Tag: Red Light District

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 17.5 — Ensenada Again And the Last Bachelor Tour.

Posted on by Matingas

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Chapter 17.5. Ensenada Again And the Last Bachelor Tour.

And yes.

That was a fucking gruesome tour. By the end of it, I told them I was retiring. They might have been the last bachelor tour I ever do. 

 

Fifteen fucking people. I guess one didn’t show up. Or I was the sixteenth.

 

 

I was early for the tour. There was absolutely no border wait line. I was supposed to meet them at the border at 4:00 pm. I crossed by 3 pm, didn’t see them until almost 5:30 pm.

 

The bachelor was wasted already. He had been drinking since waking up at around 8ish a.m. His brother seemed to be in control.

 

It was around 7 American-Hindu guys, one Hindu with an accent, and the rest white boys. 

 

Sorry for the generic description. My tours tend to be one big blur. I think I’ve only done around 20 bachelor tours… and I barely remember a single person. Except for Ted. Ted was great.

 

I still have to tell Ted’s story.

 

The tour started at Norte Brewing Company. The views and the beers there are always killer. Moving around 15 people is a pain in the ass. 

 

The bachelor requested Mision 19. We actually reserved the place… 

 

But it’s outside of downtown. Moving 16 people to Mision 19 was a real tough mission. You could say it was an impossible mission…

 

Ok.

 

You can stop reading me now.

 

…..

 

So I decided to skip Mision 19 and convinced them it was the right move. Not only that, fuckers were already wasted and obnoxious. And I’m not taking them to Mision 19 like that. Improvising is the name of the game.

 

I led them to La Cevicheria Nais. On the way there, the bachelor hired mariachis to follow him around and play music. Fucking hilarious shit. 

 

I went directly to the manager of La Cevicheria Nais and told him I had a bachelor party of 16 people. They shuffled so quick to get us a giant table ready for us in the back of the restaurant.

 

The service, like always, was great.

 

Pricey.

 

But fucking great.

 

The total check was around $850+ tip for 16 guys who drank a bottle and a half of tequila, more than 20 mezcal old fashioned drinks, I saw a few mezcalitas going around, and a couple of beers.

 

Also, two or more tacos each and a few specialty plates.

 

Point was… it was a fucking feast.

 

And a drunken feast.

 

The manager of the place came to the bachelor to give him the classic tequila shot from the bottle in his mouth.

 

And from there… to fucking Hong Kong. The biggest craziest brothel I’ve ever seen.

 

Some guys even said the same thing… they’ve been to clubs in Southeast Asia, nothing like this. 

 

Seriously. FUCK THAT PLACE.

 

It’s so good at first, but it’s so bad once you are burnt out. Fuck that place.

 

But if I’m there… I have to enjoy myself. Can’t be at Hong Kong and not get “Chinese food.” And by that I mean, I chose one girl from the hundreds and buy her drinks for her to sit on my lap and dance.

 

She also helped me not to lose the guys. Which was hilarious. Her name was Merlina. 

 

HAHA

 

Fucking Merlina.

 

Like a creep, I asked her her real name later.

Then she showed me pictures of her kid and her American boyfriend. 

She was only 20-years-old. Divorced. She got married at the age of 16. How that is a thing in Mexico still… I have no fucking clue.

She said that it was normal for her and her family. And she was happy to be divorced and working there. She was adorable. But for some reason, her two front teeth were heavily discolored. And her teeth weren’t bad, they didn’t seem crooked or anything. Just the front two were yellow. 

 

The tour ended at 1ish a.m. 

 

Some guys wanted to stay. But instructions of the bachelor and the brother were that everyone must go together back to the border.

 

Somehow I got them all together. Three were lost. So I took the rest of the party to get tacos while I went looking for the missing guys.

 

What a fucking shitshow.

 

But it all ended well.

 

We walked back to the border. It was dark as fuck. The scary bridge with flickering lights didn’t even have lights this time. But it’s fucking 16 dudes. And one guy was 6’8. I doubt robbers want to mess with that group. 

 

By the way, the guy that was 6’8 took a girl to the hotel room and said he couldn’t do anything because the girl said he was too big… He wanted to complain, but that doesn’t really work in Hong Kong and plus fuck it. That sounds like a good excuse to not be with a prostitute.

