Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 10.5 — Rudy the Italian New Yorker who said Tijuana was the DR mixed with 80s Brooklyn.

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Chapter 10.5

Rudy the Italian New Yorker who said Tijuana was the DR mixed with 80s Brooklyn.

 

I got busy again and I forgot where I was going with all the shit I was typing. I said it had been slow days in the other intro. Well, that got reversed. The editor accepted my pitch for a feature story, then I went to investigate another short story. I got really good material, so I pitched a lengthy story and he went for it.

 

Now I have a couple of days to finish the first story before I leave town.

 

And also… one paid photo gig to take care of.

 

And a tour…


Not really a tour. My tours have changed a lot. There’s still the occasional bachelor party, but it is very rare now. 

 

This tour is of journalistic nature, not that of gross nature. Irish reporters are visiting this weird city and they need someone to show them around. They found me somehow. And I got to take care of that this weekend.


And there are a lot of good events this weekend. And tomorrow I’m jamming with some guys to see if we start a band.


And…

And…

 

Tijuana is a lot. And I’m getting busy. Let’s get it over with so I can go back to work.


 

We left Hong Kong and it was nice and bright out. What an experience. Especially for a 20-year-old who has never been in a bar or much less a titty club like that one. 

 

I stopped feeling joy showing people that insane place. It used to be awesome to watch. How people’s eyes lit up when they see that depravity. Men and women. LGBT or anything. It’s world-famous for a reason. And getting famouser as I write this (I am aware famouser is not a word).


So you can imagine Kevin’s conflicted feelings and emotions and excitements.

 

Taking him to La Nueva Pachanga is like throwing a bucket of cold water on his face.


It goes from tempting depravity from hell to actual hell. A real one. No makeup on this fucker. Crude reality. 


 

We sat on the back near the inflatable palm tree. The only fucking decoration inside La Nueva Pachanga besides the Chivas posters.

 

There used to be a pole there. Not sure if they changed it. But there used to be one.


 

Kevin didn’t understand why I took him to this shithole. I didn’t really even know either.

 

That place still fascinates me, but I used to be obsessed with it.


 

There was a drunk older woman with a summery dress dancing by the pole. She had a date on a table. A date that was passed out and she barely paid attention to him.


Kevin kept staring. I told him not too, but he couldn’t help it. I tried not too, but I obviously played it dumb like I wasn’t watching it.


Then she came over and touched Kevin and asked for a dollar. 

 

His reaction was of “eww no, get off of me.”

 

Drunk woman got mad and said, “if you don’t like it then don’t watch!”

 

And kept dancing and making obscene gestures at us. She lifted her dress to show a very undesirable body. 


We left way before sunset. 

 

That was Kevin’s brief introduction to Zona Norte.


 

Reviewing memories of the time, my friend Nick from Minnesota was here when all this shit happened, since Kevin and Nick met at some point.

 

This is when the craft beer scene barely started occurring and my tours started to shift focus.


 

I never took Nick to Zona Norte. Just craft beers and dive bars. More like my tours now.


 

Later that same week, I had my first legit paid customer. He was not interested in craft beer.


When I started, I used to advertise on craigslist. 

 

The ad said something along the lines of “Hey, I’ll guide you through Tijuana for $25.” 

 

It probably included beer, tacos, and strip clubs as part of the ad.


 

My first client came through those ads.

 

A guy from New York named Rudy. Classic Italian New Yorker from the Bronx. Super heavy accent straight up from the movies. Never met a guy like that. Incredibly New Yorker.

 

He compared Tijuana to the Dominican Republic and to 80s New York.

 

“Me and my boys, you know, we would go to the DR and get all these girls for cheap, you know, the DR was great, you know.”

 

He sounded something like that.

 

Really funny dude.

 

“New York was like this in the 80s, you know. You would drive around, you know, and get girls to suck your dick for a $20, you know.”

 

For him, Tijuana was that. A mix of 80s New York and his experiences in brothels in the Dominican Republic or “the DR.” (Dee Ahr you idiot, not doctor). 

 

He requested chicken tacos.

 

That took me by surprise. Chicken tacos are an odd request. Or rarely even seen. I told him Tijuana is about fish and shrimp tacos or meat. Nah. He wanted chicken tacos.


 

This is how bad I was giving tours. I didn’t know where to take him. 

 

We ended up in a shitty place that served shitty tacos. He didn’t like them.

 

Again, I told him chicken tacos aren’t really a thing. Should have just taken him where it is good and not giving him silly choices.


We had a beer somewhere before going into the strip clubs.


 

He loved the shit out of Adelita’s. Again, he said everything was the same as the DR. 

 

He said that some politician came to the DR and cleaned all up.

 

“They fucked up, you know. DR was great and then they cleaned it. No more hookers. We used to fly every other month, rent a house, you know, and get girls, you know. Beautiful girls for cheap. The DR was great. But no more, you know.”

 

“You know” was never a question. More like an interlude between thoughts. 


 

I charged him $25 for the tour which he paid upfront. Then he paid for all the rest.

 

After Adelita’s, of course, Hong Kong.


 

Oh was he loving the fuck out of Hong Kong.

 

He picked up the most plastic looking girl. He said he liked that. The faker the better. He bought her a couple of drinks and told me to get a girl for myself.

 

He then said he was going to take her to the room and gave me some cash so I can drink while I waited for him.

 

He came back all happy with the same girl and kept buying her drinks.


Old school photographers roam strip clubs to try to sell you a picture of the memory of you with a hooker.

 

He paid for a photograph with him and his girl. Two actually. One of them posing as if they were the most awkward high school couple before prom. The other of him with his head between her tits.

 

$5 per picture.


 

We drank a bit more in Hong Kong. He said goodbye to his girl. And then left.


It was still day time. Nearing sunset.

 

He wanted to see more. So I took him through Zona Norte. We didn’t go to La Nueva Pachanga, but I was more confident about where to walk in the area. He wanted to see the street girls.

 

It was DR this. 80s New York that.

 

He fucking adored Tijuana.

 

We walked by where the transsexual hookers stand.

 

“I’ve seen a lot of transformers in my days, you know, and let me tell you, those transformers are some of the best transformers I’ve ever seen.”

 

I never heard anyone called them transformers. I know it’s derogatory to call them trannies, shemales, ladyboys, or many more… but transformers.

 

I think transformers is just fucking hilarious. 

 

I’m pretty sure they find offense in that. They should find it empowering. Transforming oneself is some difficult shit.


Sorry trans community. That was Rudy talking. 


 

As we walked back to the border, he asked why so many farmacias. I explained the giant medical and dental tourism we have at the border.

