bending borders

I am home.

Home?

In the last 72 hours I have displaced myself, and a hefty consortium of loosely affiliated luggage particles from my parents' home in NH to Los Angeles, San Diego, Tijuana, San Diego and finally, finally to the peaceful, fire-free Goleta that we know and love.

Of course what makes this homecoming all the more, well, homeful, is that there is a small person, sullenly sulking about because after the first 15-minute euphoria of being back on this side of the world, she realized that her "sister" was out of town for the next 48 hours. There may well be no consolation for such bitter disappointment, but I shall make the attempt with an impending purchase of new bicycle. Maybe that way she'll entertain herself? Who knows.

Meanwhile, I am relaxing after an emotionally taxing, if uneventful weekend.

Tijuana, by car, is no trifle and finding a dive hotel whose concierge grumpily tells you to cross over the border and then ask directions is nothing to be sneezed at, but there I was, in my trusty, dusty Civic, that (fortuitously) was not stolen in the 14 days it was driverless near LAX, and California plates, trying to navigate without making too much of an ass of myself. Not sure I succeeded. The turnarounds are always confusing, and I am sure that I pissed several drivers off, but there was a lovely gentleman that pointed me in the correct direction, ever so much more helpful than the roaring black panthers that I first rolled my window down to greet in traffic.

I was so happy to see my little I. and to hear her prattling on in Spanish! about her summer and her tías, and her cats and how much fun she had. I definitely breathed a sigh of relief to have her back with me, to feel like I made the right decision in sending her to visit her father's family, and to make it back over la línea, with out too much trouble. There was a tearful goodbye, and she did cry for roughly the first half-hour that we advanced through the approach to US immigration and Customs. Then we started listening to a CD of Juanes and all tears were forgotten, as we listened over and over to her favorite songs. I marveled at the entrepreneurial endeavors that were happening all around me, ice-cream, sodas, porcelain frogs and giant-sized corona beer mugs, paintings, hammocks, newspapers, gum and more, available for immediate consumption. I rolled down my windows a) to save gas (I feared I might run out of my last 1/4 tank in line) and b) to fully enjoy the sights and sounds, smiling, conversing with the pedestrians whose movement was far quicker than ours, albeit in a less uni-directional flow. One man even reached in my open window to leave not one, but several, calling cards for psychic readings. I was tickled.

Again, my experience at the Canadian border just a few months back was ever so much less pleasant than this border crossing, and I can't really figure out why. I was armed with custody decrees and airline tickets, but wasn't even asked about my "expired" passport. En fin. Back in San Diego, at our hotel, I. exclaims, "finally a real hotel." and makes a b-line for the pool where we spent the evening and 6 hours the next day.

Danielle and Alejandro's wedding was lovely, but she was so worn out from the swimming, that there was no dancing to be had. 10:30 and my child, MY CHILD, asked to go home because she was exhausted. I was perplexed, but happy to comply, and happily watched Olympic history on the nice hotel television before crashing myself.

So the drive up the coast was smooth, with pockets of inexplicable traffic that formed and dispersed at will, the fridge is once more stocked with fruits and veggies, and our luggage lies half-unpacked. But now, I think it is time for some exercise.