ME: Ok, what’s your wish?

JULIAN: Um, [unintelligible]

ME: What?

JULIAN: [repeats] Ok, it’s your turn next.

ME: Oh, um. I wish… that I had a marshmallow.

JULIAN: Oh cool. I wish I was, uh, bag of marshmallows.

ME: [laughs] You wish you were a bag of marshmallows or you had a bag of marshmallows?

JULIAN: I had…

ME: Oh, okay. I wish I had a fire, then.

JULIAN: Me too!

ME: So I could cook the marshmallows.

JULIAN: Me too!

ME: You have to wish something else.

JULIAN: Um, okay. I just wish marshmallows!

ME: You just wish for marshmallows? I wish all those stars were marshmallows. [laughs]

JULIAN: [laughs] It’s my turn, okay. I wish I was a, I wish my tio (uncle) was a movie star.

ME: [laughs] You wish I was a movie star?

JULIAN: Yeah.

ME: That’s cool. I wish you were a superhero.

JULIAN: Oh that’s cool! My turn.

ME: Yeah. [iPhone screen went black] It’s on don’t worry keep going.

JULIAN: I wish I would fly to the moon so faster than a bird.

ME: You wish you could fly to the moon faster than a bird?

JULIAN: Yeah.

ME: Oh, that’s good. Um, I wish, I wish I could touch the stars and change the colors.

JULIAN: Cool! It’s my turn. I wish, I wish I could play all the hard/card games.

ME: You wish you could play them or bring them.

JULIAN: Play them on your phone.

ME: You want to play all the games on my phone?

JULIAN: Yeah, when I get six.

ME: When you turn six?

JULIAN: Yeah.

ME: How old are you now?

JULIAN: Still five.

ME: You’re still five, but when do you turn six?

JULIAN: …be big.

ME: I know you’ll be big, when? When’s your birthday? Do you know your birthday?

JULIAN: July 28th.

ME: July 28th! That’s only in a couple of weeks.

JULIAN: Mhmm, yeah it’s just a couple of weeks. It’s your turn.

ME: My turn, um. I wish I could swim like a fish.

JULIAN: Cool. I wish, I wish, I wish I would ride on a fish.

ME: A what-fish?

JULIAN: I wish I would ride.

ME: What kind of fish, a ride fish? I don’t know what kind of fish.

JULIAN: Um, it’s an animal that you can pick him and you can ride on him.

ME: You can ride on him.

JULIAN: Yeah.

ME: A riding fish.

JULIAN: Yeah!

ME: [laughs] Okay.

JULIAN: You know what? And a riding fish eats sharks.

ME: The riding fish eats sharks?

JULIAN: Yeah.

ME: Is it like Shamu or is it like a whale? What’s a riding shark?

JULIAN: I think it’s like a whale.

ME: Okay, what color is it?

JULIAN: Big and huge and pink.

ME: Big and huge and pink?!

JULIAN: Yeah, and Nathan you know what?

ME: What?

JULIAN: A ride fish is faster than a whale.

ME: He’s faster or fatter?

JULIAN: Faster.

ME: Oh, that’s cool.

Rosario surprises her nephews with a few cascarones, hollowed out eggs full of confetti (luckily these weren’t full of flour!). This is a great example of the innocent play and spontaneous laughter that fills our time in Tijuana.

After some tired opening remarks, my fellow potential jurors and I waited for our names to be called. Two and a half hours later, I closed another losing game of Vegas-style three-card draw solitaire on the Treo, unplugged the shuffle’s earbud from my left ear, grabbed my $1.50 bottle of water, and made one last pit stop to blow my stuffiness into a paper towel before heading up to a courtroom.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t among the first 18 selected for questioning. I watched the process alongside the other spares. The lawyers didn’t dismiss enough people to give me my shot, so the rest of us went back into the jury pool for another run after lunch.

The post-lunch waiting room was thin enough to find a seat near the TV to watch CNN’s version of presidential race. Another hour later, an amplified female voice fell from the ceiling tiles, “The docket is now clear. You may all head home having completed your service. Thank you.” I stamped my receipt and let myself out, disappointed.

