The first road trip story
Having visited all of the hot spots around LA and San Diego (Muscle Beach, Six Flags, a few surfing spots- we are terrible surfers), Zack and Aaron decide the first Friday night of the trip should be spent in Tijuana. This decision is entirely keeping in mind Aaron’s Father’s two rules for this vacation:
1. Drive safely
2. Do not go to mexico.
On top of that, we each called home the second night of the trip, joking that we were already in mexico, despite strict ultimatums against, and were not being allowed back into the united states because we lacked proper identification. Man, that woulda sucked. Neither father thought these phone calls were humorous, by the way. We thought it was funny as hell.
We happen to be staying at Vera & Jim’s, Aaron’s cousins, in San Diego, about 40 minutes from the border. Vera is a bad jew about the age of Aaron’s father, and Jim is a straight-outta-texas redneck landscaper with a big-ass pickup truck. Jim offers his advice on tijuana, out of Vera’s earshot:
Jim: “You’re gonna wanna get your coke from the cab driver, he’ll have the best deal for you guys. Make sure you do some before you drive home in the morning, I don’t want you guys falling asleep at the wheel. Now are you guys gonna be looking for mushrooms?
Zack: “Uh, do they have Absinthe in Mexico?”
Jim: “not that I’ve seen, but if you’re lookin for hallucinations, you’ll want the mushrooms. Well, get the mushrooms or some acid for a more visual trip. If you’re lookin for a more sensual, emotional one, you’re gonna want the peyote. Oh and make sure you wear a raincoat.”
That was all said with the thickest Texan accent known to man. Meanwhile, Vera gives us her own advice, out of Jim’s earshot:
“I’ma tell you the same thing I told my kids- If you get thrown in jail, I ain’t gonna bail you out. Don’t waste your phone call.” Fair enough.
Acknowledging that Vera and Jim have given us three nights of room and board, we offer to take them out to dinner. They opt for a sushi bar. We are strangers to the idea of a sushi bar, but, seeing as this is the trip of doing what we’ve never before done, we accept.
Sushi is not a meal. It is an appetizer. We don’t care how much of it you order. It was like sitting down for hoers’ de’diorves for an hour straight. Sushi, sashimi, and all that stuff was unfilling, plate after late. Just not an efficient way to eat. We go to pick up the check and thank them for their hospitality. The bill reads $130. Fuck sushi bars. Vera & Jim head home from the sushi bar, and we head for the border. It is already 11:30pm. Holy shit, we’re going to mexico!
Here are a few fun facts about Tijuana. Some of this we knew going in, some we found out there. It all makes for great foreshadowing:
-They’ve gone through three mayors in the last three days. They’ve each been assassinated.
-If there’s a traffic accident, all occupants of each vehicle involved are arrested.
-Cash is the only way out of jail.
-Drinking age is 18.
-It’s California’s social equivalent of Windsor.
We stop at the last highway exit before mexico, with intentions of parking there and walking across the border. Now, when one goes to Canada, “walking across the border” is a euphemism for “show three forms of ID, prove you were born, answer a dozen questions, and maybe get a pat-down.” However, when one goes to mexico, “walking across the border” is just that. In fact, going to mexico is exactly like leaving a baseball stadium: push through the turnstile, avoid those begging for change, and grab a cab.
And so we did. Holy shit, we’re in Tijuana. What a vacation.
We head for the cluster of about twenty cab drivers, and, following Jim’s advice, take the first cab to accept the offer of $5 to ‘La Revolucion.’ La Revolucion is where all of the Americanized clubs and bars are. (It should also be noted that, now that we think of it, we walked around all night referring to the place as ‘La Revolucion,’ while the Mexicans would always answer with “Revolution?” We never really paid attention.) We get in the cab, and the driver floors it.
This driver has got to be so coked up, the crack will no longer dissolve in his bloodstream. He is literally honking at every car and swerving around police cruisers. But he’s not cussing out the window and giving the finger, no, no, no. He’s got work to do:
Driver: “You guys want tittybar?” he tosses a few naked-lady flyers to us in the backseat.
Aaron: “No, we just want to go to La Revolucion.”
Driver: “This a nice place, right by Revolution, guys! It’s Obsession, got the finest girls in Tijuana!”
Zack: “No thanks, we really just need to go to La Revolucion.”
Driver: “No cover guys cuz you were brought by me I’ll take you there. Great tittybar.”
Before we can respond to that, he cranks up the rap music on the cab’s touch-screen radio. It’s the first cab we’ve ever seen to likely have subwoofers in the trunk. He’s still driving like Aaron’s grandmother (for those who don’t know, Aaron’s grandmother has been pulled over for going 90 in a 65 twice since she’s turned 80), and slows down for nothing. We get to the Obsession parking lot, because the cab is obviously compensated by the club for each guest he brings in, and the driver puts the pedal to the metal in celebration of no oncoming traffic. He squeals around a corner in the lot, and, oh shit, there’s a lot attendant standing right in our path.
