Green Bay Packer fans, known as cheese heads, walked about subdued and dejected, after their team's loss the day before to Denver in Super Bowl XXXII. Once again it was possible to get served in a San Diego restaurant without waiting for a table. The red trolley cars which had delivered fans to Qualcomm Stadium yesterday, when it was packed to the doors with standing room only crowds, was practically empty this sunny Monday morning. Signs of the Big Event were everywhere.

Super Bowl T-shirts were being sold at a platform kiosk at what appeared to be distressed prices. Team decals littered the cars. Though the temperature was mild, Wisconsin fans huddled together for warmth, gazing down at the ground, while riding the rails to Tijuana in a last ditch effort at having a good time, and picking up some souvenirs to take back to colder climates with them. Press reports mentioned that travel companies had booked their clients into package tours to San Diego for week-long pre-game celebrations, with Bowl tickets at prices approaching ten thousand dollars. In the pursuit of the ultimate sport's fan experience, such excesses were acceptable, even if losing to Denver was not.

So began my most recent day long exploration of the border city of Tijuana. With two friends named Jim and Joel, we prepared to enter Mexico once again, to soak up some new experiences. The plan for the day was uncomplicated. We would explore some neighborhoods between the downtown and the playa or beach, in the area of a large modern hillside structure that we saw on previous walks. It was 11:00 a.m. when we crossed through the spinning metal gates and headed toward the blue and white buses off of Avenida Constitution. The crowds on the streets were thin by comparison to the crush of shoppers I had seen a month ago before the Christmas holidays. There was time to read a poster nailed to a street pole, announcing a masked wrestling match for later in the week at the Tijuana Municipal Stadium. Nearby vendors were selling jewelry, chess and domino sets carved from various stones, blown glassware, blankets and leather goods. We passed shoe stores, pharmacies, juice and fruit stands, steamed corn carts, bakeries, small bars with curtains for doorways, hotels with darkened lobbies, women who were trying to earn their living on street corners in very skimpy attire amidst the sounds and smells of the urban landscape: car horns and diesel fumes mixed with cooking oil and radios turned up a notch too loud.

Finally, we boarded the public bus, paid our fares in pesos, and sat waiting while it filled up, and a young man sold candy in the aisle. Slowly we lumbered through the downtown traffic, and up a long hill. As we gained height, much of the city's landscape revealed itself through the windows. We could see a long valley sloping towards the border, densely covered with buildings which yielded to open fields, marshlands, and the curve of the coastline off to the north. Although we couldn't see our destination, at some point we decided to leave the bus and strike out on foot.

Moving away from the roadway, we found ourselves in a quiet neighborhood with practically no street traffic. Each block seemed to have a little bodega or grocery store tucked behind a simple facade. There were small, neat homes mixed with flats of apartments and what looked like various industrial complexes. Dogs were everywhere. The ones in the street were very passive and docile, making no demands on guarding their shared territory, while the barking and yaps coming from behind the fences seemed preemptive and protective. In the distance ahead, on a high bluff, we could see our destination, which was actually a group of large, sand-colored buildings. The problem now was how to reach them.

One of my friends scouted ahead, up an incredibly steep hillside to a drainage spillway, but the footing proved too hazardous, and forced us to retreat back down to the road. We tried walking up some side streets, climbing another embankment, and crossing a vacant lot, but were met this time by an impenetrable high barbed wire fence. We concluded that this was definitely a gated community, and set out to find the gate. A man living in a dilapidated structure at one end of a large lot pointed us in the direction of some wooden stairs. Climbing these, led to a service road. On one side of it in the distance were the iron stands of what looked to be a sports stadium, and on the other side was a 7-Up bottling plant. Making our way back out to the street, we turned in the direction of the gated complex, and at long last arrived at the main entrance. There stood a gate house where massive wrought iron fencing swung open to let cars pass through them. Most of the traffic carried California license plates. A sign announced in Spanish that this was a private, secure community with lots available for villas, and a sales office could be seen in the distance. The image in my mind was literary. I thought of another elusive building, the castle in Franz Kafka's psychological novel of symbolism and self-imposed limits. Here, however, the problem was more tangible -- a uniformed guard with 2-way radio. We decided to move on.

It was about 1:00 p.m. We were all getting hungry, and the object now was to find a place to have lunch. In the far distance we could see what looked to be a shopping complex. We headed toward this oasis, stopping at the rim of a canyon to look across at some housing that was being built on the other side. Wherever one goes in Tijuana, construction projects abound, a measure of the vitality of the economic engine and the relative prosperity of this border city. At an intersection, we came to a large gray concrete building that served as a municipal health clinic, and on a street fronting this were a series of stores and restaurants. The buildings were modern, and looked in good repair. We passed a Chinese restaurant which was empty, and a Mexican grill that offered pozole, a corn grits based stew as the house specialty. It was here that we settled in for lunch. The man and woman in the open kitchen seemed very friendly, but the choices were limited to tacos, quesadillas (tacos with cheese), beans, and the pozole soup which my friends ordered. I settled for a quesadilla with beans and a Coke. Large plates of radishes, green onions and chilies soon appeared, followed by flaky, fried tortillas and the hot dishes we had chosen. I sampled the soup, and it tasted quite good. My rolled sandwich was filling, and into it I mixed some chopped onions, herbs and spices.

