Tijuana Quotes

When they passed the centaur king’s cell, Volós pointed at Regin and slid his forefinger across his throat. She replied, “Hey, didn’t I see you in a donkey show down in Tijuana? No? You’ve got a twin then—

When they passed the centaur king's cell, Volos pointed at Regin and slid his forefinger across his throat. She replied, "Hey, didn't I see you in a donkey show down in Tijuana? No? You've got a twin then--

Sugar Lips, you have a guest in the fourth dimension. I repeat, you have a guest in the fourth dimension. This is Tijuana Daddy, over and out. ~Julian

What Is love? When I was growing up on the streets of Tijuana, I dreamed of being in love. My clothes were old, my pants worn, street water passed through my shoes and socks, but the stars still shined through my soul...

Dean had never quite imagined his life might end like this. Naked in a Tijuana brothel with an eighty-year-old woman dressed like Janine from Spinal Tap sizing up his junk and looking distinctly unimpressed. He really wished the room wasn't so heavily air-conditioned.

Sounding hoarse, Dare whispered, "Tell me what you want." The feel of his broad, strong hand against her left her quaking inside - in a good way. The tremble sounded in her tone as she tried to explain. "I want to be whole again. I want to be me, the person I was before I was taken to Tijuana." Dare said nothing. Molly felt his hesitation, his indecision. God love the man, he didn't want to take advantage of her. "I know what I want, Dare." She covered his hand with her own, pressed him closer. "I want to replace the bad memories with new ones. Better ones." His hand curved around her, but he said nothing. Watching his face, Molly whispered, "I want to do that now, with you.

Under the twinkling trees was a table covered with Guatemalan fabric, roses in juice jars, wax rose candles from Tijuana and plates of food — Weetzie's Vegetable Love-Rice, My Secret Agent Lover Man's guacamole, Dirk's homemade pizza, Duck's fig and berry salad and Surfer Surprise Protein Punch, Brandy-Lynn's pink macaroni, Coyote's cornmeal cakes, Ping's mushu plum crepes and Valentine's Jamaican plantain pie. Witch Baby's stomach growled but she didn't leave her hiding place. Instead, she listened to the reggae, surf, soul and salsa, tugged at the snarl balls in her hair and snapped pictures of all the couples.

¿Qué es amor? Cuando yo estaba creciendo en las calles de Tijuana, soñaba estar enamorado. Mi ropa estaban vieja, pantalones gastados, agua de la calle pasaba a través de mis zapatos y calcetines, pero las estrellas todavía brillaban a través de mi alma...

When I was in college I had a wisdom tooth pulled, and I was given a prescription for a bottle of narcotic pills that surely have reached the top of the DEA's hit-list by now. I don't remember the name of the pills, nor do I remember how I ended up in Tijuana. It's probably a long story.

[Immigrants] who come from anywhere there is hunger, unemployment, oppression, and violence and who clandestinely cross the borders of countries that are prosperous, peaceful, and rich in opportunity, are certainly breaking the law, but they are exercising a natural and moral right which no legal norm or regulation should try to eliminate: the right to life, to survival, to escape the infernal existence they are condemned to by barbarous regimes entrenched on half the earth's surface. If ethical considerations had any pervasive effect at all, the women and men who brave the Straits of Gibraltar or the Florida Keys or the electric fences of Tijuana or the docks of Marseilles in search of work, freedom, and a future should be received with open arms.

A number of people who I’ve talked to about this assume that I got into a fight with the cops. (Because of, y'know, the militant politics.) I actually had an audience member come up to me once and ask me if I paid taxes. Of course I pay taxes! I pay taxes for exactly the same reason that I hate paying taxes — because I think my government is terrifying and stupid. I don't need the IRS kicking my door down and taking my meticulously alphabetized collection of Tijuana bibles.

