As a visitor, I embrace the automobile. I welcome the freedom
of movement afforded me by it, and am grateful for the opportunities
it gives me here in California.

Were that everything I saw today not one brilliant smudge of color,
fire, life and death. Five hundred miles is more than one can devote
one’s attention to in the span of one day, to be sure.

Fog and sigalerts were the order of the morning, inching down the
Harbor Freeway – then ducking on to the eastbound Riverside
Freeway, through hills upon hills. The sun pokes it’s head through,
along I-15 and Temecula. Orange groves in Ramona, mountains
in between, desert in Borrego Springs. Sierra high peaks climate
atop Palomar Mountain, thick ocean air, sun and abandoned
storefronts in ex-urban Oceanside. Exclusive shops and more
khaki than a Gap store follow in La Jolla, stucco and spanish tile
in bulk throughout San Diego’s Old Town, past yet another lifeless
small-city Downtown, cinder block bungalows in Southtown, and
then, Tijuana.

It’s as if things just got progressively worse as the day wears on.
I did not leave Los Angeles today intending to go anywhere near
the border. Yet I find myself three hours before sunset and time
to spare.

But first, it’s hours of Howard, heading into the hills -- a mother
signing a contract stipulating that if her daughter wants to meet
the Backstreet Boys, she must strip in front of God and everyone.
I am ignoring this tomfoolery, this latest sign of the decline in human
breeding. The natural surroundings are divine.

Julian is quaint – very much a mountain town. Apple pie scent
wafts out on the main street, from diners, bake shops and coffee
houses. It is more interesting for its climate, and the knowing that
within minutes, the descent into the Anza-Borrego desert park
begins. About halfway back down the mountain to the other side,
we are there, in the badlands.

I have never seen the desert, I feel it first, the heat rising up
through the canyon. Slowly greens become more and more scarce,
and there it is, in all it’s stark naked deathly beauty. Cacti and
exotic color, sand and rock – one of the most delightful
combinations of color and texture.

Borrego Springs is recognizable as a cluster of green far below
in the valley, I learn that the heat of the Low Desert can be rather
forceful. I’ve not eaten, and donuts and juice from the deli will have
to do. Sadly, the wildflowers are all but absent this year, due to
lack of rain. So it’s on to Palomar, after stopping in at an
overcrowded visitor’s center that reveals nothing, save how
many Germans have followed from New York, out here to the desert.

I’ve never been to the Sierra Nevada’s, and apparently,
according to rangers, it’s a lot like it up here. Drinking from
the artesian well along the road (at 5000 feet), is possibly one
of the coolest, most refreshing drinks of water ever.

The view on the way up sweeps across the entire range of
mountains, and back towards the desert. Regrettably, haze
keeps the desert just beyond sight. But it’s there, on my left.
To the right? The Pacific. Amazing. Equally as amazing is the
lush orange growing climate at the base of the mountain as
you approach shoreline. The intoxicatingly sweet smell of
the orange groves and flowers in full bloom is a beautiful thing.
Although not as beautiful is the sight of the migrant farm workers
bending their backs near double to pick the strawberries – an
injection of reality.

Oceanside is a bust – the water is not even visible from the
coastal highway, lined with tacky shops and boarded up former
furniture stores and taco stands. Carlsbad is much different, my
plans to swing by Legoland are aborted upon discovering that
the entrance fee is a prohibitive $7. For an hour or two, fine,
but not to go to the gift shop.

The state beach in Carlsbad is most beautiful (it takes the No.
2 spot behind Zuma) and a pit stop here has me raring to
continue, to discover the last segment of coast that I’ve not
yet seen, south of San Francisco. I had become uninterested
in any sort of visit to San Diego, but not because I trusted
my instincts, namely that it was an altogether bland sort of
place. No, I will be travelling for work, which will take me back
in June. But because the Rubio’s fish tacos eaten in Solano
Beach made me so happy, I kept driving, destination La Jolla.

I’m not sure anymore what it is I expected, however what I
found was the ultimate in boring. A lot like Chicago’s Lake
Forest, but without that midwestern rootedness. I fled south,
but not before running into the good citizen from hell, twice.
I first met him helping a blind lady across the street, he seemed
like a kindly middle aged man doing his civic duty. But he shakes
his fist and swerves around on his bike as I cut across two lanes
of La Jolla Boulevard – fantasies of conversations we’d have when
he signals me to pull over were rushing through my over-exhausted
brain.

Dear me, I think – I’ve broken the rules again, haven’t I.

Chastened by my own imagination, I check out of La Jolla
and find myself in Old Town, which seems like fun, but at this
stage, worth little more than a drive-by appearance. That done,
I see the sign, National Border, 15 miles, barreling down the 5 in
search of Coronado.

I will go to Tijuana.

"Put a smile on your face man – have I got a deal for you!" A
door man is pimping 2-for-1 drink specials at a Tijuana bar –
I am his prey.

Smiles disappear from anywhere close to my composure as
I cross through the creaky turnstile into Mexico, for the first time.
I want to believe that there’s more to Mexico than this, I know
there is – I’m making a big mistake, I think, crossing the border.
This travesty of a town makes me nothing but deeply restless.

It’s exploitation at it’s worst. Tanned white males and blondes in
halter tops pack the Avenida in search of all manner of vices,
everything from cheap dental surgery to underage prostitutes.
A small child in tattered clothing sits along the road, playing the
accordion for pennies. Few will give.

Countless times I am accosted, mostly with the offer of alcohol,
and the random sex act. A Lewinsky special, offers one. Perhaps
"the neighbor’s wife!" he says. By the time I cross the bridge and
down into the main part of town, I despair.

I have been chain smoking Camels since walking through the
turnstile, nervousness combined with rage. What kind of a place
is this? I walk through the barren plaza, a collection of pharmacies
and blanket vendors, bars where bands blast bad covers of bad
rock tunes, and over the lonely bridge that crosses the Mexican
side of the freeway, back toward the United States.

We are so privileged, and rare is the moment that we realize it.
Chances are, most of us don’t even when in places like this,
instead we see it as another opportunity for us to consume,
cheaply at that. I am waved through customs, and I’m home
once again.

But not before I trip over myself and fall headlong to the pavement,
extinguishing my own cigarette.

"No more beer for you, my friend," chides a street vendor,
patronizingly. A compadre giggles insanely. Night is falling.