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You are hurtling down the freeway toward the Mexican border, hanging your head out of the window in an attempt to gasp some fresh air to cure your wicked hangover. But the glaring Southern California sunshine and the grumbling of the V-8 engine are only making your headache worse. Last night you made a drunken promise to your best friend, Lani, that you would go with her on her annual trip to Tijuana. Little did you know, she was actually serious. Now you find yourself riding shotgun in Lani's beat up 1970's Mustang, wearing your new Betsey Johnson sundress and the biggest shades you could find. In your hangover haze you figured that if you are going on a Mexican vacation, you might as well do it in style. Looking over at Lani behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette and drinking her third Diet Coke of the morning, you wonder what you've gotten yourself into. You've never been to Tijuana, but it seems like everybody has a story about their bizarre experiences south of the border, and you kind of want one too.
"This is absolutely the best medicine for you," Lani says with conviction. She drags on a menthol cigarette and passes it to you. "Nothing perks you up quite like Diet Cokes and menthol cigarettes in the morning."
"I don't know if this is the best idea," you say, not wanting to hurt her feelings. "I just bought these sandals a week ago and I've heard that Tijuana is not really an open-toe-shoe kind of town."
"Hello! This is the modern world," Lani exclaims. "It's not all burro shit and tapeworms. Tijuana is actually the most-visited foreign city by Americans. It's practically Disneyland, with a shitload of booze, but no scary cartoon creatures. At least, I think there aren't any scary cartoon creatures. I used to go there all the time when I was a teenager. The clubs actually accepted my junior high school ID."
"How come every story I have ever heard about TJ has involved a Mexican prison, donkey shows, and a case of ungodly food poisoning?"
"As long as you don't urinate in public or start a knife fight you are not going to jail. You are forgetting that TJ is a magical place where you can toss a rock in the air and hit a hottie. Everybody goes there to hook up, it's like a never-ending bachelor party."
"Okay, but I don't want to just drink and make out with boys named Pedro -- I am bringing some good shit home," you say. You've always been a shopper at heart, and have heard there are lots of special knickknacks you can buy in Mexico: prescription drugs, fireworks, endangered species...all at bargain prices.
"Oh shit -- fleeing family!" Lani points to a massive yellow road sign with a silhouette of a family dashing across the highway. It reminds you of "deer crossing" signs you've seen. "This means we're close. Beware of fleeing families!"
"Yeah, bitches! You makin' a run for the border?"
An obnoxious SUV full of drunken fratboys have pulled up alongside Lani's car. They are wielding a video camera and hanging out of the sunroof. One of them sticks his tongue out and makes an obscene gesture you have not seen since summer camp.
"Ah, the modern mating call," you sigh.
Lani gives them the finger. "Eat me!" she yells across the highway, laying on her horn. She turns to you with a grin. "Hell yeah. We are going to have thebesttime."
Lani lets you finish the menthol cigarette as the highway signs begin to get bigger and more exciting: "Last Exit to USA," "Border Crossing Ahead," "U-turn to USA." Tijuana is moments away.
"Alright -- here's the deal. We can park on the American side of the border and walk across or we can park over in Mexico," Lani explains. "If we pull over and park here, it's a little pricey, and it's a walk, but the car is definitely safer. And you know I love this car."
"I'm wearing open-toe Prada sandals and just got a pedicure," you say. "Just a note."
"Or, if we park over there, we can be close to the car, drop shit off occasionally, and smuggle large items across the border -- in case you were thinking about investing in anything -- you know, heavy artillery, bobcats," Lani continues, "but the car might get jacked and we should probably kiss the hubcaps good-bye right now."
You toss the menthol out the window and scrounge around in your purse for some Visine. "Fuck -- I'm too hungover to think straight," you sigh, as you glance down at your strappy shoes.
"You decide, princess," Lani grins "'cause I can smell Mexico already!"
If you park in the U.S. and decide to hoof it over the border, turn to page 6.
If you motor across and take your chances, turn to page 8.
Copyright © 2003 by Lilla and Nora Zuckerman
fromTangle in Tijuana
You have decided that you would rather put Lani's car at risk than walk around all day. Besides, you never know when you're going to need a quick getaway...
You are surprised how easy it is to just drive across the border into a foreign country. One would think they would be worried. Hell, you could be carrying secret-weapons plans or something. You mention this to Lani and she just laughs.
"Dude, getting into Mexico is easy. It's leaving that's a bitch. Border guards know that American dollars can buy anything your heart desires. Where do you think I get that kind bud?"
"Bienvenidos a México!"reads the red, white, and green sign that hangs over the multiple lanes of cars and trucks. Suddenly, you're in a sea of humanity. You feel like you're driving into the world's largest swap meet. Vendors swarm around the cars, trying to sell all things cheap and colorful. Lanyards, ceramic monkeys, sombreros, even those ponchos you thought went out of style with Jams in the 1980s. There was an older surfer boy you liked who used to wear one every day that smelled faintly of marijuana and sea salt. Not surprisingly, that is exactly what Tijuana smells like.
"Hey! Stop daydreaming and roll up the window!" Lani screams, "If you don't, somebody's gonna grab your hair, chop it off, and sell it! It happened to my cousin's friend's sister, Iswear."