[ view more images of border crossing | slideshow ]

My American patience level got the best of me and I bought a dryer. I’ve used dryers before. I grew up with a dryer. You press a button and clothes come out dry a few minutes later. Dry and wrinkled, that is. No matter what settings I use, I end up with wrinkled clothes. To this day, I haven’t mastered the magic combination of heat, load size and timing. Note the ironing board tucked next to the stacked washer/dryer (2007):

On the surface, it may look like an upgrade, but I’m back to the drawing board with all new settings. It’s like microwaving popcorn without a popcorn button. Inconceivable. I’ve flirted with the idea of taking everything to the cleaners, but that seems like one step too far across the yuppie line. Maybe I’ll string up a clothes line across the new patio…

Just imagine. You’re beaten silly in soapy water only to be tortured for another half-hour in a tumbling inferno. Or, you’re gently draped in the open air, kissed by the sun, the breeze whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

[ view more clothes line photos | slideshow ]

I walk down the cement steps to the kitchen. “Quieres almorzar? Do you want breakfast?” my mother-in-law asks. “Si, gracias” I reply. Two eggs over-easy, cebollitas (sauteed onions), beans, corn tortillas and chile. “Estuvo muy rico como siempre, It was very good as always” I tell her. She takes my plate with a small but satisfied smile.

Leaning over the bathroom sink, I lift my t-shirt collar and dry my face. It’s been a week since I shaved. I pull a clean pair of socks from my bag to replace the ones I slept in. Shoes laced and camera bag on my shoulder, I head outside.

The streets are lined with cars. The mayor is on his way. The previous mayor, Jorge Hank Rhon, made a visit the year before to inaugurate the soccer court his government helped build.

View of the court in the early stages of construction, directly opposite the image above

This morning, residents from the working-class neighborhood receive free haircuts, medical screenings, and groceries. A man plunges a syringe into the thigh of a small dog. He cries out from the sting of the free vaccine and hobbles away. A young girl scoops him up, cradling her wounded little friend. The amplified voices of the organizers raffle off food, plants and toys.

A girl approaches, maybe 20 years old, speaking to me through sunglasses. She asks who I’m with. “Vengo de la colonia para ver qué onda, I’m coming from the neighborhood, to see what’s up” I say, trying to downplay the fact that I’m clearly not from the neighborhood. She asks me who I work for, and I tell her. A public media organization in San Diego, visiting family nearby, thought I’d see what all the fuss is about. She tells me she’s a communication major. I give her one of the cards from my bag. “Estamos en contacto, We’ll be in touch,” she says walking away.

From the improvised stage, they inform the crowd that the mayor’s visit is cancelled. They explain that he had an urgent appointment with the governor and offers his sincerest apologies. But not without further adieu. They announce the distribution of the despensas, essential groceries, and diapers. The crowd exits the soccer court and forms a line at the back of a worn palette truck. Those at the back of the line urge those at the front not to mob the truck, “Respeta la fila! Respect the line!”

An hour later, the court is empty. The cars are gone. But the names of PRI party candidates Jorge Hank Rhon (running for governer of Baja California) and Jorge Aztiazarán (running for mayor of Tijuana) remain. Their signature red remains. The soccer court was strategically painted red. Hank had a large section of the border fence between San Ysidro and the beach painted red. The PRI is known for going into poor neighborhoods and giving free services. The people benefit from it. And so do the candidates.

Later that afternoon, my three nephews, my brother-in-law Fermin and I walk to the same red court for a game. They avoided the scene earlier, not wanting haircuts. “Lo cortan bien chueco, They cut it all crooked.”Fermin and I take opposite sides, and the boys split up. “Jugamos a soda, Loser buys soda.” After the game, they buy a two-liter of grapefruit Fresca and ask for 5 plastic bags. They fill the bags and pass them around. A quick twist to close the top and a tear out of the corner, it’s a refreshing victory.