 

Suddenly, Tijuana was not an interesting thing for him just for the girls… 

 

Rudy needed dental care that he had been neglecting because it was too expensive.

 

He said he planned to come back in a couple of months, get dental work, and go find the exact same girl in Hong Kong.


 

Sorry, mom. Sex sales.


 

Rudy crossed back to San Diego and it wasn’t even night time. I charged him $25 for the tour, but he was so happy with everything that he learned that he gave me $50 tip. 


 

I made as much money as the prostitute he slept with. I was conflicted, but I made money. Sleazy money. 


 

I called my mom to tell her my first tour was a success and that I made more money than I was expected. And told her that I was sorry because sex sales…


Rudy did come back. It was almost a year later. And his adventure was similar to the one above, except dental work, and he lost his keys in a taxi cab.

 

Not sure if that story is worth telling.


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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 10 — New Apartment, New Not-crazy Roommate, Co-worker Experiences Zona Norte.

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Chapter 10. New Apartment, New Not-crazy Roommate, Co-worker Experiences Zona Norte.

 

I haven’t been working lately. It has been slow these past few days. I don’t like it because I’m not making any money.


 

I started taking pictures of pretty girls posing. I’m back in the photography game. I’m good at it. But I’m not sure if I love it. I just want to do it to make money. And I figured taking pictures of pretty girls is where there is money.

 

That. And pictures of food.

 

And photojournalism.

 

I can do all types of pictures. I’m making some money out of photojournalism. I have a gig to take care of this week. But I need more money.

 

And I just started taking pictures of girls modeling. I’m not sure where I’m going with it. I’m never sure where I’m going in life.


 

I don’t think no one ever does.


 

I haven’t been writing. But I finally pitched something to my editor and I will be working on it next week. Leaving Tijuana for a while. I need to get away.


 

Just like I got away from living with Mrs. Palída Hortaliza.

 

Holy shit that was terrifying.


 

So now I was living in the same ghetto building in downtown Tijuana. I never described it well. 

 

It’s a red building. It’s almost prison-like but not that horrible. The narrow corridor is dark and the stairs are of simple cement with black handrails. There were 12 units in there. The apartment that I moved out of was on the third and last story. It had nice light and a small balcony with nice views. Neighbors on each side that were okay and some in the bottom that I never really saw.

 

The apartment I moved in was in the middle level of the building. Surrounded by every apartment and right in front of the main stairs.

 

I heard every single movement in the complex.

 

The grumpy mechanic neighbors. The weird neighbor that owned a BMW and claimed to be a videographer but still shot film. Families that kept to themselves but looked scared. The guy that most definitely sold drugs. You know. Downtown Tijuana.


 

Boxy small two-bedroom apartment in the middle of the complex. The balcony for that apartment hit a wall of the building next door. The saddest balcony in history. That was the view from my room as well.

 

The light was shit. And I had a dusty extra room for rent. 

 

Almost no furniture at all. Just my computer and my kitchen shit. Still, no internet and my new room didn’t reach the Wifi from the old corner.


 

It was shitty. But I was happy. 

 

Working every day at an office for $800 a month and paying $280 for a two-bedroom wasn’t that bad.


 

It didn’t take me long to find a roommate to split rent with. He barely lived in Tijuana so I barely saw him.

 

We are still good friends to this day. So for the purposes of this text let’s call him Ricardo. Yeah. Why not.


 

Ricardo showed me the joys of Zona Norte outside Hong Kong.


 

Up to this point, I have only been talking great about the sexual palaces in Zona Norte. Well… now it’s time to talk about the shitholes.


 

Introducing La Nueva Pachanga.

 

Just a few steps away from Hong Kong is this lovely place.


 

Ricardo took me walking through Zona Norte, but the opposite way I’m used to entering. This time, we walked from west to east on Calle Primera. Before this, I haven’t even walked on Calle Primera besides by the Hong Kong area.

 

The area is gnarly. I rarely walk through that area now. Despite living a block from it. And a few blocks from Calle Primera, near La Internacional… Yeah. Don’t walk there. It’s too gruesome.

 

Shit. I live right there and I don’t dare cross certain streets. Too many drugs in this town.


 

And that’s where Ricardo was taking me.

 


 

Behind heavy blue curtains with a heavy stench of smoke, you’ll find a more pleasant stench… of piss and ammonia. Rats crawled by the floor and by the cracks on the ceiling. Beers are cheaper than in the store. And Ricardo walked in as if nothing. As if it wasn’t a weird place. As if it wasn’t the shittiest bar in existence.


 

The joys of La Nueva Pachanga.

 


 

This is where sad hookers end the night. The old ones that couldn’t make any money sit at the bar and let old men buy them drinks. That’s all they need.


 

It’s a wormhole into another dimension. A few yards away people are living lavishly surrounded by beautiful naked women throwing money in the air like they just don’t care.

 

And in La Nueva Pachanga people count pennies to get a drink. 

 

Shoe shiners come in and offer to clean your shoes if you buy them a beer or a taco. 

 

Junkies come in for a fix that is easily available in one of the shady corners of the bar.

 

Drunk old hookers with scars or barely passable men dressed in drag dance on the dirty pole hoping someone will give them a dollar. Usually, no one does. 

 

There’s a gambling machine similar to pachinko but with a soccer theme that is supposedly illegal. But who cares. The short employee dances while he mops the floor over and over. Tipping him a coin would result in him promptly going to the soccer pachinko machine to try his luck. 

 

Somehow, the jukebox is outstanding, it has an eclectic collection which includes numerous great bands. And the speakers sound good for how loud they usually have them and how shit the bar is.

 

Posters on the wall seem to be there since decades ago. Chivas, the soccer team, stomping on their rivals, America. Pictures of the team from seasons ago when they were actually good. Misspelled handwritten signs inform you of the prices.

 

2 Pasifico Caguama 50 pesos


 

Ricardo bought me a 10 pesos shot of tequila.

 

Tequila el muerto, 10 pesos

 

You read that right.

 

That’s around 60 cents for a shot.

 

Obviously, it was fucking disgusting.

 

But there we went again. Took a couple more 10 pesos shots and got some beers.


 

Beers, again, are cheaper than the store. They don’t taste right but for around $3 for two giant 1.27 liter beers it’s a steal. Jukebox is cheap. The soccer pachinko machine is fun. The people that enter are insanely colorful. 

 

It’s the end of life.


 

I became addicted to it.

 

To that disgusting yet interesting wormhole and walking around the gruesome Calle Primera. 

 

I rarely walk through there anymore.


