The Streets of Mexico

"I'm asking myself am I really doing this? Is it really the best idea to be going to Mexico with you?"

My friend Abhay was thinking out loud as we drove down the highway from San Diego to the Mexican border 30 miles away. I assured him nothing could possibly go wrong as we passed a large green billboard declaring "No guns allowed in Mexico". Not allowing an American to bear arms is the same as asking a Korean not to carry a smart phone, so a few U.S. citizens are rotting in Mexican prisons after being caught with firearms.

My friend is a cautious fellow so we did not drive into Mexico, opting instead to leave the car at a parking lot near the border crossing. We saw a stream of Mexicans heading our way and walked in the direction they were emanating from. We crossed a footbridge and followed the arrows, zigging and zagging through some pathways and past a couple of armed guards, emerging in what we realized was already Mexico.

There had been no actual border control where our passport or any form of identification was checked. We saw a kilometer long lineup in the other direction of folks trying to make their way back into the promised land. It seemed only the American authorities were interested in checking passports and verifying identities.

A few taxi drivers immediately descended upon us as we entered Mexico, offering to take us to the seedier parts of the region which old white men are apt to visit. We instructed them to drop us off at the Tijuana city center, which was not too far off from the border crossing. We paid $5 for the ride, inclusive of a $4 foreigner premium.

Tijuana was very walkable, with the touristy stretch only lasting a couple of blocks. There were a lot of dental clinics and strip clubs on each street, catering to American visitors who could not afford healthcare or happiness on home soil.

I tried to convince Abhay to have lunch at some of the dirty looking local eateries, but he wanted something clean and preferred returning to one of the tourist restaurants we had passed by earlier. We walked several more blocks until I found an establishment that was both local and clean, satisfying both requirements. I ordered an item that I had never heard of before. It ended up being a large portion of liver.

The World Cup was on and radios blasting live coverage of the soccer match could be heard as we wandered the streets of Mexico. We drifted from one bar to another, as the goalless match between the Netherlands and Costa Rica extended into extra time. The partisan crowd was disappointed as Costa Rica fell to the Dutchmen on penalty kicks. As the match ended, we caught a taxi back to the border crossing knowing full well that it would be a lot harder to get into America than it had been to get out.

As we approached the kilometer long lineup of souls waiting to enter the States, we were approached by a fellow holding a ticket to bypass the queue. Within minutes we were stuffed into a van with a dozen other people, which was something I had imagined would happen at some point during a trip to Mexico. Almost two hours later we made it to the border checkpoint.

I had prepared for a potentially long wait in line by bringing some snacks in my backpack, including some pears. I explained to the American official that my pears were from America. "Once your pears go to Mexico, they Mexican." he stated. The security personnel took my passport and made a note on their system. "Now Interpol will think I am a pear importer." I complained to Abhay. "Not a pear importer..." he responded, "A pear smuggler!"

OMG, Giardia

Now that I am living in America I am able to understand a lot of the conversations taking place around me. Nearby my apartment in the Tenderloin, many of the conversations are being had by insane members of society with themselves.

Conversations often border on the ridiculous even when the listener is not imaginary. For example, I was sitting on the steps by the water's edge at the Georgetown Waterfront Park enjoying the view of the Potomac River on a Sunday afternoon. I overheard one young woman make a eyebrow raising comment to her friend who had asked her what she thought of the view:

Whenever I see water I'm like 'Oh my god, giardia! I'm gonna die!'

The Tenderloin

I have lived a life of relative luxury most of the past 6 to 7 years, minus a nightmarish shared existence with 13 other men in a hovel in Mumbai. In San Francisco, my first month was spent in a spectacular cliffside abode in North Beach. I would wake up to a dramatic view of the monumental Bay Bridge for four weeks, but as the clock ticked away on my company housing I had to find a place of my own.

Despite a tremendously high number of drug addicts, lunatics, techies, and bums wandering its streets, a decaying transit system that last saw upgrades well before my birth, and an overwhelming scent of urine and marijuana consistently wafting through the air, San Francisco is one of the most desirable places to live in America. The city has a sizzling hot rental market, with property prices as high as many of its citizens. As the world's premier tech hub, the Bay Area draws in the best and brightest from the world, and all these outsiders need accommodation. The skyrocketing housing prices have even driven potential homeowners back into the rental market, increasing rents for all. 