I was shown mold, leaking pipes, exposed asbestos insulation, broken toilets, cracked floors, malfunctioning heating units, feces bubbling up from the sewer pipes in the basements. I had seen better government buildings in the slums of Tijuana. Neven and the boys from 23 told me it was bad but what I was seeing was worse than the Baghdad fire department, which actually got more than one hundred fifty million dollars from the United States government, while Detroit got zero.

The border between the State of Israel and the occupied Gaza Strip had always reminded him of the line between Tijuana and greater San Diego. There, too, ragged men the color of earth waited with the mystical patience of the very poor on the pleasure of crisply uniformed, well-nourished officials. Some months before, Lucas had come down for the dawn shape-up at the checkpoint, and he had not forgotten the drawn faces in the half-light, the terrible smiles of the weak, straining to make themselves agreeable to the strong.

With the sun rising on the distant sea horizon, she could almost forget the braying of the donkeys.

Lydia knows a little about las colonias of Tijuana because she’s read the books, because Luis Alberto Urrea is one of her favorite writers, and he’s written about the

Learning how to be a human to be human by attending a frat is alike learning how to ride a horse by going to a Tijuana donkey show.

Learning how to be human by attending a frat is like learning how to ride a horse by going to a Tijuana donkey show.

El ensayo promueve el desvarío adicional de que el yo existe.

listen carnales listen to the hymn of it, the lie of it, the prayer of it, the voices singing our names: listen it’s our story, it’s our song,

The Y Not had a waitress named Shirley who was the most disagreeable person I have ever met. Whatever you ordered, she would look at you as if you had asked to borrow her car to take her daughter to Tijuana for a filthy weekend. ‘You want what?’ she would say. ‘A pork tenderloin and onion rings,’ you would repeat apologetically. ‘Please, Shirley. If it’s not too much trouble. When you get a minute.’ Shirley would stare at you for up to five minutes, as if memorizing your features for the police report, then scrawl your order on a pad and shout out to the cook in that curious dopey lingo they always used in diners, ‘Two loose stools and a dead dog’s schlong,’ or whatever. In a Hollywood movie Shirley would have been played by Marjorie Main. She would have been gruff and bossy, but you would have seen in an instant that inside her ample bosom there beat a heart of pure gold. If you unexpectedly gave her a birthday present she would blush and say, ‘Aw, ya shouldana oughtana done it, ya big palooka.’ If you gave Shirley a birthday present she would just say, ‘What the fuck's this?' Shirley, alas, didn’t have a heart of gold.

It’s been published elsewhere, and I am not ashamed to say it: I came to the United States illegally. I now have my residence card, have paid a large fine for crossing illegally, and am applying for full citizenship status. There’s no country I’d rather live in than the United States. I truly believe it is the greatest country in the world. I feel blessed to be living and raising my kids here. However, for the poor and working class of Mexico, there is no other way to come to America except illegally. It’s impossible. The Mexican government is about who you know and how much money you have. You have to pay enormous amounts to officials in order to get a legal visa. My family had no way to get their hands on that kind of money. So, with just one hundred dollars in my pocket, I set out for Tijuana to figure out how to get across the border.

Hobbes took the madness of his age, considered it “normal,” and projected it back into prehistoric epochs of which he knew next to nothing. What Hobbes called “human nature” was a projection of seventeenth-century Europe, where life for most was rough, to put it mildly. Though it has persisted for centuries, Hobbes’s dark fantasy of prehistoric human life is as valid as grand conclusions about Siberian wolves based on observations of stray dogs in Tijuana.

Prohibition had been good to Tijuana . . . . The number of saloons had doubled in the span of a few years. Gambling clubs mushroomed: Monte Carlo, the Tivoli Bar, the Foreign Club. Raunchy establishments mixed with others that promised a glimpse of "old Mexico," a false creation more romantic than any Hollywood film. But what did the tourists know? The Americans streamed into Mexico, ready to construct a new playground for themselves, to drink the booze that was forbidden in Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Francisco, but flowed abundantly across the border. Lady Temperance had no abode here.