We asked the Senora for directions to a cemetery we had seen from the bus. She inquired if we would be attending a funeral, then explained that the son of her friend was being laid to rest there later that day. He had been killed in a street fight, shot from what I could understand. Life and death are never very far from one another. The mood and topic were sobering. The woman said that the cemetery was not in the best of neighborhoods, and gave us directions to reach it, along with some lollipops when we paid our bills. My lunch came to just under $2.00.

To reach the cemetery, we had to walk along the side of a main roadway that cut through steep hillsides. It was not very far away from where we had eaten lunch. The burial ground was split into two sections, and was separated by the highway. There was a pedestrian overpass which connected them -- a smaller area which seemed like the original interment area, and a much larger field. Both were built atop the rolling hills. Rising from near the older graveyard was a very high radio tower. It was a strange contrast. But even stranger, was the condition of the graves and plots. There was no grass on the ground, only bare soil. And the plots themselves were placed closely together, and not along any defined access or paths, so one needed to practically walk on a grave site to move about. But the most shocking and depressing element was the condition of the graves and markers. Many of the headstones had been broken or knocked over. Graves had been opened, and the heavy slabs covering them were either moved, cracked, or slightly ajar. Some of the sites had been totally fenced in with wrought iron grills, and some even had ironwork fences on top of them. There were a few mausoleums, but even these appeared violated, and covered with graffiti. Empty cans and debris were strewn about on the ground. It was really an awful sight, which made me wonder about the human condition, and the lack of sanctity for those who had nothing more to lose except their final resting place. Even that was not sacred. This was so unlike the secluded, pristine setting of the Mount of Olives Cemetery we had toured on an earlier visit. There had been antiseptic order in that place, little condominium plots, artificial flowers that would never wilt, enameled photos set into the marble stones, along with miniature treasures set behind glass, relics of a life to recall its passing. Here there was just chaos and decay. Thinking about which was more real made me shudder.

We moved on. It was now late afternoon. The light of the fading sun was lovely, and always had been my favorite time of the day. We decided to hike back into the city. As we were on higher ground, it would be mostly a downhill walk. Along the way, we passed a peaceful colonia with the familiar array of shops -- Laundromat, video rental, bodega, beauty salon, barber. My reluctance to get a haircut finally gave way, and I found myself sitting in a chair being sheared, while my friends explored outside where chickens roamed freely on the hillside near a four-story flat that looked ripe for sliding into the gully below at the first heavy rains. The barbering turned out to be a good experience, which I enjoyed while watching the passing scene in the street outside. Brushed, combed and much lighter, we continued our journey, pausing at some benches in a neighborhood park. When we continued, we once again caught sight of an enormous Mexican flag that can be seen from just about every part of Tijuana, and targeted this as our destination. It was yet another landmark whose source we wished to discover. While we made progress in closing the distance, it seemed for a time that the flag would elude us, like an object on the horizon that one never reaches. But we followed winding streets, edging down steep hills, until we were on level ground again and the banner was dead ahead. Its size was truly monumental, perhaps 100 feet by 70 feet, flying 300 feet in the air from a pole that had a red aircraft warning beacon on its top. It was located behind high walls, inside an army fort. Across the street from the military base was a well cared for park with a prominent war memorial in one corner and basketball courts in another.

From here we continued onward, stopping briefly to look inside a municipal gymnasium, where a free aerobics class was scheduled to begin in about half-an-hour. I bought a strawberry iced fruit bar from a street vendor, and debated if we should stay and watch the ladies workout. The pull of having dinner was stronger, and we moved on again, crossing Boulevard Agua Caliente and finding our way to 2251 Avenida Ensenada in the Colonia Cacho district and Arturo's Restaurant, a peaceful setting with white linen on the tables, baskets of dinner rolls, an antipasto tray, sweet spinach salad, and for me a large plate of paella, containing green peas, red peppers, crayfish, chicken, and meat, and washed down with two Bohemia beers. My friends had grilled salmon in a white sauce. It was a very civilized meal, with good conversation as well. I think we were all very hungry after hiking for most of the day. My bill came to just over ten dollars. On the way out, I realized that we had been the only diners.

After dinner we stopped in at a McDonald's in the Plaza Rio district for my beloved Cono, a soft vanilla scoop for about a quarter, and then decided to try and find a Karaoke bar we had passed about a week earlier. We located the place on a quiet section of Boulevard Sanchez Taboada, and walked down a flight of stairs into the darkened hall where a Mexican woman was on the stage singing a plaintive love song in Spanish. After a Pina Colada and a look at the song list, I put in my request and took the stage for an off-key version of Blowin' In The Wind, made more challenging by having some of the lyrics missing from the video. I am now convinced that enjoying music and performing music are totally separate talents, one of which I am not blessed with. But at the time, this did not deter me from attempting Joni Mitchell's Both Sides Now. When you're with friends and have hiked through cemeteries, singing in a Karaoke bar is an acceptable risk.

On the way back to the border, about 9:00 p.m. we passed a coffee shop in the lobby of a modern office building that looked inviting, and stopped in for hot drinks and dessert. The walk to the border was uneventful, and the U.S. Custom's facility practically deserted. We were whisked through in time for the 10:02 p.m. trolley back to San Diego. I wondered if the Green Bay fans we had seen on the trip down in the morning had found their souvenirs. We certainly had.

For another view of Tijuana, and beyond, see John & Linda Lipman's excellent perspective of a more traditional tourist visit.