The photos

Maybe I should explain the photos I’ve been posting since none of them go with the things I write about. My friend Ian, a young aspiring filmmaker, had to do a video project for his Spanish class. He came down to Tijuana and we hung out in Chilpancingo, an informal squatter community at the foot of Otay Mesa. Chilpancingo is an amazing place. People have constructed homes, some two or three stories high, out of recycled materials: wood pallets, old garage doors from the US, tires, mattress springs and pretty much anything you can think of.

Some of the homes are beautiful. The people here have also set up their own sewage systems and they’ve hooked wires up to a nearby electric pole. They steal electricity for themselves because the municipality won’t recognize them as a “real” community. There are bridges, churches and stores throughout Chilpancingo. It really is amazing to see the need to live overpowering society’s need of organization and control. The place is chaotic and dirty, but it works.

Anyway, all of the photos, aside from the Mariachi shot, are from Chilpancingo.

Raw sewage can be fun

On Saturday, I drove out to Border Field State Park for a story I was working on. The gate to the park was closed because part of the road was flooded, so I had to walk about a mile in. I took some pics, talked to some people, then snagged a ride with some television reporters from Univision. They were cruising a Prius Hybrid. I told them how impressed I was that they had braved fording the flooded road in their nice little car. One of the reporters laughed at me. “What do you mean,” he said. “Anyone can make it through. It’s just a little puddle.”

I sleep in strange beds

When I go out in San Diego, there’s really no way I’m driving all the way back to Tijuana just to sleep for a few hours then turn around and wait in line for an hour to cross back. This little dilemma has made me somewhat of a couch surfer, only, I pretty much refuse to sleep on couches. I know, I know, it’s kind of pathetic, but yes, I admit it; I’m a 25-year-old woman who enjoys slumber parties.

Girl or guy in bed with me, it doesn’t matter, and it’s not sexual at all. It’s seriously like it was when I was 13. We talk about crushes, we tickle each other a bit then we sleep on opposite sides of the mattress. I wonder if I’ll ever grow up.

Swallowing pride

Yesterday, I was waiting at a red light in Zona Rio watching a family wander through the line of traffic. It was a father, his wife and their two young girls. The dad was holding one of his daughter’s hands, weaving his way through the cars making eating motions towards anyone who would look in his direction. I watched in my rear-view mirror as one sympathetic driver handed the man 20 pesos.

It hurt my heart. Imagine the strength it takes to beg for money in front of your family. He probably would’ve preferred to have been out there alone, but he knew he would fare better with the kids and wife around. Talk about swallowing pride for the greater good. This man just wanted to feed his family.

My man, my city

I see San Diego as an over caffeinated and under-rested man in a freshly pressed suit, constantly twitching and looking for his own reflection in mirrored glass. He likes to be reassured that he’s doing the right thing in the right way, and that he looks good while doing it. San Diego is always busy, always working, always productive and on point. He’s the type of guy I get along with, but never really like. He’s too smooth, too fast talking, too pretty for me and my ratty hair and imperfect skin.

Tijuana is closer to my type. He’s scrubby like me, with holes in his jeans, threads hanging from his worn T-shirt and dirt under his fingernails and maybe even a little hot sauce smeared across his chin. He’s busy, too, almost chaotically so, but he doesn’t drink coffee or wake up at the break of dawn. He rolls out of bed when he wants and gets things done in his own time and in his own way. He’s always trapped in his own mind, trying to figure things out and if he ever does catch a glance of his own reflection, it’s by accident and it scares him. Tijuana doesn’t like to be reminded of the harsh reality of here and now. Tijuana lives in dreams.

Why oh why

My mother sighs every time the subject of where I live comes up. “I just hate having to tell people you live in Tijuana,” she says, time and time again. “Most people ask why you’re living there,” she continues. “I don’t know what to tell them.”

I don’t know what to tell them either, mom. The universe seemed to align, and it was just so easy to move into my Tijuana apartment; I felt I couldn’t say no. Plus, it’s not like living with my sorta boyfriend in a half-converted garage in San Diego was much better. And when me and my sorta boyfriend broke it off, truth be told, I couldn’t afford my own place in San Diego anymore. So I guess the first answer to the “why” question is: It’s all I can afford.

Yesterday, I saw an astronaut

The experimental gallery space next door to me, Lui Velazquez, is working on a project about “Queer Geography,” also known as unused public space. Yesterday, I caught the current resident artist, Lasse Lau, and friends coming back from one of the public workshops they were holding throughout the weekend. One guy was dressed as an astronaut. The upcoming presentation should be pretty interesting.