short story, travel, mexico
Our van is full of the boisterous clamour of North American teenagers, laughing and talking. In a few short months, we will graduate from high school and go our separate ways. But, right now I don’t need to think about that. Right now it is Spring Break, and I am in Tijuana with my friends.
The van we sit in is a bulky mass of chipped grey paint and rust. Inside, the only working seatbelt is the one in the driver’s seat, so most of us have to do without. It’s better this way, though. With no belt keeping me in place, I can really feel the road. We are driving around aimlessly because we want to see anything. We want to see everything.
Most of the buildings are old and somewhat dilapidated, but they are all brightly painted and decorated. It’s almost as if they’re wearing a disguise. The hibiscus shrubs are flowering this time of year, their brilliant orange petals contrasting with the barren concrete sidewalk that they grow beside. It is night-time and the city is aflame with flickering neon lights. There is a certain urban beauty about it that captivates me. My rural hometown doesn’t light up like this. I don’t think anywhere else lights up quite like this. A Spanish pop song is playing on the radio, its pulsing rhythm providing the perfect soundtrack for this moment. The van turns down a street and our laughter suddenly dies down. It is apparent where we are. With just one turn down an unfamiliar block we’ve entered the Red Light District.
The cracked sidewalk is lined with girls. Most of them appear to be younger than me. There is utter silence in the van. I stare through my window pane at the young women outside. They are all scantily clad. One girl is wearing black vinyl stilettos and a pink, lace-covered negligee. I look down at my own clothing. I’m clad in jeans and a hoodie, and still cold. She must be freezing.
A traffic light stops us, allowing me to watch another girl, this time for more than a few seconds. She looks to be around my age, seventeen, maybe sixteen. A white man of about thirty approaches her. They talk for a moment, then disappear through the door of a nearby building. I turn my head to look at my best friend, who is seated beside me in the backseat. She has been watching them too. The light turns green and the van is moving again. I break the silence.
“Did they just go into...?” I don’t need to finish my sentence. I already know the answer.
“Yeah,” my friend replies, “it’s a hotel.”
“Jesus Christ.”
There is nothing else to say. We pretend to smile at each other for a moment before turning back to the window. I feel sick. I already knew that Tijuana was famous for its flesh trade, but I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to see it. After a few more minutes, the van is back on a more familiar street. We are out of the District. I have never felt older.
The next morning, we cross the border into California. We are driving through a suburb of San Diego. It is made up of big, new-looking houses. The grass here is so bright green that it hurts my eyes. Welcome to Astro-Turf country. We’ve only traveled about thirty kilometres from Tijuana, but it seems like we’re on another planet. The smoothness of the road feels foreign. We park the van at the airport, and climb out with our luggage. We check our bags and go through security while making small talk with one another. There hasn’t been anything but small talk since last night.
There is still some time until we can board the plane, so we sit down in a row of blue chairs made of hard plastic. The kind of chairs that only exist in airports and bus-stations. None of us say much while we wait. We are all lost in our own thoughts, yet we’ve never been closer than we are right now.
When we get back to Canada, it is snowing. I had almost forgotten that it’s still winter here. I’ve only been gone for eight days, but it feels so much longer. The goodbyes shared with my travelling companions are brief. It has been a long day. Three hours on an airplane followed by five more on a cramped bus. We all just want to get home.
I see my mother’s small green Nissan pull up. I open the door and climb in.
“How was your flight?” My mother hates planes.
“It was good. No turbulence or anything.”
“Oh good. Well, I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”
“I missed you too, Mom.” I really mean it.
The car makes a right turn onto our gravel drive-way. Its rough surface reminds me of the uneven roads that I’ve gotten used to over the past week. I smile to myself. Yesterday: facing the world’s harsh realities on the streets of Tijuana. Tomorrow: Gym class, followed by Social Studies.
But today, I’m home.