When this occurs in the US, two things inevitably happen:
1. The car will slam on the breaks.
2. The person in the road will be allowed to stare/yell at the car.
Apparently, when this occurs in Mexico, these two things inevitably happen:
1. The car makes absolutely no effort to decelerate
2. The person in the road will run the fuck out of the way.
In our case, the parking lot attendant ran and then dove in between two parked cars, and the cab probably accelerated, even though he was letting us out 15 feet later. By the way, this was not a very large parking lot. For reference purposes, it was about the size of the lot at Greene’s Hamburgers in Farmington Hills. We get out of the cab, pay our coked up driver, and get the hell away from Obsession. It’s off to the clubs for Aaron and Zack.
The following is a list of things shouted at us by people in the streets:
-“Pussy and booze! Pussy and booze! What else could you need?”
-“Whorehouse whorehouse whorehouse!”
-“Come in my club boys hottest club in town the finest girls!”
It should probably be mentioned here that not a single one of these people looks remotely clean. In fact, most were downright sleazy- we’re talking slicked back hair, goatee the size of a brick, and a suit that’s far too large. Most are even coming right up to us on the sidewalk, putting their arms around us, and forcibly steering us towards their respective business. On top of all of that, they are promising us sex and alcohol from EMPTY buildings. We know an empty bar/club when we see one, and they are not fun.
We end up at a populated but not crowded club, Animale. There is no cover charge, and we are ready to begin inebriating ourselves. Zack orders four Kamikazes, under the theory that shots are the way to start. Before the waiter returns, we are rushed by a maniac with a whistle and a bottle of Jose Cuervo. Fuck yeah.
While blowing his whistle repeatedly, he grabs Zack by the chin, tilts up, and dumps tequila down his throat. He even wipes his face with a potentially very filthy towel. Nevertheless, Zack is exuberantly happy. “Get Aaron! Get Aaron!” Aaron receives the same treatment, and now we both are exuberantly happy. All is right in the world.
“Alright that’ll be $5 each.”
What the flying fuck??? Isn’t this one of those deals where the club gives out a little free liquor to encourage you to spend more, no obligation? Shouldn’t we know the drink costs money before they pour it down our throats? All is wrong in the world.
Aaron: “$5 each? Are you kidding?”
Zack: “You didn’t even give us a full shot.”
Maniac pours much more tequila in each of our mouths. We each fork over $5.
Maniac: “No tip?”
Fuck this guy. We each give him another dollar to go away. Waiter returns with four drinks. Not shots, drinks. Apparently, in mexico, the like their shots very big. Before we drink, the waiter asks us a very important question:
Waiter: “You guys wanna pay now or later?”
Us: “Umm… later.”
We each drink 2 kamikazes, while watching unsuspecting patrons get fucked by that maniac with the whistle. We also notice that this is not our scene. There are maybe ten people on the dance floor. This club sucks. Waiter returns to cash us out, so Zack orders two Long Islands. Needless to say, we are not paying for these drinks. Waiter returns, we again tell him we’ll pay later, and he goes off to take another order elsewhere.
We grab our drinks and run for the door. Luckily, the alcohol has yet to set in. We walk back down the Revolucion strip of partially dilapidated buildings with drinks in hand. One of those streetside club promoters grabs us, claims that open containers are not allowed in the streets, and we should seek refuge in his strip club before the police see us. Oh, and there’s a $10 cover. Fuck this guy. However, we later let our guard down just long enough to be led back to Obsession. Shit.
To his credit, the doorman at Obsession actually was cleaned up, along with his accent. Nonetheless, he has a job to do: get us into that strip club. Keep in mind that Zack and Aaron have absolutely no interest in paying women to be interested in them, and never will. Because we’re two ‘nice looking guys,’ we are offered free admission. We decline.
We are then offered, in addition, 2-for-1 beer. We decline.
We are then offered, in addition, 2-for-1 tequila. This guy can’t take a hint.
For some reason or another, we end up inside the Obsession anyway. Don’t ask, we’re not really sure how it happened either. Upon entry, we are immediately consumed by smoke. Looking around, we conclude that all of the men there at least 50, and for some reason believe that the strippers are interested in more than their money. The strippers are eye-catching, scantily clad, and there is not a smile among them. Nobody in this room is enjoying themselves.
The waiter seats us and prepares to take our drink order, and then, out of nowhere, a stripper reaches in and starts rubbing Zack’s face. Zack and Aaron make an immediate eye contact with eachother, get up, and bolt for the door. Another stripper grabs Aaron’s ass on the way out. Yes, we went to a strip club in Tijuana, and stayed for nearly two full minutes.
As we rush outside, Mr. Negotiator asks us, “What? It just wasn’t the mood?”
It is now around 1:30am, and we head for the next club- “?” That’s the name of the club. We figure it’s a sure thing because there is plenty of line to get in. There’s a $15 cover that includes an open bar, and a pat-down. Sounds like a real club.
We get inside after waiting in line, and the place is fucking empty. Not a damn person there. Just loud music. As we begin to mourn the loss of our collective $30, a few people walk right past us, directly to a stairwell. Club’s upstairs, dumbasses.
