This is the last post in a short series that covers a week-long roadtrip from Vancouver to Tijuana with two old friends, and to be clear – no one dies – that was just an unreliable forecast of how the trip would end.
To recap: our planning was pretty limited and covered just the start point, the end point, and the hotels we would stay in. All other details would be determined en route. The hotels, which were my responsibility, were rather unequally distributed, but that was where the way points fell on this trip: Vancouver, Seattle and Portland are all quite close together. On day three of our seven day trip we had covered only 300 or so miles southward (though our mileage was actually much higher), and still had around 1,100 miles to cover – most of them on slow coast roads.
From Portland onwards ‘You do realise we have to be in Mexico on Friday?’ became a more frequent refrain, particularly whenever I was setting up my tripod as our anxiety about our slow start increased.
Don’t go to Tijuana
Another common theme on the trip was the consistent advice we were given on the subject of Tijuana; everyone was very clear that we really shouldn’t go there as it is was too far dangerous. The most memorable example of this in advice came from an ex US Marine in Harry’s Bar, Pismo Beach: ‘Don’t don’t do it man’, was his advice. ‘Don’t go to Tijuana. I was there recently and I saw a man get kicked almost to death by school children’.
This alarming anecdote from an ex-military type was only sightly worse than we had heard all week. From Vancouver to Pismo Beach we were told that a trip to Tijuana meant we would almost certainly be robbed and were likely to encounter much worse – in this case meeting a violent end at the hands of school children. This was to be the case until we reached San Diego and got some more balanced, first hand advice.
We reached the Andaz Hotel in San Diego late in the afternoon, having set out from Pismo Beach fairly early that morning. The traffic around the sprawl of LA (a city none of us are fond of) was horrible, but there really is no way round it. The Andaz has a great rooftop bar and taking refreshments there we got the first sensible advice about visiting Tijuana we’d heard all week. We were told the best way to visit was to take a taxi to the border, walk across and then take a taxi to our destination – in our case Mission 19 restaurant. Re-assured we booked a taxi, but I elected not to take my camera, which is why the image that accompanies this post is not from Mexico, though it is from another Spanish speaking country.
We executed the plan without a hitch, though I did find our time on foot in Tijuana a little intimidating, and had a memorable dinner at Mission 19. The tuna with trout roe and green chilli, sea urchin soup and braised beef short rib were all outstanding. From the restaurant we took a taxi back to San Diego and had a night cap in the Double Deuce in the Gaslamp Quarter – watching people attempting to ride the mechanical bull. There was a pleasing symmetry to ending up in Gaslamp as we’d started in Gastown, Vancouver, just six days previously.
Ron Burgundy is not far away…
The following morning was our last day and we elected to see a little more of San Diego. After a leisurely roof top breakfast at the Andaz we returned our hired Chevy Suburban and headed for the Hotel del Coronado, one of the last surviving wooden Victorian beach properties in the US. Over a pleasant, if insubstantial, seafood lunch there we got talking to our server who told us there was a ‘Ron Burgundy tribute bar’ in the city. It turned out to be no such thing, but the bar – Urban Solace (sadly now closed) turned out to be worth a visit anyway and a picture of the great man was indeed hanging behind the bar.
‘Is your name, literally, like…Nigel?’
After a beer in Urban Solace, my companions Ted and Nick were keen to explore the area whilst I was still hungry and decided to stay and get something more to eat. No sooner had I finished than I received a video on my phone from Ted, featuring a local woman asking me if my name was “literally, like, Nigel?”
Naturally, the video ended with some encouragement to join them all in a nearby bar. I did, and was greeted by Nick and Ted at a table of slightly inebriated people all keen to get their photo taken with me. I never did find out what my friends had told these people about me, but whatever it was, it was undoubtedly far from the truth. As we toasted for the last time before we left for the airport, they started to chant my name for no discernible reason – which was a memorable if sightly puzzling way to end what I can only describe as a truly epic trip.