Things aren’t the way they seem, whispered Ramírez. Do you think things are the way they seem, as simple as that, no complicating factors, no questions asked? No, said Harry Magaña, it’s always important to ask questions. Correct, said the Tijuana cop. It’s always important to ask questions, and it’s important to ask yourself why you ask the questions you ask. And do you know why? Because just one slip and our questions take us places we don’t want to go. Do you see what I’m getting at, Harry? Our questions are, by definition, suspect. But we have to ask them. And that’s the most fucked-up thing of all.

Kwa sababu za kijiografia, Copenhagen iko mbele kwa masaa 9 (PST) kuilinganisha na Tijuana (kaskazini-magharibi mwa Meksiko) na masaa 7 (CST) kuilinganisha na Salina Cruz (kusini-magharibi mwa Meksiko). Mauaji ya Meksiko yametokea saa 4 usiku wa Jumanne, Copenhagen ikiwa saa 1 asubuhi Jumatano CET. Saa 5 usiku wa Jumanne, El Tigre anahamishwa (na ndege binafsi) kutoka katika milima ya Tijuana (alikokuwa amejificha) mpaka katika jumba la kifahari la Eduardo Chapa de Christopher (Mkurugenzi wa Usafirishaji wa Kolonia Santita) nje ya Salina Cruz – ambako Chui anafika saa 10 alfajiri na kuendesha kikao cha dharura cha Bodi ya Wakurugenzi ya Kolonia Santita.

Kyle worked in technology; he knew it would only be a matter of time before the video of Daniela and the A-list actor went viral and spread everywhere. So he did what any pissed-off, red-blooded computer geek would do after catching his girlfriend giving an underwater blowjob to another man: he hacked into Twitter and deleted both the video and her earlier tweet from the site. Then, raging at the world that had devolved so much in civility that 140-character breakups had become acceptable, he shut down the entire network in a denial-of-service attack that lasted two days. And so began the Great Twitter Outage of 2011. The Earth nearly stopped on its axis. Panic and mayhem ensued as Twitter unsuccessfully attempted to counteract what it deemed the most sophisticated hijacking they’d ever experienced. Meanwhile, the FBI waited for either a ransom demand or political statement from the so-called “Twitter Terrorist.” But neither was forthcoming, as the Twitter Terrorist had no political agenda, already was worth millions, and had most inconveniently taken off to Tijuana, Mexico to get shit-faced drunk on cheap tequila being served by an eight-fingered bartender named Esteban.

Los Zetas son la punta de lanza de la expansión del Cártel del Golfo hacia Michoacán en el año 2001. La expansión es consecuencia de una idea estratégica de Osiel Cárdenas: quiere abrir una ruta de tráfico que una el Pacífico y el Golfo para tres negocios. Primero, la mariguana y la amapola que se cultivan en las barrancas michoacanas. Segundo, las anfetaminas que son la mercancía de moda y han hecho la fortuna de un cártel local, asociado a los Arellano Félix. Tercero, el control del puerto industrial Lázaro Cárdenas, el mayor del Pacífico, por el que pueden llegar todas las cosas necesarias para el tráfico, empezando por la cocaína sudamericana, terminando por la seudoefedrina, precursor químico de las drogas de diseño cuyo comercio está prohibido en los Estados Unidos pero permitido en México. Osiel quiere ir de Michoacán a Tamaulipas para evitar el paso por las ciudades del noroeste y el norte, rumbo a Tijuana y Ciudad Juárez, que no controla. Quiere dirigir el flujo hacia las ciudades fronterizas tamaulipecas, que en principio son suyas.