 

I became addicted to the stupid soccer pachinko machine. 5 pesos for seconds of entertainment and every once in awhile win some money. I’ve lost around $30 playing that stupid shit but got much entertainment out of it. Worth it. I would still go back just for that fucker.

 

And the pool table is not that bad. It’s crooked and used as fuck. But 25 cents games. Beat that. 


 

It’s been a long time since I went to La Nueva Pachanga.

 

It’s been a long time since I went to Hong Kong. 


 

I had a co-worker who was moving from Los Angeles to Tijuana to join the gang of writers in the office.

 


 

El Pinche Kevin. A Mexican-American kid that wanted to pursue a career in writing sports. The kid now is an editor for some other shit.


 

But I remember to perfection when I introduced to el Pinche Kevin the double whammy.


 

Fucker was only 20-years-old when he moved to Tijuana. He had never been in a bar in his whole fucking life.

 

Can you imagine that?!


 

Of course, he had drunk before. This kid went to high school in California and partied.

 

But not bars.

 

And not like this.


 

Take 1.

 

Hong Kong. Or I think for starters it was Adelita’s.


It was Adelita’s.

 

He had never been to a bar, much less one with naked women everywhere.


 

I lied. I don’t remember the night as perfectly as I wish. Memory is a bitch. And I’ve been Zona Norteando way too much that memories mix.


 

It had to be Adelita’s. It’s usually better to start there than to go to Hong Kong.

 

I remember he bought a girl a drink and was disappointed by it.


That got him ready for Hong Kong. Yadda yadda yadda.

 

Strippers and fun.

 

Dollars poorly or very well spent. It depends on how you look at it. It depends on how much money you make.

 

I wasn’t making much.

 

Neither was him.

 

So we didn’t stay there long.

 

I just showed him the joys of Zona Norte at around 2 pm. 

 


 

Of course, no trip was complete without Nueva Pachanga now.


 

That’s the TJ experience. Well… the real Zona Norte experience.

 

Shithole to fancy sex palace in seconds.

 

You have to see both.

 

Otherwise, you are doing it wrong.

 

And behind heavy curtains in Zona Norte, you don’t know what you are going to find.


 

It’s like a game show where you get to choose a door and see what happens.

 

Some might be shitholes with sad old dancers, drunks, and drugs.

 

Others might be completely empty with maybe one hot girl.

 

Playboy for some reason always has a group of Asians.

 

Zona Norte.

 

Just enter it. At any fucking given time. It’s almost 11:00 a.m. right now and I could venture behind heavy curtains indoors of Zona Norte and who the fuck knows what I’m going to find.

 

Hong Kong is a guarantee that it will be the same for now. Same with Adelita’s.

 

But the rest.

 

Who the fuck knows. Some shit for sure. I was curious to find out. And I did a lot.

 

But for now.

 

Let’s go back to the double whammy.


 

Leaving Hong Kong is difficult. Or it used to be. There are too many naked women that it’s hypnotizing and it pulls you back.

 

So it’s best to snap the fuck out of it.

 

And how better to snap the fuck out of than entering a different reality.


That’s what I ohh shit… Come back to it later, I just got called for some work.


If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 9 — Pale Happiness.

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 9. Pale Happiness.

 

There are three draft emails in my inbox that I have kept for over a year. They are query/pitches to editors at Playboy, the New Yorker, and the Rolling Stone. I never had the balls to send it. I fear both: rejection and acceptance. 


It’s been slow lately. I did what my editors asked. I queried some stories. And now I don’t want to do those stories. So I’m thinking about querying again. Because I need to make money. 


 

So let’s go back to telling stories of Tijuana. This wasn’t what I originally set to write ever. It just happens.


 

I knew it was a mistake moving in with her after the first night there. 

 

Nothing happened at night. I don’t really remember the night. It was probably uneventful. Me moving shit and setting up my room. My iMac where I currently type this was in a lonely corner of a small decent room in some ghetto Tj apartment.

 

Rent was $280 a month, I paid her first month + deposit. Split into two, $140+ expenses to live in that boxy apartment with her was a great deal. Better than my parents.

 

Nothing happened that night.


 

I awoke to the sounds of her singing scales with her keyboard. She was doing it wrong.

 

I ignored it. That was her thing. Play keyboards and sing. I’ve seen her done it before.

 

That’s how we met.


 

Oh yeah. I met her before and I already knew she was crazy. I moved in thinking, “how bad can it be.”

 

It was bad since that first morning.


 

We met randomly at some hipster event in Pasaje Gómez, an arts alley. Local Tijuanenses were selling homemade Etsy-like shit. I went there with my guitar because my brother asked me to help him with his stand. So I played guitar while people browsed his store.


 

She sat next to me and said nothing.


Then on her weird accent and soft voice, she said: “hi, you… play pretty…” She said it in Spanish, but it sounded like she didn’t know the language well. And the inflection of her voice goes up and down in an odd fashion.

 

Nothing happened that day. I met a weird pale chick and thought nothing of it.


 

Weeks later I saw her pale face at a punk show in Mous Tache bar. That’s what I kept doing those days. Drinking a lot of cheap shit and going to punk shows.

 

She was selling weed cookies and I bought some from her. They were pretty bad.


 

I went to the show by myself and she sold cookies to people on the crowd. I didn’t pay attention to her much, but as the show ended and the beers hit me way more than the cookies, I was ready to go home. This is back when I was still living with my parents.

 

She said she had more weed at her house and invited me over to her place.

 

We walked back to her place.

 

We fooled around on her couch.

 

Then nothing happened and I fell asleep.

 

Her weed was shitty. Didn’t even smoke it. I was too tired.


 

Months later she told me she needed a roommate. Months later I was ready to get out of my parents’ house.

So fuck it. I knew she was crazy, but I moved in any way.


 

She came out of her room that first morning after singing scales wearing a long white gown. Those type of pajama gowns that you only see grandmas wearing. 

 

I told her I wanted to put some plates and shit that was kitchen-related in the drawers of the kitchen.

 

She replied “but we already have plates. Why would you want to put more plates there?”

 

I told her because they were my plates and she had her plates. 

 

The “we” thing was enough of a sign.

 

She complained and said they would gather dust.

 

So great…

 

Two boxes of kitchen shit that was my property were not welcome in the kitchen we were supposed to be sharing.

 

Fuck it. I’ll survive a few months with a crazy chick and leave…

 


 

I left the apartment to go to work. Office at 10:00 a.m.


 

Before moving in, I made her clear of two things. We weren’t going to hook up at all and that I need internet to work.


 

She texted me at lunch time “please buy toilet paper because we need some.”

 

I ignored it.

 

“We also need soap, sponges, and shampoo.”