 

Mission successful. I made decent money + tips. But holy fuck is that shit tiring.

 

And after I dropped them at the border, I had money in my wallet and had the desire to go back. But not to Hong Kong. Just another shitty club in the area. 

 

I’ve learned my mistakes at Rio Verde but for some reason, it was calling me. That place is a dirty drug-fueled mess. Before stepping in, I decided against it. So I went to my classic cantina for a beer.

That was not enough. On my walk home, I decided to check out a drag show… At Villa García bar.

 

And that bar turns out to be a gay Hong Kong or something. So many guys hit on me that night. I accepted a couple of Tecate Lights. There were beautiful transsexual women at a corner of a bar. There were also a lot of non-passable crossdressers.

 

And 10 guys only wearing underwear running around and dancing on everyone. 

 

It’s a fucking riot.

 

Gays have beyond great sex life and I’m jealous of it.

 

But I couldn’t.

 

I lied about my name, told them my name was Charlie. I lied about where I was from, told them I was from Texas. I didn’t even speak Spanish to anyone. 

 

So for a couple hours, I was gay Charlie. And I’m happy to say that a lot of gay guys find me attractive. An older gay couple came to me and told me I was cute and bought me more beer. Transsexuals were giving me the eye. One of them danced on me… and then she got mad because she tried to kiss me and I turned away. Other gay guys tried their luck and I played hard to get. 

 

I felt like a pretty whore. 

 

This chapter was the continuation of Ensenada. It wasn’t meant to talk that much about bachelor parties. 

 

I can’t Ensenada as well as I can Tijuana. I won’t do Valle de Guadalupe tours because I barely know the place. And every time I go it changes.

 

Plus, it’s fucking expensive. And I don’t know much about wine.

 

If you have the chance to go to Valle de Guadalupe… fucking do it.

 

The same goes with Ensenada. It’s an awesome place to visit. And I want to do it more often.

Though I don’t know much about Ensenada… I ended up being a tour guide there last weekend. I knew more than the Americans I was with that had absolutely no clue about Ensenada.

 

Texting my friend Kelvin also helped. He told me where the party was at.

 

Before the wedding, it was some sort of bachelor tour, but not quite. My friend is not into strippers and refused to go to the strip club in Ensenada. The best one, supposedly, is Paris de Noche. I still have never been. From what I heard the next morning… It wasn’t very good. Or not nearly as good as Hong Kong.

Instead of that, we went for street tacos, walked to downtown, did Cantina Hussong’s because is the classic cantina in Ensenada. It was packed, so we moved out after the first beer. Everything seemed shitty and like a tourist trap. Kelvin came up with the suggestion of Distrito Barra Pública.

 

He nailed the suggestion. Quiet place with a nice patio with great beer. Exactly what the party wanted. And after that… everyone back to their hotel for the wedding the next morning.

My hotel…?

 

The groom of the wedding got an Airbnb for me and other people at the wedding. It was fucking next to the house I stayed four years ago.

 

It was a really nice big house, but not as huge as the house next door. Ocean views, it could easily fit 8+ people and it’s only $150 a night. 

 

And the first night, only me and the groom’s brother stayed there. In the kitchen counter, the owners left us a bottle of wine… How romantic.

 

It wasn’t awkward, but it did feel like a waste of space. So for the second night, we invited more people to stay with us after the wedding.

Oh.

 

And the wedding.

 

Wedding was work for me. I also ended up being a translator in general… I ran around everywhere and took thousands of pictures.

 

When my flash died and the party was in general winding down, I sat down exhausted and had some more beer.

 

Yes. I drank throughout the wedding. I take better pictures that way.

I don’t know how it happened.

 

I just know that I was telling her “are you sure you want to do this?” while calling an Uber to the Airbnb. I also remember making out with her.

 

Who was her?

 

Well… the wedding didn’t really have that many attractive women except the bride and older women.

 

And she was old. Yet attractive. And weddings + Ensenada. That’s just a cocktail for disaster. 

 

An actual GILF. She was more than double my age. 

 

Again. I don’t know how it happened.

 

But I took her to an Uber back to the Airbnb with me and we woke up naked next to each other.

That’s all you need to know.

