The Way Home

As we approached the border line, I noticed stores full of small, children’s bicycles. I thought it was curious that bicycles would be a hot item in Tijuana, which is far better known for it’s butterfly knives, blankets and rip-off “jokely” sunglasses. After standing in line for a few minutes, we noticed several people walking right past the line, and decided to check out how they were able to slip through the line. Tossing about (fairly absurd) theories of citizens having a separate line I scouted out the situation. It seemed that people were indeed just filling into this really short line, and I went back to pull Mark and Meg out of line. When we all arrived at the “short” line, a friendly guy in the “long” line leaned over and let us know that this was in fact the bike line. A little frustrated with myself, we headed back to the new back of the long line (which was now about 75 feet longer than when we had first queued up). As we stood in the depressingly long line, we started to see all these people, men and women, in suits and ties, walking along with their trashed little kids bikes in tow. Some people just carried the bikes, not to be concerned with keeping the tires on the ground, losing even the fading illusion of being a bicyclist.