 

I ignored it again.

 

“Buy this type of shampoo.”

 

I texted her back that I wasn’t buying her all that shit but that I agreed with the toilet paper.


 

I came home and she had done nothing all day.

 

I asked about the internet. She said she was going to get it. 

 

I asked what she did all day and she basically just sat in the apartment, cleaned it, and watched movies on her laptop.


 

I told her I had more shit that I wanted to move into the apartment. My TV and some furniture.

 

She said she didn’t want a TV in the apartment because she would watch it too often. And she didn’t want any more furniture because they get dirty.


 

The only internet I could get was in the corner of my room. I stole the signal from a neighbor and it was low and crappy. But that corner was the only place.

 

So that’s where I stayed for the rest of my night until rinse and repeat.


 

Following morning I come out of my room, shower, and got ready to work.

 

She was in the kitchen spreading some avocado on a piece of toast.

 

I told her that avocados are one of the only things I don’t like.

 

She turns around and says: “oh really?”

 

She then grabbed the avocado and started smushing it all over her face. Eww, why?

 

Because it was an avocado skin beauty mask according to her. It wasn’t. It was avocado spread unevenly on her face to spite me.

 

She then grabbed the other half of the avocado and said: “you don’t like it? What if I do this?” She lifted her gown and gestured touching herself with the avocado.

 

I didn’t fall for her game. Have a good day. Going to work.


I came home at night to find out that she did nothing about the internet.

 

She said she didn’t want internet in the apartment anymore. I needed it for work… 

 

She said she worked online. 

 

What did she do? She went to coffee shops and sold books on eBay for pennies. Books that her parents bought her for college.


 

How she paid rent or anything was always a mystery. I thought she sold weed or did something. But no. I suspect her parents gave her a small stipend and she would spread that stipend as best as she could throughout the whole month. Doing absolutely nothing. Wasting money.


She would also drag her piano and play in public. She barely even knew chords or music. I told her I could teach her but she adamantly said no.

 

She would grind on the piano seat, play random keys, and sing and moan. She told me once, that as an artist, her objective was to have an orgasm on stage in front of people.

 

She had cardboard cutouts in her room. Not official ones. It was just literal cardboard from a box, that she DIY and then crudely drew on them. They were supposedly Freddie Mercury, David Bowie, Prince, and John Lennon. She said they were her backup band.

 

She lacked talent and self-awareness. She was also shy and odd.

 

And again, her pale face and weird accent didn’t help.


 

Her name wasn’t Palída Hortaliza. I learned that quick. Her name, according to her, and the landlord was “Alegría.” Happiness. 

 

That’s what she had me called her.

 

Way later after moving out, I found out her real name. 

 

I’ve only seen her once again and I’m not sure if it was her. It was like seeing the devil.


 

I had planned to move out after my two months since I had already paid for them. I told her that I was moving out because she refused to get internet and I needed a place with internet.


 

One day, I came back from work to find out that the couch she had in the living room was gone.

 

She sold it on eBay for $1 USD to a buyer from Arizona. She carried and dragged the old worn-out couch to the border. Crossed it over. Walked over to the nearest post office. Paid $37 to have the couch shipped.

 

Why?

 

Because she didn’t want the buyer to give her a bad review on eBay.

 

Two weeks later. She got a one-star review from that customer.


 

So she wasn’t only crazy in the schemes of being crazy. She also just plainly didn’t make sense.

 

And the type of texts of her demanding shit continued. She kept telling me to buy certain things. Or that the apartment needed something. That “we” needed something.

 

All of that happened in less than a week.


 

I established my boundaries once more. But that didn’t work.


Oh shit yeah.

 

I forgot. 

 

The second night I was there… she started crying out of nowhere. I asked her what was wrong, why was she crying?

 

She replied, “I cry every night because no one loves me.”

 

And she did.

 

I heard her sobbing every night. It wasn’t the quiet type of sobbing. She wanted the neighborhood to know she was crying.

 

And then she would wake up at the crack of dawn to practice singing. Scales played wrongly and her voice not even close to matching the notes being played.


So. To recap.

 

She demanded shit via text. She sold shit on eBay but lost money while selling (and most of her day). She didn’t want a TV because she would spend too much time watching it, but she would watch movies she downloaded on her laptop all day. She wanted to be a singer but was nowhere close to reality in being one. 

 

And on top of all that, she demanded to clean everything extensively. Because that’s what she did all day.

 

I decided to only be in my room and go out to use the bathroom. I never used the kitchen. I always ate out because she would complain.

 

I felt like a prisoner in my own apartment.

 

That’s how it was for another week.


Things got worse.

 

She would demand more things from me, and when I refused she went crazy.

 

She told me the story of why she got kicked out of her parents’ house once.

 

In her own soft awkward inflection voice, the story goes like this:

 

“So… I was at my parents’ house. And I got bored. And I grabbed drawings that my brother had made. He was in art school. Well. I grabbed them and smeared la regla on all of them. Then I showed them what I did during dinner.”

 

She then gave me a sly smile.

 

I didn’t know what she meant by “la regla” which Spanish means “the ruler.” I was confused.

 

She kept saying la regla… la regla… as if it had more significance.

 

Then she said it.

 

“I menstruated on my brother’s drawings.”

 

La regla is another way to say she had her period.


 

And she was proud.

 

She told that story as if she was an artistic genius. As if she did something amazing.


She told me another story.

 

“Another time, I grabbed my parents and sat them down in the living. I unbuckled my belt and stripped naked. I kept the belt in my hand and started hitting the floor and hitting myself until I was bleeding. I kept hitting myself and the floor and screaming: ESTO ES LO QUE ME HICIERON!” 

 

“This is what you did to me.”

 

I have no idea what her parents ever did to her.

 

Shit was scary.

 

I just wanted the two months to fly so I can find another place.


 

It was two weeks into living with her that I came into the apartment and found a handwritten letter from her.

 

The letter was accusing me of being a bad roommate and telling me that she was going to charge me for cleaning the kitchen and bathroom because I didn’t clean. 

 

It basically said that. But it was written on both sides of the page. 

 


 

I saw her that night and told her she had to be joking. There was no way I was going to pay for her cleaning. She wanted a ludicrous amount as well. Like three times what a maid would charge me to clean the apartment.

 

I refused.


 

She started hitting herself.

 

Slowly on her chest at first.

 

Like pounding on her chest with her closed right fist while staring at me.

 

She started pounding harder and harder. Clearly hurting herself. 

 

She then said it.

 

“I’m going to call the cops and tell them you raped me.”

 

And she started beating herself up more.


