Run For the Border

        The day is well spent in San Diego. A Mexican food breakfast (it's becoming our nationality of culinary choice) and then I break off, with everybody else going to the zoo and me to La Jolla Cove. I definitely don't miss out on wildlife, walking up to sea lions and snorkeling among bright-orange fish. In what's becoming a trend, the sea lions' large, sharp teeth are too intimidating for me to actually pet them, but they're entertaining anyways. Rock climbing and scared as I swim through a rock tunnel are solid conclusions to this location. Black's Beach isn't nearly as populated or naked as I thought it'd be, but it's a good killing of time before Mission Bay for frisbee and dinner.
        Having met San Diego just long enough to whet our appetites, its off to San Ysidro for the night. Despite my naggings, nobody else is keen to cross the border to Tijuana. Alone, I figure I look crazier and am thus safer running across shirtless. No problems until at Avenida de Revolucion, Tifuana's main drag. A cop flexes and grunts at me from a van before telling me in Spanish then English to put my shirt on. I decide it's a bad idea to argue with notoriously corrupt cops and comply. Barhopping Tijuana convinces me of little other than that American 18-year-olds are willing to leave the country to drink heavily. Definitely not the nicest scene, but cheap drinks and 1 bar with a mariachi-esque band make it worthwhile.
        The way back, I'm walking across the border bridge when some guards get feisty. A man and woman in uniform stop me, ask what's in my pockets, and proceed to have me empty them. 1 used tissue, my driver's license, ~$9, the travel guidebook, my camera, and my shirt later, I'm being patted down then told I need to have a shirt on. I argue halfheartedly before heading on.
        Through the last check's guard's casual inspection of my driver's license, wrong turns lengthen my solitary walk back to the hotel. I'm ready to have to fight as a silver Mustang stops near me on a small side street. Instead of a black eye, I walk away with directions and an offer for a ride from the young dude driving. A little different than expected, to say the least. Back to the relative luxury of Motel 6, I'm out in a minute, content with my brief, touristy Tijuana trip.

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