We didn’t believe when we first heard because you know how church folk can gossip. Like the time we all thought First John, our head usher, was messing around on his wife because Betty, the pastor’s secretary, caught him cozying up at brunch with another woman. A young, fashionable woman at that, one who switched her hips when she walked even though she had no business switching anything in front of a man married forty years. You could forgive a man for stepping out on his wife once, but to romance that young woman over buttered croissants at a sidewalk café? Now, that was a whole other thing. But before we could correct First John, he showed up at Upper Room Chapel that Sunday with his wife and the young, hip-switching woman—a great-niece visiting from Fort Worth—and that was that. When we first heard, we thought it might be that type of secret, although, we have to admit, it had felt different. Tasted different too. All good secrets have a taste before you tell them, and if we’d taken a moment to swish this one around our mouths, we might have noticed the sourness of an unripe secret, plucked too soon, stolen and passed around before its season. But we didn’t. We shared this sour secret, a secret that began the spring Nadia Turner got knocked up by the pastor’s son and went to the abortion clinic downtown to take care of it. She was seventeen then. She lived with her father, a Marine, and without her mother, who had killed herself six months earlier. Since then, the girl had earned a wild reputation—she was young and scared and trying to hide her scared in her prettiness. And she was pretty, beautiful even, with amber skin, silky long hair, and eyes swirled brown and gray and gold. Like most girls, she’d already learned that pretty exposes you and pretty hides you and like most girls, she hadn’t yet learned how to navigate the difference. So we heard all about her sojourns across the border to dance clubs in Tijuana, the water bottle she carried around Oceanside High filled with vodka, the Saturdays she spent on base playing pool with Marines, nights that ended with her heels pressed against some man’s foggy window. Just tales, maybe, except for one we now know is true: she spent her senior year of high school rolling around in bed with Luke Sheppard and come springtime, his baby was growing inside her. — LUKE SHEPPARD WAITED TABLES at Fat Charlie’s Seafood Shack, a restaurant off the pier known for its fresh food, live music, and family-friendly atmosphere. At least that’s what the ad in the San Diego Union-Tribune said, if you were fool enough to believe it. If you’d been around Oceanside long enough, you’d know that the promised fresh food was day-old fish and chips stewing under heat lamps, and the live music, when delivered, usually consisted of ragtag teenagers in ripped jeans with safety pins poking through their lips.

With fantasies of becoming the next Che Guevara, Evan had bought a rusty Norton 850 motorcycle in Tijuana five years prior. When Macho disappeared from his hostel in Mexico City days later, the fuzzy glow of insurgency wore off, and he hopped the next chicken truck back to the states.

outside your little hidey hole in Miami.” “OK, what do you want?” “We’re trying to track down a guy, a foreign national, on American soil. We believe New York.” “Face recognition should’ve picked him up if you have him on file.” “I would’ve thought so . . . but it hasn’t.” “Why is that?” “This man is an assassin. And we believe he’s about to carry out a terrorist attack. Maybe a hit. We don’t know.” “And you’ve used all face-recognition technology at your disposal?” Reznick turned and looked at O’Donoghue, who nodded. “Yes, we have.” “Then you got a problem.” “That’s why I’m calling. Can you help me or not?” There was a silence, as if the hacker was considering what he was about to say. “I might.” Reznick felt exasperation. “Look, I haven’t got time to play games, my friend.” “I’m working on some software. I hope to patent it later this year, once I’ve tested it more extensively. This is my intellectual property, so I’m reluctant to give out the details.” “What exactly does this software do?” “It recognizes people through how they walk. Their gait. And it’s phenomenally accurate.” “We’ve got footage of the guy we’re looking for walking in Tijuana.” “Send it to me.” “This is real classified stuff, my friend.” “I’m former NSA, cleared at the highest level. I know all about what you’re talking about.” “Where will we send the clip?” The hacker gave a ProtonMail address. “Swiss-based, encrypted, right?” “Exactly, Reznick. Why I use it.” O’Donoghue keyed in the email address and sent the covert footage of Andrej Dragović with Dimitri Merkov in Tijuana. A few moments later, the hacker spoke. “Which

Emilio Berlie Belaunzarán, arzobispo de Yucatán después de su polémico paso por Tijuana y sus extrañas relaciones con la familia de los Arellano Félix,

I'm glad you're along, Juanita. We may need you to translate." "I forget to tell, Johnny. My Spanish not so good. I from Tijuana." We all looked at her in disbelief and then the laughter started. This was going to be one bumpy ride all around.