I closed the door to my room in a panic. I posted on Facebook what I was going through in case things got out of control people knew what was going on. 

 

I opened the door after a few minutes to find that she was still hitting herself. 

 

I left the apartment and went next door to the gas station.


 

The guy in charge of the building worked in the gas station, he told me to called him “Tache”. Luckily, he was there that night. I panicky told him what was happening. 

 

Tache, with his broad white mustache and greasy hands, said: “se le boto la canica, verda’?” Which means she went crazy, right?

 

I told him I noticed the apartment below was empty and asked him if I could move there that same night. He calmed me down and told me not to worry. He gave me the keys to the empty apartment and went over to the apartment to talk to Alegría.

 

She had calmed down but she had some blood on her forehead and bruises on her arms and chest.

 

I told her, through Tache, that I was there to grab my things and that I was moving out.


 

I grabbed my bed, my computer, some other basic things, and went to the apartment downstairs.


The following morning, with the help of Tache, I went back to the apartment for the rest of my shit. She sat in the living room observing me move out all my shit.

 

As I was moving the shit out and taking it to the other place… she grabbed a chair from her room, went to the apartment complex tiny ass patio, sat down with a massive book (seemed like a textbook for coding which I’m sure she wasn’t reading) and kept observing me.


 

She never said a word to me.

 

I never said a word to her.


A few days later she was gone. 

 

Tache told me that she abandoned some shit in the apartment. Her backup band of crude cardboard cutouts. Some random clothes and broken heels. Books and notebooks with scribbles of her poetry. Other crap.

 

She was also didn’t pay rent and left with the keys. The rent money I gave her…

 

The only thing that she took with her was her keyboard.


 

And now I had my own two-bedroom apartment in Tijuana. Two weeks free rent because Tache hooked it up and understood the situation.


You the man, Tache!


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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 8 — Life Low Points. 

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Chapter 8. Life Low Points. 

 

I am waiting for nightfall just so I can start drinking. It’s Saturday so I don’t feel like doing any actual work. I almost didn’t do any actual work all week. Just some photography.


 

The editor forgot to pay me for the morgue story. Rare mistake, he usually pays me quickly. I’ll have to wait two more weeks for that money. I should be working on my stories, but I’m not sure what I’m doing or what to start writing next.


 

So I wait for the sun to go away so I can have an excuse to drink. There as a soccer game on TV in a couple hours and I want to watch and use it as an excuse to start drinking, but I can’t. I have little family errands to do at the same time. Once I accomplish those, I can start drinking.


 

Despite not working much, the week was semi-productive. I did photography work more than anything. One paid gig. Two unpaid. The unpaid was photographing pretty girls. I barely just started doing that. I took pictures of many Victoria Secret models and some of the most beautiful women in the world back in my paparazzo days. But this is different. Much different. And I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I’m having fun.


 

If you are wondering.

 

No. The psycho stripper was not pregnant with my baby.


 

Turns out she was trying to get pregnant from her boyfriend plenty before. And not only him, but she was also hooking up with an American guy and also trying to get pregnant through him.

 

Why would anyone want to get pregnant is beyond me. But she was trying.

 

She tried with me.

 

But I’m not dumb, she had condoms.

 


 

This didn’t stop her from pinning it on me. I felt horrible. I didn’t want a child. Much less with a stripper that I didn’t really care much about. 

 

Drama occurred. Obviously.

 

The kid wasn’t mine.


 

I did the math.


 

She was around three weeks pregnant when our encounter happened.


 

But wait! There’s more!

 


 

Nah. There’s not more. That was the last I heard of her. Until five years later. That’s going to come up at some point in these diaries of an old man.


So back to it. 

 

I was broke. I just had one of the wildest nights of my life. I coined “Tijuana Adventure” because of it even though it’s FUCKING blatantly obvious. 

 

Now Tijuana Adventure is about craft beer and street eats. I still get bachelor parties and shit gets wild. But that’s what the embodiment of Tijuana Adventure is.

 

It just happens.

 

The city absorbs you and you have a Tijuana Adventure.

 

My adventure in the city was turning dark.


 

The stripper wasn’t the only Tijuana girl to tell me she was pregnant. Remember the curly hair girl that came over to me and just declared her love? 

 

Well… yeah.

 

I hooked up with her as well. 

 

Before losing my apartment….


 

Thing was… she was way too young. She was 18 and still in fucking high school!

 

And obviously infatuated with me.


 

She made up the pregnant story and I called her bluff. She showed up in her fucking high school uniform outside my apartment to confess that she had lied.


 

Just to be clear, I was 25 at the point. So it wasn’t that creepy. Still… 18. Way too young.

 

I met her at a bar. If I meet someone at a bar, I’m hoping they have somewhat a mature mentality….

 

Well… not anymore. I rather not meet most people anymore…


 

Her lies were enough for me to not see her again. Fuck this shit. Drama for the sake of drama. 


 

I couldn’t pay rent. I had already sold my car. I had no job or prospects for a job. I was losing it all.

 


 

My parents moved to Playas de Tijuana a few months after I moved into the city. I got evicted from my apartment. I borrowed my sister-in-law’s Jeep and moved all my shit to a small room in the small house at my parents.


 

Speak about low points in your life… moving back with your parents with no money and no job.


 

I cramped all my shit in the tiny room in the backyard of my parents’. It was a very small three-bedroom house and I didn’t want to be in a bedroom immediately next to my parents.

 

So I chose a tiny room that wasn’t much bigger than a shed.

 

And I locked myself in there.


 

Decided to become a writer.

 

I was going to write stories about my time as a paparazzi.

 

But I didn’t know how to write at all.


I decided a blog would be a good start.

 

And that’s when I started writing for the first time. My word vomit. The blog. 


 

I also created the TijuanaAdventure.com page and started working on what would become the tours. 


It was bad at the start.

 

I got some attention from Reddit but a lot of negative reactions as well.

 

I was just trying to write and make a living with my stories.

 

Silly me.


 

In less than a week with my parents, I found the motivation to work and get the fuck out.

 

But of course, it wasn’t that easy.

 


 

It took me around a month to find a job. And I landed exactly what I wanted, a writing/editing gig. They needed cheap writers/editors with decent English and knowledge of soccer.

 

I knew a bit about soccer, but not enough to be a writer about it. I started studying a lot. Not only the sport but how to write about it.


I was producing over five articles a day about stupid shit. 

 

Game reviews. News stories that were just translated from other pages.

 

Content.

 

Stupid fucking content.


 

And once or twice a week I would get inspired on something. And I would write that something. 

 

Every once in a while, that something was well received. 