 

And some in the party found out… 

 

Because on my way back to Tijuana from Ensenada they asked me about it. And they saw me as some sort of legend. And the reassurance from the guy that was the same age as me that he would have done the same is nice.

 

For me… 

 

It was one week ago. And I’m still in shock.

Sorry, mom.

 

Hope you never read this but I’m sure you will.

 

Now to move on. I have shit tons of photo work to do. That’s why I might retire my tours. I’m making good money with pictures. And if all this shit that I’m writing makes me good money. Then… fuck. Tours are done for sure. Or just making them hella expensive.

 

Money is good. Mkay? 

 

And my upcoming homework is great. The taco issue. I get to eat tacos, photograph them, and write about it. 

 

That’s what I am doing for the next couple of days. Then more work work work.

 

And soon to be finished with this shit.

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 17 — Ensenada Adventure.

Posted on by Matingas

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Chapter 17. Ensenada Adventure.

 

I have a tour in a couple hours. It’s 16 people in total. Given their names, I’m pretty sure they are Hindu. Most are coming from New York.

 

I have no desire to do the tour.

 

I’m sure it will go awesome. But I’m tired. 

 

The tour previous to this one… Another one that came to film a reality show went horribly wrong. Just thinking about it makes me livid.

 

I’ll talk about that shit later. 

 

This was a good week. April has gone awesome and it just started. I made money left and right. A friend got married, I did the pictures. He paid me more than what I had asked for.

 

I took way too many pictures. And a huge edit. I can still be better.

 

Got a bunch of other photo work done. I’ve been regularly busy.

 

The wedding was in Ensenada.

 

And here’s the thing about Ensenada.

 

It’s a fucking awesome place to visit.

 

In a way, it’s a glimpse of what Tijuana used to be. It’s heavily visited by tourist Americans who are too afraid of Tijuana so they choose Ensenada. 

 

In this last visit, I saw that they sold bracelets that read “Fuck Trump.” And also a racist yet somewhat hilarious bracelet that read “I ❤ Nigga Pussy.” 

 

There were a lot of black Americans walking the streets of Ensenada. I wonder what they would think of those bracelets. Or if the Mexicans selling them ever got in trouble. I’m pretty sure they get a kick out of it.

 

You know those woven bracelets that they sell in the touristy beaches of Mexico, right? They don’t really sell those in Tijuana. Seeing that shit is like going back to the 90s. At some point, I wore those bracelets. A lot of them.

 

That point was high school.

 

So yeah. The late 90s.

 

Every damn time I go to fucking Ensenada crazy wild shit happens. This was no exception.

 

And oh…

 

Of wild stories to tell.

 

My fucking life reads like fiction.

 

The first time that Ensenada engulfed me was in 2014, four years ago exactly.

 

I was broke as fuck at the time. I could barely afford rent. I lived day by day wondering when my next paycheck will come.

 

I still live like that… But it’s been getting better…

 

My neighbor knocked on my door. He wanted to go to the Ensenada Beer Fest, Mexico’s biggest and best craft beer festival. I told him I had 300 pesos in my wallet and barely any money in the bank. He said that it will be fine. He wanted company.

 

About where I was staying. He said not to worry, he had a house.

 

About getting into the beer fest, he said not to worry, he knows some people.

 

So out of nothing, I was suddenly on my way to Ensenada with my neighbor who I barely knew. Younger than me, but not by much, he was still going to college. 

 

I haven’t seen him in forever. Cool guy. But I believe he lives in Mexicali now.

 

We arrived at his house in Ensenada. It was his parents’ house in pretty much the nicest neighborhood in the city. On top of the hill, overlooking downtown with views of the ocean and the port. I couldn’t see much from the outside but it seemed like a pretty big house.

 

Where were his parents? “Don’t worry about it, they won’t be back,” he said.

 

The house was locked.

 

He had no key.

 

 

So he called every locksmith in town to figure out a way to get in. But to do this, he had dropped me off at the Ensenada Beer Fest.

 

He left me at the mercy of some girl. I’m sorry that I don’t remember her name. She was cool. I want to guess “Rosa,” but I’m really not sure.

 

Rosa had extra tickets for the beer fest, so I joined her. And with the 300 pesos I had left, I got as much beer as I could. They were selling at 10 to 20 pesos the 4 oz samplers. Plus, they were giving a lot free tasters. It was a lot of fucking beer.