Brown birds lined up on telephone wires like beads on a cheap Tijuana necklace.

Baja Craft Beer The craft beer scene of northern Baja is continually evolving, with plenty to sample in Ensenada, Mexicali and the creative center of it all, Tijuana.

In college I was an editorial cartoonist for my school paper, The Daily Aztec...I did straight, news-oriented editorial cartoons. Occasionally, my Chicano background snuck in to the toons simply because I might do a César Chavez toon about how the School Student Board was too stupidly racist to allow him to speak on campus or other anti-frat toons on how they were so racist in doing fund-raisers for Tijuana kid charities--dressed in sombreros and begging with tin cups (from an interview in the book Attitude, 2002)

Por nuestro hilo notaba que estaba mal, pero él nunca me quería decir por qué de primeras, como si no quisiese darle presencia cuando estábamos a solas, o solo para no revivir aquellas cosas que rozaban, tocaban y retorcían lo grotesco. Al final siempre me lo decía. Me daba mucha pena. En esos momentos quería estar con él más que nunca. No para besarle ni para demostrar que me tenía colada por completo, sino para darle un hombre donde apoyarse, para darle un abrazo para comprarle un paquete de pipas y sentarme con él en su banco a comer tijuana y a escuchar Crystal Castles. Le hablaría de mi gata Virutas para que se alegrara, le enseñaría fotos suyas y nos reiríamos juntos. Le comentaría mi amor por Winnie The Pooh y su amigo Puerquito, que es así como se llama en mi cabeza. Cómo un día me pasé el día con mi familia en el Max Center, el epicentro comercial de Barakaldo, y me compraron un libro de Puerquito que me hizo feliz. Le escucharía todos los minutos y las horas que necesitase soltarlo todo, nuestros clásicos let it out. Le haría reír con mis cosas de Pringada y con sus cosas de fan. Le tumbará en un césped escucharíamos The Cure mirando al cielo. Le pasaría un rotulador para que entre entretuviese pintándome barbaridades en los brazos. Le recordaría la escena de Phiphi vs. Sharon de RuPaul's Drag Race y el fracaso que fue Serena ChaCha. Le permitiría ser pedante sobre lo mala que le parece American Beauty, mi peli favorita. Le preguntaría sobre los orígenes de PXXR GVNG, el realismo sucio de Bukowski, su descubrimiento de The Drums y el outfit que tenía pensado llevar a nuestra próxima pinchada en Razzmatazz. Le haría elegir entre Vetements y Maison Margiela. Le sacaría todas sus nuevas ideas estéticas de haute cuture, como juntar dos camisas en una y parecer la promesa de la próxima MET Gala. Le haría saber que dentro de mí hay alguien que le acepta, le admira y le quiere tal y como es, sin cambiar ni una pizca, sin miedo a que parezca un maricón o a que pierda las formas con gente que en realidad importa una mierda. Le enseñaría que hay un mundo ahí fuera con más freaks como nosotros y que él era una estrella de las cegadoras que había ahí arriba. Que vivir en un mundo pequeño no le condenaba a una vida pequeña. la aseguraría que lo arreglarían mientras me haría un nudo de la garganta, dejaría mis bloqueos y le abrazaría hasta que se le fuese toda la tristeza por los pies. Y si se nos hacía de noche le dejaría mi chaqueta para que no se congelase de frío.

