LA to The Bay

Chapter 12: Tijuana (1)

Tijuana, Mexico

Crossing in to Tijuana from San Diego is a bit like walking out of a brand spanking new shopping mall car park, all sparkly clean and unused tarmac in abundance, and straight in to the mouth of hell.

As a resident of the United Kingdom, an island nation, I am until now, unfamiliar with a border city, and the differences which may lie on each of its sides. Not that Tijuana is strictly a border city. It is all in Mexico, then there is a line, and then you are in San Diego. But it is the subtlety of the line, as I walk from the USA in to Mexico which means that I could literally have just been wandering back to my car with an arm full of shopping bags after a productive day at the mall, and then boom, it backs to the wall.

'It's not that easy on the way back.' Leah is laughing to herself like she knows what is coming.

To summarise, I am more than a bit intimidated by Tijuana; intimidated by the towering hillside of multi-coloured houses, so packed together that just one laughing tremor of the land will likely cause the whole thing to come crumbling down, leaving no escape route; intimidated by the looming Mexican flag blowing ominously in afternoon heat above the town; but most of all intimidated by the incessant pharmacy employees all badgering us tourists to buy their over the counter supplies of antibiotics and codeine and what other ailment you might need to self-medicate for but never bothered to get a prescription for back home. Oh and of course the strangest looking zebra, adorning nearly every street and shop, the most unlikely mascot of Tijuana.

'You wanna buy some Valium, Miss?' One guy calls to me from the doorway of his shop. Erm, not really, although I could probably do with a good dose right now.

'So this is where we are going to eat.' Leah herds us up to the first floor of a restaurant. We will be sitting at a balcony with a view of the coloured houses. This isn't too bad; I just need to sit down, relax and let the event unfold naturally in a civilised fashion.

'Niamh, come join us!' So she was being serious; Lottie is waving me over to the table where she is sitting, the Models Incorporated and Harry sit on one side, her and Louis are on the other with a seat left vacant between them, presumably for me.

'So how do you like Mexico?' The blonde screeches at me. 'It's awesome, right? I heard the parties are out of this world.'

'It's, erm, different.'

'You mean it's not posh like America and England?' Harry butts in, 'this is what the rest of the world looks like sweetie.' I feel the heat of tears brimming in my eyes again, a result of just the one sentence spoken by Harry to me today, like he is immediately assuming that Mexico is "too real" for me to be able to cope with.

'Imagine Niamh in India. Now that would be funny.' Lottie pipes up, destroying the glimmer of hope I was forming that she might actually have changed; that she might actually be nice. 'I don't think the toilets would suit you, that's all.' She touches my forearm gently, like she isn't being mean at all, that she is in fact trying to look out for me, by saving me from the trauma of exposure to the reality of the world's sanitary conditions.

'So Louis said you've been working this past year?' The blonde is still persisting with starting a conversation with me.

'He did?' I beam at Louis.

'Sure.' He wriggles in his seat awkwardly. Is it really that difficult for him to look at me? Am I actually that disgusting?

'So did you have an internship or something?'

'Erm, not really. I just worked in a shop.'

'Oh, great, what kind of shop? Not Topshop? I love Topshop; it is literally the best thing about the UK.'

'No, it was more a food shop. We sold sausage rolls and Cornish pasties.'

'Oh really...' she is trying her best to remain polite, 'that is so sweet.' I look down at the table, obviously mortified at the horror of selling formed meat pastry goods for a living. I can see that the brunette and Harry are both biting their lips so not to laugh. I suddenly realise that I've never really felt true shame before, I've never had cause to, but right now as the sensation hangs low in my chest, like a cannon ball of melancholy waiting to fire, this is what it must feel like. I am such a loser.

'Here you go guys.' A band of waiters appear, all carrying large wooden trays balanced on their shoulders. A plate of food and a can of Coca Cola is laid out in front of each of us.

'But I didn't order.' I look up at our waiter expectantly.

'There is no ordering. Everyone gets the same; that's the deal.' He glares at me, like the suggestion of selecting food from the menu on a per person basis is the craziest idea anyone ever had. 'If you want to complain, go talk to her.' He points across to Leah, who of course is regaling her table with a hearty tale full of laughter; stories of skinny dipping and sky diving no doubt.

I must assume from the fact that everyone else is just continuing with their conversations that something from space hasn't just landed on their plates, and that the maroon mush plated out in front of me is, in fact, food. And these guys had the nerve to laugh at me over the mention of a sausage roll.

'It's refried beans, dummy.' Harry is shaking his head in disbelief.

'And what am I meant to do with them?'

'Erm, eat them, obviously.'

I gag at the suggestion. 'The only beans I know are baked beans.'

'I bet they are.' Why is he laughing at me? Just what is it about my preference for or against a legume that could possibly be so funny? If I had the nerve I'd go tip the entire plate of the vile stuff right over his head or better still over the spiteful lot of them.

Authors note: This chapter is dedicated to EmWatson1990 for all the votes whilst I was writing.

Please be kind and remember to vote and comment. Love Ally xx