 

The only bad memory I had about that day was at the Donkey Punch Brewery stand. They offered me a beer. Like literally offered me a beer without saying I was buying. They served me two glasses… It was clearly an indication of free beer. The festival was ending and this dude was serving everyone.

 

Then he charged me.

 

Fuck that shit.

 

My final pesos gone.

 

I didn’t hear from my neighbor. I never saw him at the Beer Fest.

 

Rosa took me to a nearby bar. Red Lion. They have that shit in Tijuana (yep, the same as the first bar I went to). It’s a nice looking bar but fucking generic and boring. Beers are cheap. 

 

Rosa bought me a big beer (they serve draft beer in 1-liter bottles of Oso Negro Vodka). There were other friends of hers there. I was tired and drunk and had no idea where I was going to sleep.

 

I knew I had some money on my debit card so I was thinking of getting a hotel for the night. $30-40 hotel if possible. I knew I had at least $100 in the bank.

 

Just as I was looking at the possibility of the hotel, Rosa tells me that my neighbor called and that we should come to the house.

 

Apparently, I went in and told everyone I felt like I was in an episode of House Hunters International. The house opened up to a beautiful living room with huge windows and a huge balcony with views of fucking everything. It was truly astonishing. There were bottles of wine on the counter. The usual Tijuana celebrities were there. 

 

I drank wine and mingled. But I don’t remember much.

 

I think I passed out on the couch.

 

I did.

 

I woke up at 6:00 a.m. in a bedroom by myself. 

 

I walked into this huge bathroom to drink from the sink and cool my head down. 

 

The fucking towels were wrapped like fucking geese as if it was a fucking hotel room.

 

I walked out to the balcony and saw the huge looming house above me. I had no idea where the fuck I was. All I thought was… sleep some more… It will all get clear if you sleep some more.

 

I slept a bit more and then I got woken up by my neighbor who was tapping my forehead with a cold can of Coors Light.

 

He was drinking one already.

 

“Let’s go to my Grandma’s and have brunch,” he said.

 

Before figuring that out… we drank a bit and played Wii U as other people that crashed in the house were figuring out what to do as well. 

 

That was the first time I played Wii U…

 

On the couch, in the living room, there was a black, white, and gold cushion that read “My Other House is in Paris.”

 

“Where are your parents?” I asked.

 

“In Paris,” was the obvious reply.

 

His grandma’s house was also a beautiful villa. Not as huge as the house overlooking Ensenada, but more of a traditional Mexican house with a nice patio with fruit-bearing trees.

 

His grandma not only treated us to a traditional and amazing grandma brunch she brought out caguamas.

 

So we drank beers with the abuelita while she told some horror stories that happened recently in the family. A horrible robbery that happened. It killed the mood a bit.

 

Fucking Ensenada.

 

But they were all fine still alive and healthy. So the mood lightened up and we drank more and ate more.

 

Later that night we met with more of his Ensenada friends. We were supposed to go back to Tijuana, but we ended up in the huge house with people drinking wine and smoking weed looking at the sunset in the magnificent fucking balcony.

 

That was my first time in Ensenada. Ever since… I’ve had plenty of good times down there.

 

The latest comes next.

 

Now I have to get ready for the tour. It’s going to be a long one. I’m not totally ready. I do not want to do this.

 

I might retire soon. It’s not the first time I’ve said that. But I’m burnt out. Tours take a toll.

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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 16 — Reality Show Appearance as Fake Mad Dog Mateo.

Posted on by Matingas

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Chapter 16. Reality Show Appearance as Fake Mad Dog Mateo.

 

So… 

 

I was in a reality show over the weekend.

 

My tour were British guys following a commercial pilot. I signed a non-disclosure agreement, so I don’t think I am allowed to talk much about this but fuck it.

 

 

They were five guys total, don’t remember anyone’s name except Noah, one of the camera guys, and Christian, the star of the show. There was another camera guy, a sound guy with a boom mic, and the director. The pilot and the director were the main show. A clap would initiate the takes.

 

Some crazy shit I’ve never been part of. Until now.

 

I talked a lot. I told some of the stories I already wrote here. The South African guys’ story that was the previous chapter and the story about the pilots which was earlier at some point in this stupid shit.