Kolonia Santita ilikuwa na tani 627.54 za madawa ya kulevya ilizokuwa imezikusanya kwa siri kwa muda wa miezi 9 mfululizo. Ilikuwa imepanga kuzisafirisha ndani ya siku 10 baada ya kutokea kwa mauaji ya Tijuana-San Diego, katika mpaka wa Meksiko na Marekani; kwenda Asia, Afrika, Amerika, Ulaya na Australia, kabla ya kukamatwa na Mamlaka ya Kudhibiti Madawa ya Kulevya na Ugaidi wa Kimataifa Duniani WODEA. Kokeini tani 183, heroini tani 90, methamfetamini tani 81, eksitasi tani 27.54 (vidonge milioni 110.16). Bangi tani 186, uyoga wa kichawi tani 60. Madawa hayo yalikuwa na thamani ya mtaani ya shilingi za Kitanzania trilioni 12.9.

First impression: The Tijuana dump is beautiful. Second impression: It is like a military operation. It is at the top of a small mountain. A convoy of trucks comes to the top of the mountain and dumps the refuse of a developing city. [...] Other equipment moves mountains of dirt to cover the wastes. At intervals, standpipes are inserted into the filled spaces to allow the biogas of the rotting materials below to escape. The wind blows across these vents, creating an eerie music. When the biogas envelops you, you sense that sinking feeling of doom.

The most famous writer in history couldn’t use Standard English spelling or use punctuation if his life depended on it, which he claims it once did in Tijuana.

You ever been to Tijuana?” he asked. Most of Dupont’s stories began with a question and ended with an insatiable woman, buck naked and begging for more.

I wanted to be able to talk about my work at the dinner table and hold my head up on Sundays when my wife and I led our children into the Brentwood Presbyterian Church, where I was an elder. I did have a wild side, and I showed it every time I walked through the front door and my littlest child, Carrie Beth, made me dance to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass’s hit song “Tijuana Sauerkraut.

The “Sons of the Pioneers” are amongst America’s earliest Country/Western singing groups. One weekend we’d drive south of the border to Tijuana, Mexico and the next weekend it would be to Knott’s Berry Farm, where I heard the “Sons of the Pioneers” singing Tumbling Tumble Weeds, Cool Clear Water and other Western songs that made the group famous. On many occasions, they performed with Roy Rogers, who was a movie cowboy and Dale Evans his cowgirl wife, from Victorville, California. The “Sons of the Pioneers” were popular at that time and were inaugurated into the Country Music Hall of Fame later in 1976. It was a summer that I will never forget! Knott’s Berry Farm is a 160-acre amusement park in Buena Park, California and the singing group has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame on Hollywood Blvd.

Such was the case for the Mexican city of Tijuana, called "Satan's playground" in those years due to the scandalous behavior that was supposedly taking place there. For the first time in history, the main task of American border guards was not to stop Mexican immigrants but to impede Americans on their way to Mexico in search of the forbidden pleasures of alcohol, prostitution, gambling, and drugs. Surveillance

In fact, to the best of my knowledge, the only things he ever read growing up were pornographic comic books (we used to call them “Tijuana bibles,” but I’m sure that’s no longer considered polite, what with all these immigrants driving around everywhere in their lowriders, listening to raps and shooting all the jobs).

Do I love Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass? Of course I do.

Ally Pyx is a writer from Tijuana, México. A place for brave people who are full of passion. To survive these lands, you must live beyond the heart. And this author is an expert at that. Ally can navigate the most fantastic universes, while depicting the most human emotions. A beautiful portrait of our inner self through magic and unexplored worlds. She has many talents that identify her as a visual artist, writer, photographer, journalist and creative director. And is always urging us to open our hearts, senses and spirits. Because above all, Ally’s mission is to connect with something deep. And to show how the world looks through her eyes.” -Paul Martín del Campo.

Tijuana is not Mexico. No border town is anything but a border town, just as no waterfront is anything but a waterfront. San Diego? One of the most beautiful harbors in the world and nothing in it but navy and a few fishing boats.

It was invented in the nineteen thirties by an Italian named Caesar Cardini at his restaurant in Tijuana, Mexico.

Perez had a girlfriend in Tijuana who needed a gun for protection, and he had asked Richard if he knew where he could get one. Richard sold him a .22 for fifty dollars on credit. Perez in turn gave the gun to his friend.