 

But for the most part, it was just producing constant content on the sport around the globe and updating the website.


 

I was getting paid $800 a month for working almost six days a week. It was a few months working from home, then it evolved into going to the office on a daily basis.


After a couple of months on the job and plenty of fights with my father… I was ready to get the fuck out again.


 

That’s when I first moved to downtown Tijuana with a strange girl who I met on the street. She told me her name was Palida Hortaliza which translates to something along the lines of “pale vegetable.”

 

I don’t know why I was okay with that. As if that name existed.

 

She was indeed very pale and had a very weak chin. Almost grandmother-like even though she was very young and as white as a Minnesota chick. Her eyes carried torture and sadness. And she spoke on a weird soft voice with an accent.


Needless to say, that was a mistake.

 

But it was better than my parents.


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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 7.5 — Hong Kong with Psycho.

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Chapter 7.5 – Hong Kong with Psycho.

I did errands and some work and got distracted on purpose because I didn’t want to write what I’m going to write.

 

It’s not even that bad. This was years ago. I was 26-year-old and was YOLOing harder than ever.


 

We entered Hong Kong drunk and high at around 2 a.m. on a Tuesday. The place was not as lively as it usually is. Still a lot of naked women everywhere, but not the insanity of weekends in the sex emporium.

 

Before we even found a place to seat, psycho chick was saying hello to some women excitedly. She knew a lot of the dancers but didn’t know they worked there or never seen them work. She ordered a bucket of beer and gave me a $20.

 

Then she said, “wait, I’ll be back.” 

 

The bucket of beer arrived and she was nowhere. There goes not only the $20 she gave me, but the only $20 I had that was supposed to last me more than a few days.


 

First beer out of ten and I’m sitting in Hong Kong by myself with no money. Trying not to look at all the naked women around me because as soon as you give them eye contact, they’ll approach you.

 

There’s nowhere to look.

 

Stimulation overload.

 

I’m so over it.


 

For now.


 

Second beer. I’m drunk as fuck. I don’t want to drink anymore. But there’s a bucket of beer that I pseudo-paid for so I’m going to drink as much as I can.


Fuck. Third beer. This is boring now.


 

And there she is! She came back. The psycho chick.

 

With $400 in her hands.

 

She handed $200 to a waiter and told him to break it for $20s and singles.

 


She then handed me a fistful of singles and said: “I want you to spend it on my friends.”


Yep.

 

My luck turned around. Psycho chick just handed me a bunch of money. She was telling her friends to come over and be with me while at the same time she was with me… It was… magical? 


But wait. There’s more!


Much more…


Sorry, mom.


It took us less than an hour to spend the couple hundred. I kissed and touched many naked women while kissing the psycho chick at the same time. And they did the same to me.

 

The waiters were treating us like royalty as psycho told him to break another $100 and bring another bucket of beer.


 

The waiters had no idea psycho chick was also a stripper but just from Adelita’s and not Hong Kong. She was dressed in regular clothes. Tight jeans, tennis shoes, a regular shirt, and little makeup.

 

She gave me a fistful of singles again. Beer was ignored at this point but was still there.

 

And then she decided she wanted to dance on stage.


 

Waiters didn’t care. The other girls encouraged it. 

 

She got up and started stripping for me and for the general audience.


 

I helped her strip. I started throwing money that she gave me on stage. Took off her jeans and left her with just her panties and put more money as she danced… for like another second. 


 

Then she helped me strip…


 

Then I was on stage.


So there.

 

Secret out. I had sex with a psycho hooker in public for a moment. 

 

Again, Hong Kong wasn’t very lively, so it was just some waiters, other hookers, and dozen other customers that were entertained by their own naked girls on their laps.

 


 

We didn’t finish, but I was naked on stage (boxers only) with her totally naked and two other naked girls there. I think I had a moment of consciousness when I was like “dude, you can’t keep going.” I’m pretty sure we were taking it too far, but at some point, I was on the side of the stage putting my clothes back on.

 

Her, the same.


 

The other two girls that were on stage came to us and gave her back some of the money. 

 

And she still had plenty of money.


 

After what happened, waiters kept treating us like royalty.

 

They started ushering us into the VIP room where they told us we could keep it going with more girls.

 

We laughed at each other and said no thanks.

 

Then they ushered us into some private fancy rooms with a jacuzzi shower with glass windows and four-poster bed with translucent curtains and soft clean sheets. It pretty much looked like a set of a porno. And porno was playing on TV.

 

Again, we said no thanks. 

 

They tried ushering us to another place that was basically the same, with more promises of girls, champagne, and other VIP treatment.

 

I think they thought I had the money and not her. Because I kept looking at her like “what’s your choice.”

 

She again said no thanks and that we wanted to go back to the main area.


 

There we sat with her friends again trying to finish the rest of the bucket of beer.


We didn’t finish the beer when she said it was time for tacos.

 

She handed me the rest of her change. $50 some dollars. I put them in my right pocket of my favorite green hoodie.


 

I lost that green hoodie. I miss that green hoodie. That fucking hoodie was perfect.


 

We stumbled down the street for tacos. It was near dawn time. We were beyond wasted. Her, more than me. I had time to sober up after the actions occurred. 


 

She got three adobada tacos with everything. At the time, I was a “vegetarian” so I ordered nothing.

 

Also at the time “I would never be with a prostitute.” Too late to go back on that one. 


 

I still never have paid any money for it. And I don’t think I ever will. So hooray my morals!?


 

She was so drunk that she was eating the paper that came with the taco. I helped her fold that paper back so she wouldn’t eat it. Nah. She kept munching on that taco drunkenly eaten the paper and all.

 

I was hungry, so I grabbed a piece of the meat ever so carefully picking a not so greasy piece that didn’t touch the guacamole that was piled on top (I hate that green booger shit). 

 

Vegetarianism over.

 

Give me a taco without that green booger shit.


 

Almost ate it with paper and all.


 

I took money out of the right pocket of my beloved green fucking hoodie that I miss so much. Paid the taquero. And down the road, we go to her place.

 

Her place?


Oh yeah!

 

There’s more!

 

I said there’s more!


 

Her place was Hotel Velario, a hotel near all the prostitutes. And guess what happens in that hotel?!


 

It’s a really nice standard hotel. She had a room on the bottom floor. The building is weird, is sort of a labyrinth and it goes down a few floors instead of up. 

 

The room was also pretty standard, except she had all her shit there.

 

I remember I saw her official ID on the night desk. Shit. I learned her real name and her age. She was 21. I thought she was older than me at the time.


 

She opened her closet and tried opening her safe to show off her money. She was too drunk to open it. She left her purse and money on top of it. 