 

I said shit I might regret. Similar to the shit I’m writing here. 

 

No ragrets.

 

Fuck it.

 

It was a fake tour for a reality show. Fake Tijuana Adventure. Fake Mad Dog Mateo. 

 

Fake reality show. Nothing new here.

 

The tour was basic, I didn’t even plan it much. I didn’t think of it. I just improvised like always. 

 

It started with my basic explanation about the city and why Tijuana exists. We walked to Norte Brewery Co for the sunset views of the city. Here I told the story of the pilots on camera to a reality tv show pilot. I ignored the cameras and just acted natural.

 

I’m going to hate it once it’s out. 

 

And people in Tijuana are going to give me so much shit about it.

 

After Norte, we moved to street tacos. Las Amigas that they never disappoint and it’s an interesting taco stand. I found out that the star of the show was a vegetarian here. Good job telling me about that before rolling cameras… 

 

All the guys got one taco, but we wanted more food.

 

We had a second dinner at Cine Tonalá. 

 

They didn’t want to drink or party for real. More like do it for the cameras and move on.

 

The meal or drinks didn’t get recorded. It was like a break from work. 

 

After done with the second dinner, they started recording again. Us exiting the Cine and talking casually about the meal.

 

From there they had one request. Strip clubs where they could record.

 

And of course, there is only one shitty strip club that would allow us to do such a thing without a warning. El Zorro. Yes. The same one with the South Africans just from the previous chapter.

 

I convinced the bouncers and waiters to let us film. We told the girls that they weren’t going to be on camera… and none of them were attractive… 

 

We ordered a bucket of beers but didn’t drink any. 

 

I ran to the bathroom quickly, and when I came out, girls were all over the guys. A fight ensued between the producer and the pilot. The pilot went to get a private lap dance. The producer stormed out with the cameras following behind.

 

It’s a reality show.

 

That was planned.

 

After they “reunited” I walked them through Zona Norte and told them they couldn’t film here or to be careful. The camera guys started filming as the “paraditas” or the street prostitutes ran for cover while hiding their faces.

 

“Están grabando!” I would hear them say to each other and scramble to hide. Never seen that before.

 

A cop started following us. I told them to ignore it and we kept walking.

 

But then he blasted his siren and stopped us. I said I would handle and expected the worst. It was the complete opposite. He told us that if we needed anything to let him know or give him a call. He was super excited to see the cameras and told us to record whatever we wanted. It seemed like he wanted to be on the show. So the crew kept filming. They were live bandas being fucking loud and they filmed that. 

 

It might be some of the best recordings of Zona Norte and it was only 9 pm. And now I know, if you enter Zona Norte with a bunch of gear, the cops are fine with it, the prostitutes are the ones that hide and hate it. 

 

And then it was over. Walked back to the border.

 

I offered them more places to visit and drink. Nope. They were done. The job was done. Short fake Tijuana Adventure. I got paid. Signed the contract. And took them to the border.

 

I wonder what will happen next with them. I wonder how the show turns out. They don’t really even know where it’s going to appear. Or maybe they did and they just didn’t want to tell them. Netflix maybe? YouTube? Maybe only in Europe? 

 

Oh shit. I just googled it and it has an IMDB. 

 

“A documentary filmmaker follows his best friend, a Windowed airline pilot, around the world as he looks for a new love, via the TINDER Passport dating app.”

 

We did talk about Tinder and Bumble. So the premise they told me is real. No Tinder girls were met. 

 

HOLY SHIT! 

 

After more research… I’ve been duped.

 

The “pilot” was, in fact, the producer that I was in contact with.

 

I’ve been googling these guys… They told me the producer stayed back in LA setting up the next appointment. Nope. The producer was the main star the whole time. And obviously, his name wasn’t Christian.

 

Holy fuck.

 

Nice one.

 

Nice fucking one.

 

I should have googled these fuckers a bit more before I actually took them on a tour. They have two movies, one out with a bad rating and the other still in production. And now their new show. 

 

Oh fuck.

 

What’s going to happen to my appearance….

 

I might get heavily edited or cut. This show might not even be aired. But… oh well.

 

Shit is done. I made some money. Tour is over. 