So this must be where they keep all of the people! We bolt for the bar, checking the place out. There’s not a single white person to be seen. We are a minority, and by a spectacular margin. That’s not of immediate importance; actually- there’s no way that cover is refundable, and we must get our money’s worth in drinks.
Time passes, and we just drink more, hit the dance floor, drink some more, more dance floor, and so on. Sadly, neither of us has been known to EVER have successfully wooed a woman with our dance moves. Our luck changes when we finally see some white girls. Even better, they’re from Michigan.
Aaron is dancing with Adrian, Zack is dancing with Bri. Aaron is feeling the alcohol much, much more than Zack. Bri is feeling Zack much, much more than Zack. This is about to get interesting.
While Aaron is dancing with Adrian, a Mexican guy, about a foot taller than Aaron, attempts to cut in. Aaron, suddenly recalling the pain and embarrassment of having his dances cut into during the bar mitzvah parties of the seventh and eighth grade, and also demonstrating unbelievably poor judgment, refuses to let big scary Mexican cut in. Aaron has fought too long tonight to get a single dance, and this overwhelmingly muscular oaf is not about to cut it short.
While Zack dances with Bri, he takes note Aaron’s struggle to hold his ground. He also takes note of big mexican’s two big friends. Aaron is drunkenly oblivious to these friends, and continues to fight for the dance. The fighting consists of nudging, hip checks, and the occasional elbow. Zack marvels at the size of Aaron’s balls, and reluctantly prepares for the potential fight when all three Mexicans go after Aaron. Big Mexican starts talking to Aaron, amidst the noise of the club.
Mexican: “Man, you her bodyguard?”
Aaron: “You her date?”
Before anything goes down, Adrian saves Aaron’s ass. She tells him that she wants him to dance with her friend, who currently has nobody to dance with. How can Aaron not accept? The friend is obviously not enjoying herself, and coincidentally is not attractive in any way. Hooray for booze. (Quick question to all girls reading this: when you go out to clubs or parties, do you ever intentionally bring an ugly friend just in case you need to dump a guy you’re not interested in onto?) Zack is now relieved that he doesn’t have to fight three Mexicans for Aaron.
Time passes, and now it all gets a little fuzzy. The next specific thing that happens is Zack suddenly sees Aaron dancing with a HUGE black girl. Not fat huge, like seven-feet-tall huge. Then bam! She disappears after 60 seconds. Weird shit. Also, this guy Marco we met there asked us to join him at his villa for the after party. Wait a second. It’s 4:30 in the morning, we’ve been at a club all night, and this guy expects us to go to an afterparty? No less, at his villa in Tijuana? Is he fucking serious?
Unfortunately, none of that matters, because Aaron discovers that his wallet has been stolen. From his front pocket. Not good. Aaron had cleaned out his wallet prior to leaving the car, so all that is missing is a credit card, his driver’s license, and small cash. This would not be a huge deal, except that the license plays an integral role in getting Aaron back into the United States. For all intents and purposes, it’s a fucking golden ticket home.
Aaron tells Zack of this grave misfortune, and everything stops. Zack literally just throws Bri aside. None of the bartenders have gotten a lost wallet, neither has the DJ. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. We hop in a cab to the border at 5am. We still don’t have a plan.
This news is enough to sober up Zack instantly, and make Aaron wish he could. He is only able to conjure up one scheme to smuggle himself back into the US. There really is a beautiful irony to that, and we hope you all appreciate it.
The plan is Zack will cross the border, go to the car, get Aaron’s passport, cross back over, and then cross again with Aaron. Aaron will wait there. Yes, we realize that this scheme is not as crazy or dependant on negotiations as most of the other shit we have been known to pull. Keep in mind: WE ARE NOT ABOUT TO FUCK WITH U.S. CUSTOMS ON THE MEXICAN BORDER.
Zack gets in line to cross; Aaron takes a seat against a tree on the border. Aaron passes out instantly. This probably marks a new low in Aaron’s life. He is woken up when someone runs into him. It is Bri. She has a message.
“I went you to tell your friend that I’m fucking pissed that he didn’t ask for my number.”
Holy shit. This girl came went to Tijuana to party, and was expecting a relationship??? Are you fucking serious??? Aaron falls right back asleep.
Once across the border, Zack forgets where the car is. Once he finally finds the car, he proceeds to dig through all of our shit, in search of Aaron’s passport. This is a lengthy search. About 6:30, he wakes up Aaron, right on the border, and instructs him to act sober. Throughout the course of that 15-minute line, Aaron drops his passport to the ground five times. They let us through, no questions. That’s a distinct advantage of being white. We hit some Burger King for breakfast, and than Zack drives us back to Vera and Jim’s house.
We get there at about 9am, and proceed to shoot the shit. We collectively come up with the alibi that my wallet was stolen while clubbing in San Diego and not in the forbidden sin city of Tijuana. Vera and Jim will back this up. Aaron proceeds to cancel credit cards and notify parents, and they buy all of it. We go to sleep at 10am.
At 6pm, we woke up and headed for Vegas. But that’s a whole other story.