This is part 1 of a multi-part entry, which mirrors the conversation in (and is essentially a transcript of) the next Life Zero podcast. If you like it, please donate (on the right side of this blog) to Life Zero, which helps fund both the Life Zero podcast and the soon-to-be-released next episode of That Post Show.
Life Zero 103 - Part I
If you've ever wanted to feel like Fox Mulder, from the television show (and movie) X-Files, you have to do scarcely more than travel slightly south of the United States. The trip, especially in the current economic climate, will cost you very little money, including a hotel or resort, and you'll be in the thick of another culture, with its own values, rules and strange commentary.
I say Fox Mulder because, like the character from the X-Files, you'll speak differently, think differently, feel very much advanced compared to your surroundings and generally sound crazy, with every sentence you manage to construct, either in English or in Spanish.
By way of explanation, I should start at the beginning:
On July 15th, of this year (2009), I sold everything in my small San Francisco apartment, with the exception of a few clothes, shoes and a laptop (a MacBook Air, if you're curious) and set about the task of "traveling the world" - which sounds like a monumental task, now that I say it out loud - but, at the time, seemed so reasonable as to give me no excuse for not doing it.
Everyone asks the same question at first, "How is it you can afford to do such a thing?"
Traveling the world, it turns out, isn't as expensive as you might have imagined, depending on your initial expectations. If you choose to Fly Around the World using some pre-planned, travel-agency inspired agenda or you choose to sail around the world on a luxury cruise ship, sure... you'll have to take out a second and possibly a third mortgage on your home, sell a few kidneys and perhaps rob a large bank. Doing all this, you'd still likely not have the funds and... unfortunately, world-travel would be your only option, as you'd likely be on the run from the authorities and wanted in several countries.
No, I chose a different route. A... well, let's say, reasonable route. In looking into the possibilities, I realized one could easily travel, for not a lot of expense, using busses, couches, find-a-crew style boats and yachts and a bit of good karma and a positive attitude.
The positive attitude turns out to be the largest asset you have in your travel arsenal and I can't really spend enough time stressing this fact. So, I'll just repeat that again; maintain a positive attitude.
In every case, where I've not had a positive attitude, or I've been angry at a person, culture or place, it has not served me well at all. It has, in fact, been the single most effective way of ruining any (and sometimes, for a short period), every aspect of my travel for that day/week/timeframe.
I find myself rambling into philosophy, which I always try not to do too much, so I'll just take a step back and start at the beginning.
THE UNTIED STATES OF AMERICA*
I left San Francisco, with my wife, on July 15th. We took a train to LA, largely because she'd never really taken a train anywhere and also because I continue to be a fan of train travel, despite the expense, lack of privacy and slow-pace of the travel itself.
We spent a number of hours, somewhere between eight and twelve, on the train. We read a little, listened to some music, talked, had food in the dining car where we were asked to share a table, and where we met a mother and daughter from Washington state who -- and I swear this is true -- seemed so completely different as to be unrelated. The daughter, in her forties, was bitter and complained endlessly about everything, including her own mother's behaviour (don't eat that, don't have more coffee, blah blah blah). The mother, in her sixties, seemed to largely ignore the daughter's complaints, eat slowly, talk about the beauty of our surroundings and generally be a decent human being.
We arrived in LA, stepped off the train into what I can only describe, especially having lived in LA, as "the bad part of LA." We walked, with our rucksacks, for about a mile, caught a bus in the wrong direction, found ourselves in LA's rough neighborhood around midnight and starving. The only option was a 24 hour Subway sandwich shop - which, it must be said, I abhor both for the food and the service - and trying to eat the closest item on the menu which resembled, in my case food and in my wife's case, a vegetarian option.
We called our friend Cooper, who we were technically supposed to stay with that night, and he graciously offered to retrieve us from both the Bario and from the hell that is Subway sandwiches. I reluctantly agreed, only because it was a 30 minute drive in LA, even at night (LA is like that, you see, and one can expect to go about 1 mile every ten minutes, even in optimal driving conditions, especially when the 405 is involved).
Cooper retrieved us, pleasant as always, commented on our tiny 35 liter bags, asking, "That's all you have?" with some real appreciation for our ability to pack light and still be functional.
We stayed with Cooper and talked far too long into the night.
Both of us still had our iPhones, for reasons that are still a mystery to me, and Cooper offered to take them off our hands for a reasonable amount, given our friendship and how long we've known him. We agreed and slept well, then set off to watch Harry Potter at the Mann Chinese Theater, partly so I could do the next VFX Show and mostly because my wife loves Harry Potter, then have dinner and an overnight stay with another friend, Norman -- who, I never fail to mention, was the editor of the movie Heathers.
