearly as easy.

To cross back to the other side of the border, I head over a bridge that overlooks the vehicular border crossing. The lanes heading to Mexico are fast and free-flowing. The lanes heading to America are jam-packed and stalled.

I know this is a common occurrence because various vendors are scattered throughout the streets on the busy side. You know when you're stuck on the highway and there's a guy with bags of oranges there? Multiply that guy by twenty and make each vendor ten times more aggressive and you have the Tijuana border crossing experience.

Crossing back on feet is no better. It's a Thursday evening, which can't be one of their busiest times, but the line is backed up several hundred yards. Fortunately, there's several more opportunities to buy food, prescription drugs, and liquor while waiting in the slow-moving line.

When I stand in a long line, I prefer to have a roller coaster waiting at the end of it. Unfortunately, the only part of the experience that resembled a theme park was the border control's use of the "Sleazy Superman No Escape" tactic.

I named this move in honor of the "Superman: The Escape" roller coaster at Six Flags Magic Mountain. I went to Six Flags the first summer after the 41 story 100 mph ride debuted and was thrilled to see that the wait in line looked to be no longer than an hour. Of course, what looked like the beginning of the line was only an entrance to a longer line that wrapped around the inside dozens of times. The park draws the parents in with promises of reasonable lengths only to crush their spirits with hidden waits.

The Tijuana border crossing does the same thing. You wait forever to get into the building, only to find a series of even more lines that resemble an unfriendly airport security check. And this time, there's no roller coaster at the other end, just a uniformed officer with a frown on his face.

Judging by the family in front of me, I might not like the border guard in my line. He is a short Hispanic man with a sullen look on his face. He speaks Spanish to the Mexican family in front of me with gruff tones; the children look scared. Eventually, however, he lets the family pass.

With my passport in one hand and no liquor/drugs/donkey show souvenirs in the other, I feel confident as I approach the guard.

That confidence immediately escapes me when his first question is completely unintelligible.

"Excuse me," I respond quizzically.

He mumbles his question again, and I still can't understand him. Only this time it sounds like really fast Spanish, which would explain why I can't decipher his words.

I hand him my passport and then, as politely as I can say, "No hablo Espanol."

The guard pauses, then looks me up and down.

"Is my English not good enough for you?"

Uh-oh.

"No Sir. It's clearly plenty good. I just..."

"Well it clearly doesn't meet your standards," he grumbles while rolling my passport around in his fingers. "I'm sorry I don't speak English as well as you'd like me to."

"That's not it at all, Sir. I just couldn't hear you the first time and..."

"So I need to be more clear next time? Am I being clear enough for you now? Is my English good enough for you now."

Joe Pesci has nothing on this guy. After staring me down with his best "have fun spending the rest of your days in Tijuana look" for what seems like an eternity, he hands me back my passport and sends me through to America, never cracking a smile.

I'm ninety percent sure I just met the guy with the best sense of humor on the whole border control. The other ten percent of me is just happy to be back in one piece. After all,I wouldn't last one month in Tijuana; I've never been good at saying "no."