Burning Through XIV – Passport Scanners and a Lumberjack Breakfast

Ensenada before dawn reveals this country's sleepy nature. My lonely walk to the bus terminal on lamp lit streets contrasts the touristy bustle at mid day, now devoid of diesel drenched streets. To my surprise, the 6:00 am border bus fills. As I settle in my seat the driver inserts the first of several videos chronicling 80’s “new romantic” rock. After 25 minutes of Duran Duran vintage bands pounding out spandex stunners, I consider leaping out into the foggy stretch of cliff side highway. This all helps to consolidate my feeling that I truly am done with Mexico.

An orange sun is just rising over Tijuana as we navigate her highways and overpasses. I sit anticipating the border and how I will respond to questions about why I don’t have a tourist permit. The predictable riffs of Spandau Ballet aren’t enough to distract my anxiety. To my surprise the bus trip ends at the Tijuana airport. My protests about promises of transport to the border are met with a blank stare. The driver, white dress shirt, thin Latino mustache and slicked back mullet points to the taxi station. Fifteen US dollars later and I am at US customs, one among the hundreds of Mexican day pass workers heading to San Diego to scrub floors and trim hedges for the wealthy.

I brace as the serious Customs Officer waves me forward. He glances at me then swipes my passport through his scanner saying, “proceed.” Whoosh, I am in the united States of America. I had been imagining this moment since my first pre dawn steps on the bus station tarmac in Tijuana 10 days earlier. I have been creating anxiety raising scenarios since then about what could happen if I am questioned about having no tourist permit.

I sweep past the x-ray machine out of the customs building. Its so clean I feel like I could eat off the sidewalk butting up against the shinny red trolley cars quietly loading to take sleepy passengers to San Diego. Everything seems to hum with precision. I purchase my ticket from a machine with some US dollars I purchased from a rip off money changer 50 paces the other side of the customs officer.

An hour later and I am in an American Denny’s surrounded by a lot of very big people, stuffing down a lumberjack breakfast – 3 thick pancakes dripping with sugary syrup, gobs of bacon, sausage and a giant orange juice – with pulp. Molly my waitress, with the friendly pride you only experience in these united States barks – “I’m right over here honey if y’all need anything.” America the beautiful.