How To Leave Tijuana With Your Head Intact

Disclaimer: The following blog contains adult situations and both mature and immature themes. It may not be suitable reading material for children, teenagers, or Kirk Cameron fans. The views and opinions expressed in this blog are those of Logan Mosier and are not necessarily reflective of the views of projectmeaning.com and its subsidiaries.


Some of my friends and family didn't want me to go to Tijuana.

For one, they did not think it was safe. For two, they recognized the first reason was a driving force in why I wanted to go to Tijuana.

How could I not want to check out a city that's had tourist issues due to its recent rise in corruption, gang violence, and beheadings? That's just begging for a blog entry, right? I mean, Canada's interesting and all, but violence, drugs, and sex are far more interesting topics than hockey, maple leaves, and congenial political debates; and for a country with such a strong French influence, decapitations are very rare in Canada.

So I am excited to check out Tijuana. After a short drive from San Diego, I park the van in an all-night border parking lot and head for Mexico. The first person to greet me on the other side is a man working for a pharmacia.

Tijuana leads the world in per capita pharmacies. I start to count the number of pharmacies I walk by in the first mile, but I lose track once I start getting well into the double digits. It seems a great deal of Americans cross the border with one thing on their minds: drugs.

And if you happen to cross the border without drugs on your mind, they'll be on your mind soon enough. The store owners in Tijuana take their solicitation very seriously.

"Hey, man. What can I get you?"

"Nothing, thanks."

"We have everything you could imagine."

"I'm just passing by."

"Okay...So you seem like a good guy. How about a beer?"

"No thanks."

"So what do you want?"

"Nothing. I'm good."

"Girls? I can get you girls."

"No thanks. Really, I'm not buying anything."

At this point, the shop owner generally puts his arm on my shoulder and runs off a laundry list of drugs ranging from Percocet to Oxycontin to Viagra to Weed. When I decline again, he asks me about my life, hoping to glean what my interests are to sell me the proper drug.

America prides itself on its capitalist spirit, but Donald Trump has nothing on the average Tijuana street vendor. It takes about twenty minutes to walk half a mile despite doing my best to ignore as many salesmen as possible. Finally, I discover the kryptonite to the Tijuana Superman.

Two simple words:

"Duly. Noted."

I don't know how, I don't know why, but every time I respond to the drug list with "duly noted," the salesmen stop their pitches. Maybe they don't understand the words, maybe it gets across my message clearly, maybe it's the code words for a local street gang to "stay away."

Whatever the reason, it seems to work, and it makes it much easier to walk the streets of the city. Undaunted, I cruise the town with a complete disregard for my new surroundings. I am newly emboldened. Nothing can faze me. Until, that is, I pass a strip club where a man is making a pitch.

"Best place in town," he tells me.

"Not interested."

"You want a beer? We've got beers, girls, everything. Anything you want."

"Duly noted."

Only this time, it doesn't work.

"Just check it out. No pressure. It's free to come in and if you don't like what you see, you can leave. No questions asked."

Well, that sounds reasonable. And I would like to see what the inside of one of these places looks like. It might be good for the blog. Nobody finds the meaning of life by being cautious.

The next thing I know I'm being led up a narrow staircase to a large, dark room. My escort motions for me to sit down and before I can adjust to the darkness, a half naked woman is on my lap, speaking to me in Spanish.

I tell her I actually didn't plan on staying, but she responds with a quizzical look.

"Yo conozco muy paquito Espanol," I tell the scantily clad dancer, who has taken the liberty of starting a grinding motion on my lap while waving over another woman.

"You like buy her drink?" the new woman asks.

Not really. But she has already rubbed her boobs and her...um..bathing suit region in my face. It would kind of be rude not to at this point.

"Um...okay," I stutter as I hand the interpreter some money.

"Don't forget to give for me. This my only mean of income, after all."

I give her more money. As I become more acquainted with my new Spanish-speaking friend, the interpreter returns with a drink, which the girl on my lap doesn't even drink.

How rude, I joke to myself as the woman continues to dance and my wallet continues to get lighter. Meanwhile, the interpreter stands over my shoulder.

"You like a dance upstairs? You suck her titties? Blow job? Eighty dollars? Blow job."

And that's my cue to leave.

I decidedly pass on the blow job. You're not even supposed to drink the water here.

Minutes after leaving the strip club (and after ignoring approximately seven or eight sales pitches from competing strip clubs) I spot a man leading a mule down the middle of the busy sidewalk. The mule looks like a small zebra, but more interesting than that is its presence on a busy street in the middle of a crowded city. I immediately start snapping pictures of the mule, but am interrupted by a voice behind me.


"I respect you man."

"Um...thanks."

"No, seriously, I respect you. Can I get you a beer?"

"No thanks."

"I can get you anything you want. I respect you, man."

"I don't want anything, thanks."

"Muff? I can hook you up with some muff."

"No, man."

"Donkey show? Wanna see a donkey show?"

"I do not."

"How about cocaine? I can get you cocaine and a donkey show. I respect you."

"Duly noted."

And it is duly noted.

If I want prescription drugs, cocaine, muff, and a donkey show, there are plenty of places to go.

But if I want all of those things and a creepy stranger's respect, I'm heading back to Tijuana.