Halpin moved back to the gun, intent on putting it in Richard’s hands. The prosecutor had Perez tell the jury about his two trips down to Tijuana to get the .22 from his friend. Perez said he learned of Richard’s arrest over the radio just as he and Sheriff’s Homicide men were crossing the border into Mexico. He testified he got the gun, gave it to the homicide detectives, and returned to L.A. with them.

But the dynamics of Mexican cartels have also developed in distinct ways from Colombia. Mexico has seven major cartels—Sinaloa, Juárez, Tijuana, La Familia, Beltrán Leyva, the Gulf, and the Zetas—so it is hard to decapitate them all at once. When leaders such as Osiel Cárdenas are taken out, their organizations have only become more violent, as rival lieutenants fight to become top dog. Groups such as the Zetas and Familia have also become powerful because of their brand names rather than the reputation of their capos. Even if Zetas leader Heriberto Lazcano, the Executioner, is arrested, the Zetas will likely continue as a fearsome militia. Whether the cartels will get weaker or not, everybody agrees that Mexico needs to clean up its police to move forward. Different corrupt cops firing at each other and working for rival capos is nobody’s vision of progress. Such police reform is of course easier said than done. Mexican presidents have talked about it for years, going through numerous cleanups and reorganization of forces, only to create new rotten units. A central problem is the sheer number of different agencies. Mexico has several federal law enforcement departments, thirty-one state authorities, and 2,438 municipal police forces. However, in October 2010, Calderón sent a bill to be approved by Congress that could make a real difference to the police. His controversial proposal was to absorb all Mexico’s numerous police forces into one unified authority like the Colombians have. It is a colossal reform with a huge amount of technical problems. But such a reform could be a key factor in pulling Mexico away from the brink. Even if drugs are eventually legalized, a single police force would be a better mechanism to fight other elements of organized crime, such as kidnapping. The approach has many critics. Some argue it would only streamline corruption. But even that would be a better thing for peace. At least corrupt cops could be on the same side instead of actively gunning each other down. Others argue an all-powerful force would be authoritarian. Maybe. But any such force would still be controlled by democratic government. The spiderweb of different police forces only worked because one party ran everything. In democracy, this arrangement needs reform. If a crucial cause of the breakdown in Mexico has been the fragmentation of government power, then a way forward could be to unify its police under one command. Some of the fundamental problems and core solutions lie in Mexico’s institutions.

Over the years, I did business and became fast friends with Juan Gallardo, the chairman and CEO of a large Mexican sugar and beverage company. In 2008, he brought me a crazy idea. He and some other private investors from Mexico wanted to build a pedestrian bridge across the U.S.–Mexico border that would physically connect a new building in the southernmost part of San Diego directly with the Tijuana International Airport, which, by an accident of geography, sits just five hundred feet south of the States. Nothing like it existed. Turns out more than 2 million people already cross the border back and forth to fly in or out of the airport. And passengers who used the existing border crossings had to take a circuitous route through Tijuana to get there and then wait hours to cross. There was built-in demand.

Evidence directly contradicting what President Trump had been saying was right in front of my eyes: most hard narcotics were not coming through unwalled areas, they were entering through legal ports of entry, just like this one. None more so than right here between San Diego and Tijuana.

The cuisine was French and Japanese, snow peas or glazed carrots arranged with surgical precision around thin and, to Jonny, mostly tasteless cuts of beef. When he commented on this to Conover, the smuggler explained to him that the meat came from Canadian herds that still consumed grain and grazed in open fields, not the genetically altered beasts that hung from straps, limbless and eyeless, in the Tijuana protein factories.