During my first month in town, I spent my weekends and evenings visiting many apartments either via direct appointment with the property manager or at scheduled open houses. Most were hideous, ancient, or in shady neighbourhoods such as the infamous Tenderloin district, where Will Smith lined up for a free meal at a soup kitchen in the movie Pursuit of Happyness. The decent apartments had over 50 other applicants, some of whom boasted about their large salaries and bonuses out loud to scare away the competition. 

I also investigated a few short term sublets, but the current tenants were either clinically insane, unregistered sex offenders, or complete no shows. I was waiting for over 30 minutes for one one guy to show me his apartment and had to use the washroom in the meantime. I found a public bathroom but it was locked. About ten minutes later the door opened. I saw the couple who sleep inside were dusting off and packing up their belongings before heading out for the day. 

With my stay in North Beach coming to an end, I had to make a quick decision amongst a bevy of undesirable options (much like a Korean woman must do when choosing a mate). I settled on an apartment on the fringes of the Tenderloin. At any given time I am sure to have at least one of the following three items - Internet access, warm water, and a leaking toilet. My window faces an open air bar. It gets extremely loud during the weekends, but that at least drowns out the howls of despair, shrieks of agony, and wails of police sirens which would otherwise occupy my auditory range. 

*****

In a country well governed, poverty is something to be ashamed of. In a country badly governed, wealth is something to be ashamed of. ~ Confucius

San Francisco Giants

If a game of baseball is to be enjoyed by one who is not particularly a fan of America’s pastime, then AT&T Park certainly provides a spectacular backdrop to do so. The stadium is situated on San Francisco’s Embarcadero, opening up to the bay. Yachts line the waters, their passengers looking for an out of the park home run ball to fall into their laps. With the yawns that a regular game of baseball tends to illicit in the casual observer, the side shows are of more interest. 

In Seoul's Jamsil Stadium, I had been entertained by the picnic-like atmosphere of the crowds slurping beer and munching on fried chicken while watching a scintillating team of cheerleaders perform in between innings. Even this small pleasure was muted by the absence of cheerleaders at AT&T Park.

My first Major League Baseball experience was a day game between the San Francisco Giants and their in-state adversaries, the Los Angeles Dodgers. The home team absorbed a 2-1 loss. The view of the bay was easily the first star with the crowd coming in second. Several karaoke style songs were sung by the crowd. There was also a ‘kiss cam’ which focused on random couples in the stands. Whenever they were projected on the screen they would lock lips and receive heavy applause.

A mother and son duo were taking in the game in the seats behind me. A member of the Dodgers roster was a Korean gentleman by the name of Hyun-jin Ryu. When his picture was displayed above the scoreboard, the kid proclaimed “I don’t like that guy!”. “Why?” inquired the mother. “Because he’s Japanese!” exclaimed the little racist. “Ummmm… Korean” the mother corrected.

*****

Let me root, root, root for the home team,

If they don't win, it's a shame.

For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,

At the old ball game.

~ Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Seodaemun Prison

Japan occupied Korea for much of the first half of the 20th century. The annexation and forced occupation of Korea is well documented, with the Seodaemun Prison History Museum (서대문형무소역사관) in Seoul bearing witness to some of the cruelest acts committed by the Japanese during its expansionist period. 

Torture, rape, and murder are just some of the crimes that Koreans have suffered at the hands of the Japanese. Despite an unwavering admiration of their culture, mannerisms, style, and cuisine, many in Korea still harbour resentment towards a remorseless Japan for their harsh behaviour towards them during this dark chapter of history.

The original facilities at Seodaemun Prison were built in 1907, with a capacity of 500 prisoners. A place of reverence and a place of history, a visit here provides insights that no textbook can. Jail cells, execution rooms, and torture chambers have been hauntingly recreated. Korean independence fighters were imprisoned here, with many never making it out alive to see a free nation. 

*****

I have observed that the prosperity or misery of each people is in direct proportion to its liberties or its prejudices and, accordingly, to the sacrifices or the selfishness of its forefathers. ~ Juan Crisostomo Ibarra