The night sky in one of Tijuana’s neighborhoods explodes with energy in the early hours of 2007. My nephews and I share in the improvised community pyrotechnics to welcome the new year. The spirit of celebration emanates all around us.

The taxi drops us at Rosario’s sister’s home, where the trusty Nissan Frontier waits. We transfer luggage to the truck and head like zombies for the Otay crossing. When we arrive at 1:30 a.m., there are only two short, thin lines. “Mira, it’s not so bad,” I say to a reclined Rosario. I undo my seatbelt and make myself comfortable for what should take 30 to 40 minutes. At this hour, the customs agents typically work slower than normal, but after 45 minutes and only advancing 10 cars, I start having my doubts. Cars continue to gather in other rows, to the point that I no longer have an exit option. After asking a passing window washer, and seeing cars turn and head back, my half-conscious mind realizes the lanes are closed. No one is getting through.

I see a brief opening between cars and shove my way into the outside lane, making an overdue escape. Too tired to be outwardly angry, I take my grumpiness to San Ysidro to give it another shot. Otay is supposed to be open 24 hours, but because it’s a secondary entry point, it can be less consistent. We arrive at San Ysidro to much longer lines full of sleeping cars, lights and engines off. “Let’s just go to a hotel to sleep,” Rosario offers. But I’m not in the mood. I want to sleep in my bed tonight even if it’s just for a few hours. “Let’s just sleep in the SENTRI lane. It opens in a couple hours,” I decide.

It’s now 3 a.m. as we pull alongside one other car already waiting in the lane. I put it in park, turn off the engine, and pull out the laptop to play solitaire. I hit a second wind, now unable to sleep. After a half-hour losing repeatedly at the Vegas-style three-card game, I take out the camera.

At 4 a.m., the lane opens and we cross the line. The final leg of the drowsy marathon came to a close another half-hour later, and sleep came soon thereafter. As a privileged member of the SENTRI program, my heart goes out to all of my compas who were already beginning their workweek as I recoup a few hours sleep under the high thread-count sheets and synthetic down comforter of my king-sized bed.

It’s hard to believe its already been a year!

Wedding Video:broadband or dial-up August 21, 2004. Century Fox Beach Resort, Tijuana, MX. Produced by Avila Producciones. 6:25 min / Windows Media Video Life in Tijuana: broadband or dial-up Scenes from life in Tijuana, MTV-style. Produced by Avila Producciones. 3:39 min / Windows Media Video Reception Slideshow: broadband or dial-up Photos from childhood, youth, and together. Scenes from Perú, México, USA, Canada. 8:03 min / Windows Media Video My Valentine: broadband or dial-up Scenes from dating. Made by Nathan for Rosario on Valentine’s Day 2003. 1:04 min / Windows Media Video

You see, my wife is a Mexican citizen. We’ve been blissfully married for the past year, living in Tijuana, and we’ve come to that point where its time to process her legal residency paperwork (the infamous green card). Even before we got married, I looked at all the government forms, got an idea of how much it would cost and how long it would take. The process is quite complicated, but I’ll sum it up: in our situation, the US gov’t requires her to come to the US, give up her visa, stay in the US for 2 weeks pending work permit and travel visa, then wait for a year for final approval. This means, she was going to take a 2 week vacation from her job in Tijuana, and everything would proceed as normal.

Enter the war on terror. The processing I just described used to happen (prior to April of this year!) on a local level. But now, with xenophobia topping American cultural charts, our beloved gov’t has decided to send all immigration processing through one office. This means 2 weeks just turned into 3-4 months. Ahh, freedom at its best. So with a special thanks to Uncle Sam, we’re moving. My wife won’t be able to work or visit her family 25 miles away until the end of the year (fingers crossed).

Here’s our new place. 7272 Saranac St., La Mesa, CA 91941. It’s actually a pretty decent place. We’re right off the highway, about a mile from the trolley, and about 2 miles from my job. There’s a large swimming pool and the rent is fair. I’ll post some pictures once we get settled.