Tijuana Gringo |
Michael Thomas |
Friday, 12 January 2001 |
Each time I write the date I feel a thrill over this number: 2001. Much more than last year. Why? Perhaps because now I know for certain that the 21st century has begun.
I eat breakfast in Los Norteños on Plaza Santa Cecilia -- a diagonal pedestrian street full of cantinas and restaurants that cuts through the downtown block bounded by Constitution and 2nd and Revolution and 1st. I'm on my way to see Maria at her work, pick up her I.D. and go to a certain radio station office (I won't say who until they pay me a fee *grin*) to get the tickets she won for tomorrow night at a late-night disco dance show in some club in San Diego. I hope it's as good as she hopes -- but I've never been a club person, and frankly am afraid I will disappoint her.
One week ago today I took my leave from La Espinita and rode north for home. Three weeks ago last night I left Tijuana to begin that trip south.
It's been raining since I returned. The sound of sweeping brooms fill this morning air. A cop siren and klaxon bwoorp bwoorp burps from the corner. Morning walkers pick up their pace. I down the last drops of coffee. Night before last was the worst of the storm. Several hours of stiff winds preceded the heaviest rains. The dogs whined outside for awhile before deciding to take cover. The showers continued on and off yesterday.
Fortunately it's been nothing as bad as eight years ago when floods filled the canyons and washed away houses.
Well, time to go.