 

I have more tours coming up. A lot of people have been hiring me to film around Tijuana. Might as well change what my tours are about and help filmmakers and journalists. They seem to have enough money to pay me.

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

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 12 — Shit Attempt at Writer. Frenchmen and Other World Travelers. Eating in Hong Kong.

Posted on by Matingas

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Chapter 12. Shit Attempt at Writer. Frenchmen World Travelers. Eating in Hong Kong.

 

I have a weird phantom pain on my right leg. I hope it’s not because of my horrible diet of tacos and hamburgers. That’s not a proper diet. 

 

I have so much work this week. I didn’t do any last week and just let all the shit mount. Haven’t written dick. The one story I sent hasn’t been published and I have low hopes. It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t very good. Pictures were great, the text wasn’t.

 

That’s what I’m into now. Taking pictures. And I have a bunch of those gigs this week. It should be fun.

Instead of working, I ended up partying for four nights in a row. It’s incredible how easy this city does that to you. I didn’t even plan to do any partying at all. Wednesday, the young freckled brunette that was mentioned earlier who thought I was the love of her life texted me. She is back in Tijuana. She wasn’t even living here. 

 

She is now a blond. She’s also now 24.

 

Things happened. They shouldn’t have. 

On Thursday, another girl contacted me for pictures. Things escalated quickly when they shouldn’t have. 

 

Tititijuana.

Friday, buddies from San Diego came over and we went bar hopping and ended in a meh ska show.

Saturday, friends from Mexico City came over with tickets for the Xolos games. They were great palco tickets and included free drinks and food. Pizza and wings were shit, but they were free. There was only light beer available, but also bottles of Black Label.

 

From there, the partying continued until almost 3 a.m.

 

Titititijuana.

 

Two important things happened which turned me into a writer. Somewhat. Up to this day, I still have no idea what I’m doing.

 

Meeting Chad. He inspired me to become a writer and to try to get published for the magazine I currently work for.

Meeting Vincent, the Frenchman world traveler. 

 

Besides announcing on Craigslist, I also had a Couchsurfer account. A lot of people stayed with me through there. I don’t use it anymore, but back then I used it to practice giving tours.

 

Vincent messaged me for a couch and to help him with a project called You Make My Trip. He was basically traveling the world asking the internet what he should do in the city he was staying in. 

 

For Tijuana, the voting was between partying his ass off or investigating what the life of the migrants and deportees that lived on the river by the border was like.

 

The internet chose the deportees. I wanted the party for my own sake and to grow the tours.

 

This was the turning point in my life. Vincent stayed with me for almost a week. After a drunken tequila night, Vincent met and fell in love with my friend Shappu. 

 

Their romance ended up in disaster years later, but that’s beside the fucking point.

 

The point is that with Vincent and Shappu, we explored the Bordo area and more of Zona Norte. Really gruesome stuff. People doing heroin or meth on broad daylight. The disgusting Tijuana. 

 

The Tijuana that I got addicted for a while. Nueva Pachanga.

 

The lowest of the lowest of the fucking world. 

 

It’s like staring at the face of death and walking away.

 

So much misery. So many drugs.

 

I knew I had to write about what we experienced.

 

This was my first failed attempt at writing for a magazine.

 

Pretty much like this is my first failed attempt at writing a book.

 

Can’t wait until I throw all this shit to the garbage. Or just post it online somewhere for free and make no money.

 

There goes all my pride.

 

My article got rejected.

 

Not only was it plagued with grammatical and spelling mistakes, but it was also just purely bad. “I this. I that. This happened.”

And wow!

Bad.

Horribly written bullshit.

 

The editor rejected it and told me to rewrite it. It took me a long time to write it… so I wasn’t happy. I thought it was good.

 

It wasn’t.

 

I rewrote the article. But I just fixed grammatical and spelling mistakes and cut down a lot of the fat. 

 

It was still a horrible fucking article.

 

No details.

 

Nothing interesting.

 

It got rejected again.

 

My gamble didn’t pay off. I quit my job to spend more time doing Tijuana tours and attempting to be a freelance writer.

 

I was rejected and was left with little to no money. But not much money is needed to live in this city. 

 

The editor ignored my following emails and my attempts to rewrite the story. I had destroyed his patience and the door was closed. 

