7 am - John shoots up. "Fuck. The street cleaners," he pulls on a pair of crumpled shorts and bounds past the couch I'm curled into, scraping keys off the counter and out of the apartment. Time to move the car. The early morning streets are full of pajamed residents scampering desperately towards their parking spots, hearts racing from the high of this weekly alarm. Meanwhile, across the border, vendors roll by neighborhood roads selling milk, water jugs, tortillas and tamales from carts. Jorge saunters out the door to the sounds of bells ringing and radios playing, the music cheery, the streets dance. See, the San Diego-Tijuana divide is thick, strong and clouded. And so many San Diegans smile, letting their eyes roll up as they reflect saying, " Oh yeah. I forget that Tijuana is right there... huh".
TJ: The sidewalks are cracked but remain solid under our feet. Peering down streets you can't tell the difference between Playas and Pacific Beach. But its the view of the city on the horizon that seems to mark national distinction. Colorful houses dot the rocked hills; no sidewalks but plenty of pedestrians. The beach roars in the background - more grey and powerful than the blue waters of San Diego. Dolphins crawl closer to the shores of TJ; the leopard sharks circle tamely in the waters of La Jolla shores. Pelicans soar casually across Las Playas; sting rays settle in the san diegan sands. So what natural distinction is there? Clearly the wildlife heeds no such divides. But that same distinction is hardly invented - two cities holding hands, pinkies linked across an international boundary. Their conversations slip easily through the mesh netting of the fences, but the cannot kiss or embrace as they may please. This is not a space for conjugal visits, not a traves de la frontera. And it's hard to try and separate the causes from the roots of the divide - which came first: the chicken or the border patrol? The distinction highlighted by the crossing process itself. I follow throngs of people moving quickly through the pedestrian rat maze out of the US. Mexico plated in silver, blocked only by a metal turnstile, lets me slide in with a smile. There is no dam to speak of that could slow this river of cross-border traffic. But coming back is hardly an upstream - more like spending several hours swirling in a Britta filter. The line wraps up and down both sides of the street - 3 pm moves to 4 pm and I still strain my eyes to see the gates. As you move closer to the US entrance, groups of 20 at a time step through every 15 minutes under the watchful eye of the line of border patrol agents. Those with legal crossing cards move left; their line takes even longer than for us foreigners. I shuffle right through security without a hitch: flash a smile, wait for the customs agent to flirt back... the obligatory small talk with la guera in overalls. And i'm back in the states - trucking further north through san diego country, i see the people become whiter, the neighborhoods more charming, even the tattoos take on a more unoffensive feel - artistic colored flowers take the place of territorial cursive brandings. And in no time, i move from one country, one lifestyle to a next, back in mission beach, watching eyes roll up while a curious smile takes form, "oh yeah. I forget that Tijuana is right there... huh."
TJ: The sidewalks are cracked but remain solid under our feet. Peering down streets you can't tell the difference between Playas and Pacific Beach. But its the view of the city on the horizon that seems to mark national distinction. Colorful houses dot the rocked hills; no sidewalks but plenty of pedestrians. The beach roars in the background - more grey and powerful than the blue waters of San Diego. Dolphins crawl closer to the shores of TJ; the leopard sharks circle tamely in the waters of La Jolla shores. Pelicans soar casually across Las Playas; sting rays settle in the san diegan sands. So what natural distinction is there? Clearly the wildlife heeds no such divides. But that same distinction is hardly invented - two cities holding hands, pinkies linked across an international boundary. Their conversations slip easily through the mesh netting of the fences, but the cannot kiss or embrace as they may please. This is not a space for conjugal visits, not a traves de la frontera. And it's hard to try and separate the causes from the roots of the divide - which came first: the chicken or the border patrol? The distinction highlighted by the crossing process itself. I follow throngs of people moving quickly through the pedestrian rat maze out of the US. Mexico plated in silver, blocked only by a metal turnstile, lets me slide in with a smile. There is no dam to speak of that could slow this river of cross-border traffic. But coming back is hardly an upstream - more like spending several hours swirling in a Britta filter. The line wraps up and down both sides of the street - 3 pm moves to 4 pm and I still strain my eyes to see the gates. As you move closer to the US entrance, groups of 20 at a time step through every 15 minutes under the watchful eye of the line of border patrol agents. Those with legal crossing cards move left; their line takes even longer than for us foreigners. I shuffle right through security without a hitch: flash a smile, wait for the customs agent to flirt back... the obligatory small talk with la guera in overalls. And i'm back in the states - trucking further north through san diego country, i see the people become whiter, the neighborhoods more charming, even the tattoos take on a more unoffensive feel - artistic colored flowers take the place of territorial cursive brandings. And in no time, i move from one country, one lifestyle to a next, back in mission beach, watching eyes roll up while a curious smile takes form, "oh yeah. I forget that Tijuana is right there... huh."
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