 

Then we had sex for hours.

 

For way too many hours.

 

I was tired. I wanted to sleep.

 

She wouldn’t let me. She wanted more and more and more.


She went to other rooms to show me off.

 

Other girls that worked with her basically also live in the hotel. The girls would come into her hotel room and play with me. 

 

Yep…


 

I was so embarrassed. But at the same time YOLOing. She just kept telling girls “you gotta see this guy’s cock. It’s perfect.”

 

So more girls kept coming to check it out.


 

I just wanted to fucking sleep. She wanted more sex and got obsessed with not being able to open her safe.


 

At some point, she called the front desk to tell them she couldn’t open her safe. Security came into the room to help her. Security dude seemed to be friendly with psycho. They couldn’t reset the fucking password so they welded that shit down and told her they were going to bring her a new safe.

 

She had over 20k in cash on the safe…


 

At some point I did sleep. Because I woke up and suddenly there were several fruit juices JUMEX on the room’s table as well as shitty Mexican pastries. At some point, she went to the store and bought breakfast. 


 

I had no idea what time it was.


 

I slept some more after breakfast. But she kept touching me trying to get my tired penis to do something. I told her I needed sleep. At least a couple hours.

 


 

I woke up no idea at what time. She was asleep but felt me waking up.

 

And started touching me right away.


 

After what seemed the 7th time I had sex in one day, I left her hotel room.


This circles back to Chapter 1

 

This is when I stumbled out of Zona Norte after the craziest fucking night of my life. I reached for my pocket to call my friend Brown. “Dude, you won’t know what just happened.” Those were my first words.

 

Tijuana happened.

When I was talking to him giving him a rough summary and telling him to meet me for beers soon, I reached inside my right pocket on my fucking beautiful green hoodie.

 

$37 dollars.


 

I told him I’ll call him later.

 

Turned around and headed back to the hotel.


 

Shit. I didn’t know what room she is in. Her first name was very common and I forgot her real last name. I couldn’t just ask for “psycho chick.”

 

I turned back around and went back to my place. 


 

I messaged her later that day to let her know that I took some money from her by accident and thanked her for the wild night. She told me not to worry about it and to buy her beer one of these days.


And wait.

 

There’s more.


A month later she texted me that she was pregnant….


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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 7 — The Tijuana Adventure.

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Chapter 7. The Tijuana Adventure.

 

Someone was yelling out my window this morning. It was someone I didn’t want to see. I pretended I wasn’t home. 


The morgue article got accepted. Now I am unsure of when it’s going to get published.

 

A cover story that I wrote came out today. It’s about a friend who self-deported to Tijuana. His story is yet to come. 

 

I wrote his story for the magazine almost 9-months ago. I got paid. I forgot about it. And then I found it was going to be a cover.

 

Awesome… I guess. It’s been so long since I sent it that I feel weird that it ended up being a cover.

 


 

I like the pictures I took for it. And I like the ones that they used. 


 

I grabbed several copies that now sit on my shelf with the other huge stack of magazines that I’m supposedly going to eventually clip to make some sort of scrapbook with all my stories.


 

Now on to the next one. An article about the battle for the water in Mexicali. Hopefully, it won’t take me long.


Let’s go back to that night that started it all. The one that I mentioned on page 2. Some morning in January in 2012.


My savings account was running low.

 

Like really low.

 

To the point, I was eating and drinking really cheap and counting every penny.

 

I wasn’t making any money.

 

I didn’t know what I was going to do to make money.


 

The tours weren’t a thing yet. It was just a concept. I didn’t have a web page or anything. My first post was a year later.

 


Sorry.

 

The timeline is all over the place.

 

It happens.


So what happened the previous night?

 

How did I end up in Zona Norte on a Tuesday morning with $37 in my hoodie’s right-pocket?

I remember that hoodie. It was one of my favorite hoodies. Green and brown. Thin enough that if it’s warm, it’s still a wearable hoodie, and if it’s chilly, it’s still the best hoodie.

 

I miss that hoodie. I’m not sure what happened to that hoodie.

 

That hoodie witnessed that night.

 


 

Besides going back to the second page, this goes back to chapter 4 as well. Remember that girl from Adelitas Bar? The naked ass hovering over my shoulder? 

 

Yeah. I added her on Facebook.

We never really talked.

 

I noticed immediately that it said she was in a relationship with someone.


 

That someone had a friend in common. I asked that friend in common and he said: “that someone is always dating hookers.”

 

… Interesting….


 

I got a message from her. The hooker in a relationship with someone who was friends with a friend of mine.


 

“I just broke up with my boyfriend, I’m alone with a cubeta in la Malquerida.” That was the message.

 

Words to explain. Cubeta = bucket. She had a bucket of beers with her. Usually 6, but sometimes 10 or 12.

 

Malquerida = the name of a strip club near Adelitas and Hong Kong.

 

It’s a good strip club though people have been shot in there. It’s nice and clean and the beers are cheap. It’s more for locals than tourists. It’s way more Mexican with a live band (which many times can be amazing).


 

Back then, La Malquerida was shittier. The second floor was in the process of being rebuilt. So it wasn’t as nice. And it was cheap as fuck.


 

“You should come to help me drink this beer.” 

 

I hesitated.

 

I was broke. And I told her. I don’t really have any money. 

 

I had $20 with me and some change.

 

That was it.


 

I messaged my friend Brown before heading her way. He said, “what the fuck are you waiting for you dumbfuck?!”


I got dressed and headed out the door on those cheap taxis de ruta and walked to La Malquerida.


 

I’m not sure what time it was when I got there but it was a couple hours before midnight.


 

I got to La Malquerida and she was already a little bit tipsy.

 

We drank and chatted and she complained about life and whatnot.

 

I don’t remember much except thinking like “holy shit, drinking for free with a hooker, this is awesome.”

 

She was very flirtatious with me. 

 

I just followed her to whatever she wanted.

 

And she wanted me to spend her money on strippers. So I did.

 

And drank more beers.


Then she took me to the upstairs where the private rooms are, except back then they were under construction, but still somewhat functional.

 

Hey.

 

It was shittier. I told you.


We went into one of the private rooms and she lit up a joint. We smoked together while she gave me a private dance.

 

It didn’t escalate to anything except to just having fun.


We left the private room and finished the bucket of beers and walked outside.


 

As we stumbled outside La Malquerida, she mentioned she’s never been in Hong Kong.

 

I asked why not? And she didn’t have an answer, except “let’s go.”


 

 

I said this was going to be diaries of an old man. I should censor myself… And I have shit to do, stupid errands. I should reconsider typing what I was about to type.


