Borderline Ridiculous

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, January 25, 1998; Page F01 

TIJUANA, Mexico—After four days in San Diego covering the largest
non-news event in Western civilization, Super Bowl Week, cabin fever had
set in. We were tense, we were antsy, we were afraid that maybe we'd
had some conversations with Linda Tripp, and we hadn't bought nearly
enough schlocky souvenirs.

And so in the immortal words of Otter in "Animal House," we were ready
for a . . . road trip!

Which is how my pals Mike, Dave, Drew and I boarded the rapid-transit
trolley for the 30-minute trip to Tijuana, famed for its genial taxi service,
upscale adult entertainment and world-class velvet paintings.

The trip down on the train was quite pleasant. The only time I felt any
unease was when I noticed that the ticket-taker had a gun. I hadn't seen
that on the Amtrak Metroliner lately. The conductors there seem to think
it's okay to simply punch your ticket rather than shoot you.

They drop you off on the American side, and you walk up a ramp and
cross over into Mexico. One of the last things I saw on the U.S. side was a
warning sign: "Agriculture alert. Fruits, vegetables, plants, liquor, poultry
products, birds and animals may not be allowed to return." And I thought
to myself: Darn, there goes my plan to buy a donkey.

As we crossed the border Drew tried to impress us with all the Spanish he
knew: "Yo quiero defecto."

"Drew," I said. "Nobody wants to defect to Mexico."

In Mexico we were met with table after table of touristy gewgaws. I'm not
certain what this portends for society, but the three most prevalent
ceramics were statues of Jesus, Tweety Bird and Michael Jordan. The
common denominator, I guess, is the ability to rise.

We hadn't taken five steps before we were accosted by cabbies hectoring
us to take a taxi into downtown Tijuana.

"Cab! Revolution!" they'd shout.

"You can take a cab to the revolution?" I said. "How gentrified."

Then I realized they weren't offering a ride to the Chiapas uprising. Turns
out they were talking about Avenida Revolucion, the main drag.

"Take us somewhere we can find a worm in a bottle," I said, fondly
recalling my last visit here, 25 years ago. Then, Tijuana offered everything
a discriminating sailor would want, including penicillin shots and fine leather
goods.

I made a great deal on a leather fringe vest, having bargained a street
vendor down with my vast knowledge of the Spanish language and my
extreme cultural sensitivity.

"How much for the vest, Pedro?" I had asked.

"Forty dollars American," he said.

"No way, Jose," I'd said. "Too mucho dinero. You must think I am muy
stupido."

The vendor must have been impressed with my obvious resolve because
he said hurriedly, "Okay, $22 for you, boss." 

When I got the vest home I was chagrined to find that there was no tag
informing me of the cleaning instructions.

This became a moot point two days later when I wore the vest for the first
time and it shredded like toilet paper. 

You'll be happy to know that Tijuana's taxis haven't changed much in the
last quarter-century. In fact, they're the same taxis that ferried around Herb
Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. My cab was an AMC Gremlin, bearing a
bumper sticker that said "Don't blame me, I voted for McGovern."

We piled in, sinking right down to the axles, and I remarked at the amazing
number of establishments we passed advertising "Same Day Body Work."

That reminded Dave of the last time he was here, 10 years ago. He had
driven down with his friend Barry, who foolishly declined to purchase
one-day auto insurance -- a hedge against Mexican drivers who eagerly
smash into American cars. Your vehicle then goes straight to the "Same
Day Body Shop," helping the Mexican balance of trade.

"Barry drove into Tijuana in a Volvo station wagon," Dave said, rolling his
eyes. "Sure enough, within five minutes a car rammed us from the extreme
right lane and crumpled Barry's fender. We spent the entire day in a body
shop."

There was also an inordinate number of pharmacies, where many U.S.
prescription-only drugs are sold over the counter. I'm such a scaredy-cat
that I had visions of being busted at the border for trying to smuggle in
Claritin. Meanwhile, in a back room, physicist Richard Seed was probably
busy cloning Gen. Santa Anna.

We walked through Tijuana for a couple of hours, passing a lot of tourist
shops and strip bars. There were hawkers on the sidewalk, imploring us to
come inside. Nobody offered me a date with his sister, but there was the
suggestion of a two-for-one intern special.

One establishment, Iguanas, actually had a sign that said, "Sorry, we are
open." A cigar store claimed: "Cuban cigars since 1492." My favorite
hawker was a man outside a shop called "Leather R Us" who came up
with his arms outstretched and said, "Hey, you guys, don't forget my junk."

I particularly liked the deft way Drew handled the hawkers. He said, "I'm
here to buy aspirin."

Being an art aficionado, I had hoped to come back from Mexico with a
velvet painting of Chihuahuas Playing Poker, but I saw something ever
better: a velvet painting of a young Elvis as Marlon Brando in "The Wild
One."

"How much?" I asked the vendor.

"One hundred fifty dollars American," he said.

I shook my head.

"One hundred," he said.

I shook again.

"Forty," he said.

I hadn't said a word, and he'd come down $110. I figured Harpo Marx
could have owned this place.

"Twenty," he said.

It'll probably shred before I hang it on my wall. 

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