Lani quickly steers the car toward the highway exit. All the other cars are traveling in a pack together, but Lani was never one to do that type of thing.
"Shouldn't we just follow everyone else?"
"No way. I know a great place to park, and it's totally free."
Lani pulls her car into the worst neighborhood you have ever seen in your whole entire life. And you have been to Detroit. She has to slam on her brakes at one point to avoid a roaming pack of dogs carrying what must have once been a chicken. You are beginning to get the feeling that it has been a long time since Lani has been to Tijuana.
"Check this out! Parking gods have smiled upon us!" Lani pulls her car into a patch of dirt near a rickety shack.
"Uh, I think you just parked in somebody's front yard," you say.
"If this was a yard, it would have grass," Lani says. You want to protest, but she just seems so excited about the whole thing. "Have another cigarette and chill the fuck out. I know what I'm doing, this is prime real estate."
You look around the car for anything you might need in the future. Even the little evergreen-tree freshener seems to look at you and say "don't leave me here all alone, I'm frightened."
You and Lani find that you are really not that far from the center of town. A few quick blocks and you are in the middle of a huge marketplace square. It's overwhelming, people are everywhere.
"So what should we do first?" you ask Lani. It's early and you have the whole day in front of you.
"Breakfast margaritas are always an option," she says with a devilish glint in her eye. "That will knock your hangover the fuck out. Or we can use this sober time to go shopping. You can pick up some supplies, if you know what I mean."
Though you don't really know what she means, you nod like you do.
If you decide that drinking before lunch is not a great idea but that shopping always is, turn to page 13.
If you think that nothing cures a hangover like more booze, perhaps a breakfast margarita is the morning pick-me-up you never knew you needed, turn to page 16.
Anytime is party time in Mexico, right? You have decided to strap one on early and get this fiesta rolling!
"I know this killer place where the margaritas are as perfect as they come," Lani raves as you walk through the dusty downtown streets. "I have done extensive field research, and these are going to be the best damn fruity drinks you've ever had." She turns to you and whispers, "TheyimportAmerican tap water to make their own ice." You try to act impressed.
Around a corner you are suddenly mobbed on the street by dozens of young men shoving flyers in your face. You feel like you are in a swarm of bees.
"Two for one Coronas!"
"Buy one Corona, get two margaritas free!"
"Free tequila for pretty ladies!"
"Buy one margarita, get a free taco!"
You think about that really depressing movie where the guy goes to Vegas to drink himself to death and wonder if Tijuana would have been a more appropriate choice. Lani grabs your hand and shuffles you out of the fray.
"Aahh -- here we are," she announces.
You glance up at a two-level bar that seems to be decorated exclusively with pi±atas and beer signage. "Mamacita's" is painted over the door, directly under a balcony that looks like it could crumble at any moment, crushing the dozens of drunken teens below.
The second you walk through the door, an air-raid-like siren sounds, scaring the living shit out of you. Lights flash wildly. Two large men approach you, and swing you over their shoulders. Suddenly you are upside down, spinning around and then finally deposited at a large booth. Before you can blink, two frozen margaritas are in front of your face.
"I didn't order this," you manage to say, your shock only now subsiding.
"It's like one of those fancy restaurants where they decide what you should haveforyou," Lani answers, between healthy chugs of marg.
You begin to down your margarita -- you have to admit, it's damn good. You both light up, and before you exhale, four Coronas are on the table.
"Free with the drink," Lani explains.
About four margaritas and countless freebies later, you're really beginning to dig the whole country of Mexico. You don't even mind "Who Let the Dogs Out," which has been played about a dozen times. Just as Lani is teaching you to say "suck my cock" in Spanish, your waiter approaches.
"Compliments of Mamacita's," he says, laying down two shot glasses in front of you. "House specialty."
He pours Lani a tequila shot and she downs it like a pro. It's your turn. He pours your shot and --plunk!-- something falls into the glass! "Ahhhhhh!!!" shrieks Lani, "The Worm!" The air-raid siren goes off again, lights blare, the music screeches to a halt, and all eyes are on you.
"What on god's green earth is that?" you ask, as you stare into the shot glass. Floating in your glass is a small, white, emaciated little clump of flesh that had been sitting at the bottom of that bottle for who knows how long.
"The worm," your waiter explains, "is very good luck -- an aphrodisiac -- you must drink it down all at once and you are guaranteed good fortune!"
"You're shitting me," you say. "It's a goddamn earthworm and I wouldn't eat it if I were on an island competing for a million dollars."
"Dude!" exclaims Lani, "You have to do it -- it's a once-in-a-lifetime thing! You might disgrace the bartender if you don't. And you will have thebeststory and bragging rights for years."
"Drink!"
The bar has exploded in chants and cheers. You get a huge adrenaline rush from the chanting crowd and know it's now or never. Youarepretty loaded -- you could drink petrol and it wouldn't faze you. You pick up the glass, your slimy little friend floating inside...
"Eat the worm!"
If you decide to throw all sense and reason out the door (and isn't that why you are in Mexico?), throw that little sucker down the gullet and turn to page 185.
You cannot muster the strength or will to actually eat the worm. Who cares if you disgrace the bar? It is disgraceful to serve you, a paying customer, a worm. Put down the glass and turn to page 93.
Excerpted from Tangle in Tijuana by Lilla Zuckerman, Nora Zuckerman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