 

Somehow. I’ve convinced a lot of women to sleep with me. 


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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 6 — LA Friends Visit, Classical Guitar and First Tours.  

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Chapter 6. LA Friends Visit. Classical Guitar and First Tours.  

 

Waking up doesn’t matter. When you are a freelance writer, time is only a factor when you have a deadline. And I have none.

 

I set one for myself. I have to finish that morgue article by early tomorrow.

 

It’s going. It’s not my favorite. But it’s going. I should finish it after this. After some breakfast.


Before moving to Tijuana in 2012, I left all my shit at my brother’s house and flew to Querétaro to visit my parents who still lived in my hometown. I also went to check out if moving back there was a possibility and to see old friends.

Fuck no.

It wasn’t a possibility. 

I haven’t been back since then. It’s been over 6 years. My parents moved over to Tijuana shortly after I decided I wasn’t moving back.

There was nothing there for me. All the jobs sucked. Most my friends were married with kids.

Absolutely fucking nothing. 

Boring town.

Also, Xolos de Tijuana played Gallos Blancos de Querétaro the weekend I was there, and my hometown lost. That just reaffirmed what I already knew. I’m staying in Tijuana.

Not to mention that I was still used to America and I didn’t want to move that far from the US.

 


 

Thus my days of Tijuana began.


 

I did nothing for months. I had the fantasy of living with my classical guitar degree. I practiced daily. I set up lessons at Café Diógenes. I was a cheap fucking bastard charging 50 pesos per half an hour. That quickly increased to 100 pesos when I realized that I was actually good at giving lessons. I had five students that I saw every week. The youngest was 7 and he was learning nothing. The oldest was 50+ and was loving every lesson. There were a couple of younger guys that were also liking the lessons.

 

It never went anywhere. I stopped giving lessons after a few months.

 


 

I also started going to fine dining restaurants asking if I could play there. Most shut me down.

 

It was the Marriott Hotel that offered me to play in the lobby for $40 + tips for 4 hours. I took it. 

 

I never made much money with my guitar. So that was great.


 

I did a couple of gigs in San Diego for a similar price. I also tried getting classical guitar gigs in fine dining places in the US. With no car or gear, it was impossible. Not to mention that the competition is pretty stiff.


 

The first day that I got to the Marriott, no one told them that a guitarist will be playing in the lobby.

 

It was a mess.


I played there for a month. It was always a mess. But I fared well enough. I would get a free meal and play my set three or four times. Basically, just practiced.

 

Old people were lovely. An older woman sat with her husband and listened to me for more than 20 minutes. They gave me $20 dollar tip and told me I was wonderful.

 

That was probably the best that came from playing at the Marriott.


After a month, they didn’t want to pay me anymore. So I left.

 

Back to nothing.


 

I spent my days counting the rest of my savings from the car I sold. Avoiding work or getting a job. Sort of like I’m doing now. Living with the bare minimum. Depressed. Lonely. Doing absolutely nothing but waiting till I ran out of money.


 

The only joy came when friends from LA visited. And that was very limited.


It was the brothers, Hudson and Penner, who were my first somewhat customers. Hudson was going through a divorce while Penner was going through marriage problems since his wife decided to be a heavy girl pornstar and have an open relationship.

 

Yep.

 

Both going through weird shit.


 

Hudson and Penner were my best friends in Los Angeles. Hudson and I worked together for over a year doing paparazzi business. Penner worked for TMZ and we would also work together often enough. 


 

Hudson had quit his paparazzo job by then and got a job in tech writing code. Penner still worked for TMZ (but doesn’t anymore).


They visited me a few times. They both already had experience in Tijuana decades before. Everything was different for them. Everything was still pretty new to me. 

 

I had no idea what I was doing.

 

But they liked how I would take them through Tijuana streets, bars, food, and strip clubs.


 

We ended up in a really shitty strip club on Calle Sexta (that club lasted less than four months before it shut down). There was no one there but ghetto looking waiters and four half-naked girls… and of course us.

 

They gave us tequila shots and beers for cheap. Girls danced in the vicinity and though they were gross, we were having a fun time. I was hanging out with my best friends in a shithole in Tijuana. And they were paying for everything. 


 

We moved to different bars, a punk show, and to other strip clubs.


 

Back in early 2012 there wasn’t much in the city but that. Especially downtown Tijuana. The city was still trying to define itself. It was mostly abandoned except for cheap clubs and shitty dive bars. It’s not what it is now.

 

So much changed in a few years.

 

There are so many craft breweries now. And I barely, almost never, go to strip clubs.


 

Hudson and Penner wouldn’t recognize this Tijuana anymore. They haven’t visited since then. I visited Hudson in Los Angeles a couple years ago, and we still talk. I should visit him in LA soon again.

 

Hudson got remarried again, this time to an Australian woman who cooks amazing. They seem happy. There excuse for not coming down is that they were waiting for the marriage papers to confirm the Aussie so she can travel out of the US. 

 

I’m not sure what is their excuse now. But I am for sure due to a trip to Los Angeles. It’s been over a year since I’ve visited.

 

I hate LA. But it’s always good just for a visit.

 

Especially to hang out with Hudson.


That night, while having a cigarette outside a bar, this cute girl with freckles all over her face and really curly black hair came up to me drunkenly and said, “ay tink choo are the lov of ma laif.”

 

SCORE!

If you can’t read that. She said, “I think you are the love of my life.” 

 

She was cute. Very cute. And she hugged me right away. 

 

She was also very drunk.

 

I played the dumb Gringo card and pretended I didn’t speak Spanish. She talked to her friends in Spanish about how she wanted to fuck me. This went on for a while until I started laughing… 

 

Then I told her in Spanish that I heard everything. She blushed and went back to her friends. Hudson told me I should take her home. 

 

But no. We moved on.

 

And yes. I did get her Facebook. 

 


 

The next morning, after partying all night… They were the ones that told me. Hudson and Penner.

 

“You should do tours,” and they insisted on giving me $100 just for having them over. 

 

I never saw myself as a tour guide. But they convinced me. And I was running out of money and didn’t have a job.

 


 

They told me they had one of the best nights they had in a long time and told me they will be back soon. They came twice more. They told a lot of people in LA about Tijuana and other friends from LA ventured down. I started giving tours to my friends free of charge but they would insist on giving me money.


I started laying the foundations for a tour guide website and learning more about the city and where to take people. 

 

Then I realized there other tour guides in the city. I asked for a job with one of them. They basically told me to fuck off and I received threats from friends of the other tour guides. 

 

This also inspired to create my own touring website.


 

All I needed is a name. The rest was basically set.