I’m on the phone right now with the DMV. It’s the last important piece to the puzzle that is putting my plastic life back together. My purse was stolen last night at a club in Tijuana, and with it the plastic cards and IDs that make modern life so much easier. Especially modern life that involves crossing international borders on a daily basis.
The stolen purse was totally my fault, as usual — I pulled the old hide-purse-in-dark-corner-so-I-can-dance move and came back an hour later to find it had been taken. Apparently, people don’t do that sort of thing in TJ. Pinchy gringa. Sometimes my happy-go-lucky nature borders on downright jackassery.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
After we gave up pretending that the purse still might be somewhere in the club, my Mexican friend, my gringo friend and I took a cab home (my keys, along with my driver’s license, Sentri pass and credit cards were also in my purse) and I canceled everything and immediately reapplied for a new Sentri pass. My fellow crossers know that the Sentri pass is as good as gold down here in TJ.
I have spare keys, thank Jebus, but I don’t have a spare key to my steering wheel lock (the lock, actually, is a result of another gringa move I pulled not too long ago). That key is with my ex-boyfriend, who says the key is likely lost. I look forward to the fun of figuring out how to get that damned lock off.
This morning was fun, too — standing in the walking line for two hours then hitchhiking on the side of Interstate 5 to get to my office in Mission Valley (I didn’t have a dime to my name, so the trolley wasn’t an option). Thanks, by the way, to my old neighbor who happened to drive by just a few minutes after my thumb went up in the air. I can’t imagine what she must think of me. Crazy, crazy gringa. Not too far off from the truth, I suppose.
But here’s the thing: I’m still smiling. I had a BLAST last night dancing, watching male strippers, drinking free beer and meeting an immigrant from Ghana who’s working as a bouncer in Tijuana until he can figure out how to cross the border. I still love Tijuana as much as I did before the dreaded moment of realizing my purse was gone. Last night, while I was dancing and flailing my arms and hair about in a way you can only do without a damned purse weighing you down, Tony Tee, the guy who was promoting the club where my purse was stolen, made his way into my dancing sphere and whispered, “I love how much you love Tijuana.”
Who cares about plastic and purses. I’m having fun.