 

I did a couple of more free tours through Couchsurfing. Another Frenchman and world traveler named Alec. Also, guys from Montreal that I randomly met playing chess at what used to be the only craft brewery in Tijuana.

 

Tijuana has changed so much and will continue to do so.

And Tijuana changed me.

 

I like to say that I’m not a writer, Tijuana is just easy to write about. Tijuana transformed me for the better (maybe). Tijuana transforms people, not always for the better.

 

Random little tours kept me a bit afloat. One was with a guy named Jesse and a dude named Max who carried a banana suit wherever they went. 

 

I’ve done way too many tours and have fucked with Tijuana too much to remember how things went down. We did the basic Tijuana tour to Playas and dive bars in downtown. Again, back then the craft beer or food scene was nothing to what it is now. Options were scarce.

 

All I remember that his time we didn’t do Hong Kong, we ended up in La Malquerida.

 

La Malquerida is a much cheaper strip club that’s mostly for locals. Beers are cheap and it has more of a wild cantina feel than that of a strip club.

 

The guys got plastic looking women sitting on their laps. The one I liked was cold and not into it, so it didn’t pan out well for me.

 

For them… I had to negotiate.

 

Mini-pimp translator.

 

That’s basically how I made some of my money.

 

After buying the girls plenty of drinks, the guys were tired of having them on their laps and wanted more. 

 

I negotiated blowjobs for $20 + the private room.

 

They left immediately to the private rooms and came back a few minutes later to share the stories. One got a raw blowjob with no condom, the other was forced to use a condom. Both were very happy with the outcome. 

 

That’s all I remember.

 

And that I got paid.

 

Paid to party and to be a mini-pimp.

 

After that tour, I had a tour with what I thought was a perverted old Canadian man. After giving the basic tour around the city, I learned sadly, that his wife had passed a couple years ago, but now he was free to do as he pleased.

 

He owned property in Jamaica and had his own business in Canada. His two sons were old enough and married. He decided to travel the world and ended up Tijuana.

 

The first time I ever had food in Hong Kong was with this fellow. He ordered the breaded shrimp on rice.

 

He stayed in the Hong Kong Hotel (Las Cascadas) and book the master suite (not the penthouse). It was a super nice room that looked like a porno set that I described before. 

 

After the basic tour, we went back to Hong Kong. He picked a girl that he liked and kept buying her drinks.

 

Then he told me to choose a girl that I like.

 

I walked to a girl that I like but she gave me the cold shoulder, so I picked the one next to her.

 

As soon as we got back to the table, the girl jumped on me and said: “güerito, que bueno que me escogiste.” She said she had been checking me out and was so happy I picked her out.

 

The young girl with the older Canadian wasn’t happy, but I told her that the dude was willing to spend a lot of money.

 

The Canadian gave me $100 and told me to keep the girls with me while he goes to his room to shower. He told me to specifically not let go of the girl that he picked. 

 

It took him almost 30 minutes to come back. The hotel is a crazy maze, so he had trouble finding his room and finding his way back to Hong Kong.

 

We stayed with the two girls for a couple of hours buying drinks, food, and tequila shots.

 

Then it was negotiating time for the Canadian.

 

My girl was all over me without the necessity of paying her. She was just happy we were buying her drinks (she makes money that way). And she was happy it was with me instead of some other pervert.

The tequila man with a whistle that comes around and forces tequila shots down your throat to ask for tips after swung by our table. Instead of getting tequila directly poured into my mouth, it was poured down the navel of the chick I was with down to her pussy and into my mouth.

Yuck. But drunk and having fun. Don’t judge.

Also, tequila should’ve killed bacteria, right?

Or so I told myself.

 

His girl… 

 

She was not very happy.

 

The Canadian made his offer. $300 for a couple hours with her. Way more than the usual average pay. The girl was hesitant but she took it.

 

I am not sure what happened after. I went home. The Canadian stayed with the girl in his hotel room.

 

He paid me more than the rest. My tours started to have value. But I was just taking guys to strip clubs and translating for them.

 

Cupid translator mini-pimp.

 

Not a good thing on my resume.

 

Not a good thing to be writing about.

 

But that’s how I stayed afloat for a while.

 

 

 

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

Posted on by Matingas

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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.

Posted on by Matingas

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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.

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

Posted on by Matingas

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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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