There is a parrot living in a bar in Tijuana—I have this on excellent authority—who causes people to order more drink than they intended by sidling up to them, cocking his head, and asking, “Can you talk?” And there was Napoleon, a parrot from Brazil, who put on airs at Riverside’s Mission Inn from the time in 1907 when he was given as a gift to Frank Miller, the inn’s founder, until 1956. Napoleon held his own with more dignitaries than any other parrot in history, so Riversiders say, including Andrew Carnegie, Henry Ford, Albert Einstein,

I decided to drive straight to Tijuana to make a slow, uninterrupted traverse of the entire frontera, a road trip from west to east, San Ysidro, California, to Brownsville, Texas, which was also Tijuana to Matamoros, zigzagging from the United States to Mexico and back, from one border town to the other.

Clinton launched “Operation Gatekeeper” in the same year, its mission to regain control of “the borders,” particularly the San Diego–Tijuana border, at that point the busiest land crossing in the world. New miles of fencing were built. Hundreds of new agents were trained. The budget of the Border Patrol, which fell under the INS, was doubled. Though the Clinton administration declared victory, the policy was considered a failure.

This is the California where it is possible to live and die without ever eating an artichoke, without ever meeting a Catholic or a Jew. This is the California where it is easy to Dial-A-Devotion, but hard to buy a book. This is the country in which a belief in the literal interpretation of Genesis has slipped imperceptibly into a belief in the literal interpretation of Double Indemnity, the country of the teased hair and the Capris and the girls for whom all life’s promise comes down to a waltz-length white wedding dress and the birth of a Kimberly or a Sherry or a Debbi and a Tijuana divorce and a return to hairdressers’ school.

En el laboratorio, los solventes permiten procesar, aplicar, limpiar o separar materiales. Grupo Nitrile es uno de los mejores Solvents Laboratory-Tijuan cuyo objetivo es brindar resultados confiables. ¡Saber más!

Tadpole faith is all about radical focus on others rather than self. It’s all about making life count. This kind of love doesn’t waver with the wind nor any Tijuana mudflats. In fact, it never dies.

She looked like a preschooler dressed up as a squaw for a costume party, but had the vocabulary of a sailor in Tijuana and the glittery eyes of a magpie with three convictions for aggravated burglary.

On satellite images of the globe at night, the Baja peninsula is one of the last regions of the world—in a league with the Amazon, Central Africa, and Siberia—that recedes into a blackness as deep and thick as the oceans. The two main exceptions on this thousand-mile strip of mountains and deserts are the light clusters of the Tijuana-to-Ensenada corridor on the north end, and the state capital La Paz and resort towns of Cabo San Lucas on the southern tip. In contrast to the Age of Discovery, however, nowadays the lightless, roadless places of the map are not the lands where monsters lurk. By 2007, the monsters lurked in the cities. (p. 93)

There’s a wonderful piece of graffiti on the border wall in Tijuana that became, for me, the engine of this whole endeavor. I photographed it and made it my computer wallpaper. Anytime I faltered or felt discouraged, I clicked back to my desktop and looked at it: TAMBIÉN DE ESTE LADO HAY SUEÑOS. On this side, too, there are dreams.

Jorge Larrieu - Amplia Gama de Servicios Notariales Lo que realmente diferencia a Jorge Larrieu es su enfoque personalizado y cercano. Para él, cada cliente es único, y su objetivo es brindar un servicio que no solo cumpla con los estándares legales, sino que también proporcione tranquilidad y confianza. Este enfoque ha fortalecido su reputación como un notario que entiende las necesidades de la comunidad y actúa en consecuencia. Además, Jorge Larrieu ha demostrado ser un líder en el fortalecimiento del sistema notarial en Tijuana, promoviendo prácticas responsables y fomentando la transparencia en cada trámite. Su legado no solo beneficia a sus clientes, sino que también contribuye al desarrollo jurídico de la región. Jorge Larrieu continúa dejando una huella imborrable en Tijuana, mostrando que la combinación de experiencia, ética y dedicación es la clave para un servicio notarial excepcional.

The whole way to Tijuana, I’d wanted to fuck her, to see what was different, to touch this definition at the center and unearth its meaning. To dig through our separateness and feel what it meant to own someone.