We arrived in San Diego late last night and took an Uber to the International Travelers House, our hostel accommodations for as long as we’re in the city. It’s a collection of brightly colored beach homes right in the heart of downtown San Diego, and its costing us $44 a night instead of the $209 it would take to stay at the DoubleTree next door. Like anything, it’s a tradeoff. What we’re saving in dollars, we’re paying for in conversations with young, unemployed, single people, on Instagram self-discovery quests. In the foyer that functions as an informal lobby, ITH has painted its manifesto, “Our Vision” in large black letters: “We have created this social experience for travelers from all cultures to have the priceless opportunity of interacting with other like-minded travelers.” Also: “Escape from the traditional style of accomodations which revolve around malignant materialism…”
I’m typing this while we wait around for dinner. Last night I ate my first vegan meal, which was admittedly delicious. San Diego is a beautiful city, and the weather is incredible! All the snow, ice, and freezing temperatures I’ve endured in D.C. are a distant memory, soothed away by palm trees swaying in the wind.
Today we took care of business, preparing to really get this trip started early tomorrow morning. We’re 20 miles from the border yet, but the drama of immigration is already playing itself out. My roommate (hostels are cheap because every room is full of bunk beds, kind of like the orphanage run by Miss Hannigan in Annie) is Chilean and went to the Mexican immigration authorities today to try to secure a work visa, an apparently difficult process for people from his country.
Our Uber driver, Tony, a loud, friendly bald guy from Chicago, met his Mexican wife as the only white guy at a wedding in California. They’re coming up on their 29th wedding anniversary this March. His cliched advice to us young fellows—“it’s all about communication, guys” —carried extra weight because he actually took the time to learn her native Spanish.
The two guys who delivered our bikes from Los Angeles each had their own immigration stories. Hector was born in the United States but his parents are from El Salvador. They, along with 220,000 of their countrymen, were admitted as refugees after an earthquake devastated El Salvador in 2001. The Trump administration has recently moved to revoke their temporary protected status. Hector and I didn’t have time to get down to the nitty gritty, but he did eloquently describe the recent political drama as “fucking irritating.” The other guy, William, an American citizen, told the best story I’ve heard today, though. He may be one of the few people we meet on this entire trip that was caught and detained as an illegal alien in Mexico. He moseyed across the border and worked in a pizza joint for four months before he was picked up by the authorities. He has dual citizenship, but he didn’t have the documents to prove it. His parents were unreachable, and live in such a small town that public records are kept on paper instead of electronically. After spending six days in a Mexican jail he was finally released, said to himself, “Holy shit this is real life. I don’t belong down here” and headed even further south to Central America.
Tomorrow we cross into Tijuana.