I should take a moment to say that Heathers is, without question, one of those movies that made an impact in my life, and for a few reasons. Firstly, it was the only dark movie I'd ever seen, which both acted like a John Hughes film and simultaneously told all John Hughes films to go get fucked. It was an anthem for my generation, no... a manifesto, really. It spoke to me as a film, especially as a teenager who grew up with big-hair, bubblegum pop music and SIXTEEN CANDLES (which I liked, mind you, but seriously...). It also spoke to me, for the first time, as a writer and editor.
Heathers cannot truly be appreciated, unless you look back and ask yourself, "What kind of person would have had the sack to make that movie at a time when movies like that didn't even exist yet?"
I say, there would be no RUSHMORE, no FIGHT CLUB, no dark drama-dy movies, without the existence of HEATHERS. From Ich Lüge Bullets to being fucked gently with a chainsaw, it is pitch-perfect in every way.
And, I stand by that statement.
At any rate, with stayed with Norman and his lovely wife, discussed film, Los Angeles, relationships, travel and just about everything else, before ultimately collapsing in his guest bedroom - which, was actually his daughter's room, though she's never there, after having gone to college. When she returns, she'll likely check her bookshelf and find an odd addition to it, my little gift, which I hope she takes the time to read someday.
We left and boarded a Greyhound Bus to San Diego. Cheap, luxurious and quite fast compared to the train. Similar to the busses in Mexico, but with some stark contrasts, which I'll discuss later.
We arrived in San Diego, walked a few blocks, grabbed the trolly into Mexico - Tijuana in this case, took that for about half an hour, then walked across the US/Mexico boarder, through a strange, multi-level spiraling walkway that also seemed to want to be a parking garage.
WELCOME TO MEXICO
The second we arrived in Mexico, a dozen touts (which, I've come to learn is the name of such people) approached us and offered everything from drugs, to women - which is odd, since I was standing next to one - to a taxi into town. This was the first time we'd had an opportunity to stay with a couchsurfer, so we knew where we needed to go and who we'd be meeting.
CouchSurfing, for the uninitiated, is potentially the best thing that has ever happened to travel since the invention of modern flight. It is an internet site, which among other things, has over three million registered users and they are all deeply interested in travel, meeting new people and basically being a contributor to the world in general. You sign up, donate $25, get verified - so they know who you are, which requires an address and a credit card - then you log on and pick a location in the world.
Up pops a number of people who have agreed to "host" - which is an understatement, as most of the people either put you up in a guest room or show you around town or do both and even more. Sometimes you get a couch, hence the name, sometimes it's just coffee or food, but it is always a great experience and a way to meet local people who know their way around and want to meet fellow travelers.
And, because the Gods of Travel nearly always smile upon me and have since I can remember, we lucked into staying with Chay. Chay is a man, and I mean that in the deepest, most IRON JOHN by Robert Bly sort of way, who we came to refer to as the Godfather of Tijuana. Chay had, among other things, a wonderful home, where he stays with his wife and her two kids, just above Ché's Place - a small restaurant, where his wife and several other people worked. Chay was also a five-year running UFC-style fighter who spoke near-perfect Spanish. In addition, Chay knew everyone and was built in the kind of way one might imagine a scarred, five-year running UFC-style fighter being built. Big, muscular, completely intimidating, even at under 6 feet tall.
Chay was the kind of intimidating that allowed his wife's daughter, probably ten years old, to say to me, with a straight face, "Chay is taller than you." Bear in mind, I'm over six feet tall and Chay is 5'10" on a good day.
He's that guy.
But, the experience was completely amazing. We were treated with respect by him (and others, by the way) as we strolled carelessly through the streets of Tijuana, into bars, into clubs, into restaurants and even in the dark of night. Chay reverberated with a "you don't want a piece of this" vibe and knew everyone.
Local dealers selling drugs on his street? Chay walks up, says a few words, and they scatter. He looks back, "No one deals drugs where my kids sleep."
Some guys tries to rob his restaurant, holds his wife at faux-gun point (the gun turned out to be plastic)? He flies down the stairs, three at a time, after hearing her scream. He punches the guy in the face, knocking him unconscious and simultaneously bursting a blood vessel and nearly breaking his own hand, drags the would-be-robber into the street and whistles loudly, causing several Mexicans to appear out of seemingly nowhere and drag the robber away, kicking him in the process.
It's hard to know what happened to the would-be-robber, and Chay wouldn't say, so I just move on, thinking happy thoughts that don't involve him laying in a ditch somewhere, mauled by wild dogs, circled by vultures.
... to be continued ...
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