I’ve often wondered what life would be like if everyone, particularly those calling themselves Christians, were truly honest about all of the things they did and thought. All pardons to Toby Keith, but what happens down in Mexico shouldn’t necessarily stay there. I’ve come to the point where I take pride, too much pride perhaps, in being open about my actions and my thoughts regardless of how unconventional or controversial they are. Honesty however, does enable us to teach others the lessons that we’ve learned and it helps to maintain accountability and true friendships, so it is with that backdrop that I share this story. It is a story about Tijuana, and about two strip clubs there that I am now acquainted with.
Two weeks ago I went on a business trip, with a co-worker, to San Diego California. It seems that the thing to do, if you’re a guy off on a business trip in San Diego, is to visit Tijuana. My co-worker wanted to go, he doesn’t drink, and he seemed like a straight laced kinda guy, so I figured we’d just see the town and head on back, that was Mistake #1.
On Tuesday afternoon we hopped in the trolley and headed for the border. We walked across the border around 7pm with a stream of Mexicans. There was one guard checking someone’s bag as hundreds of people continued to walk by. We weren’t sure how to actually get to Revolution, the main strip (no pun intended), so we caught a cab. He asked us where we wanted to go, and we didnt really know so he offered to take us to the best place. Sounds fun, right? As soon as he pulls up the cab, two guys in formal wear open the door for us and usher us out onto the sidewalk, and then into a restaurant/bar on the corner. Personally, I don’t like to be told what to do, or sold something that I don’t want, so I wasn’t too keen on being corralled into a bar. It turned out to be a pretty nice place though, with a little dance floor and some typical tunes playing over the system. There was nobody there at the time, and we weren’t hungry, so we exited and started walking down the street.
About 5 paces later we were accosted again by two guys standing outside of a dank looking opening at the bottom of the next building. I shook my head as if to say “We aren’t interested”, and continued walking past, but my amigo started turning toward the friendly attackers. As I looked back at him in bewilderment he said, “You wanna check it out? No cover.” Perhaps sensing my hesitation he continued, “We’ll just check it out.” I shrugged as if to say “Why not?” and followed him in despite my misgivings. That was Mistake #2. We walked up some dimly lit stairs and through some heavy hanging drapes or something. I was already wary, but at this point something sure didn’t seem right. We rounded the corner at the top of the stairs and were again nudged toward a chair right up next to a stage with a pole on it. Well actually, there was more than a pole. There was a barely dressed person of the female persuasion next to the pole. My brain saw her and registered her as a stripper and therefore the place I was in as a strip club. At the same time I noticed two women headed our way. Even in my dazed state it wasn’t hard for me to guess their intentions. I decided to leave. I caught my co-worker’s eye and he followed me out. So, I definitely learned something there. I now know that if I’m not too concerned with diseases and other such trifles, I’ve got a great place to go for cheap and almost instant sex.
We continued walking down Revolution and the creativity of the doormen at each passing strip club seemed to increase. Not only them, but the taxi drivers and store proprietors as well. It seemed that Tijuana had two things to offer, sex and booze. I later learned of a third thing when we ran into a group of friendly looking young Americans whose mood was no doubt enhanced by the grassy looking stuff they were buying on the corner. It was being sold as weed, but really, who knows what it was.
I managed to avoid going into any more clubs by visiting a relatively nice drug store type place, and a little eatery while my hombre hit a couple more spots. Each time he came back to report nothing interesting. I was pretty much ready to head back to the real world at this point, it sure seemed late. We checked the time and found that we had managed to last a full 40 minutes in Tijuana. I guess I’m not much of a partier.
My compatriot didn’t want to throw in the towel so early, so I agreed to finish walking Revolution with him. Neither of us fancied roaming the streets alone. I surely could have insisted that we leave, but peer pressure got the better of me. That was Mistake #3. It was probably 20 minutes later that I had an overwhelming need to pee. The first scene in this story replayed itself again, with some shady but well dressed looking dudes inviting us into their club. I asked if they had a bano and he said they did. He then led us down a dark alley between two buildings to a neon light with an armed Mexican security guard standing out front. I’m not too fond of government types anyway, but that security guard did absolutely nothing to make me feel any safer. We walked in, found the restroom, paid the guy a buck to turn the water on for us and help us dry our hands, and I figured we were outta there. My ever adventerous co-worker decided he wanted a little more out of his Tijuana experience, however, and this establishment offered more than just a toilet and a friendly handwasherman.
I’m not sure exactly what my thinking was as we walked into the club. I knew I didn’t feel particularly safe walking back out the door by myself, but I did think about doing it. I decided instead to walk in and find a booth or something away from the, uh, action. The room was huge, and it was indeed a strip club. Joe Nichols sings that “tequila makes her clothes fall off”, but apparently $1 bills do the trick as well. We found a booth and I did my best to face away and check out the tapestries while my co-worker negotiated some business. It was surreal. I was sitting in a strip club in Tijuana, examining my inner self, and I literally couldn’t determine whether or not I was sinning. Before long I was left alone in my booth and I continued to ponder my situation. I rationalized that Jesus ministered to the sick, and he might very well go to a strip club. I also realized that he would “minister to the sick”, not cower in a booth unsure of what to do. I guess I’m not Jesus.
We eventually left that place, and walked back to the border. I was amazed at how easy it was to get back into the United States. It would seem that protecting American citizens just isn’t as important as staying in power and getting votes. In any event, we got back to our hotel before 11pm. I realized that I had just done two things that I had never done before. I visited Mexico and I visited a strip club. Well, now I can check those off my list of things to do before I die. As I continue to think about the experience I see some places where I didn’t control the situation and instead let the circumstances control me. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have gone at all, I shouldn’t have followed anyone into a place I wasn’t familiar with, and I should have made my morality and my intentions clear to my co-worker beforehand, without being condescending or unloving. What I did wasn’t right, but at the same time I learned something about myself that I didn’t know. I feel almost like I drank a deadly poison and it didn’t harm me. What I mean is that the strip clubs had no impact on me whatsoever. I don’t know … does anyone believe that as they read it? I hope you do, but I guess it doesn’t really matter to me whether you do or not. I know the truth. I was faced with something profoundly dirty and base, and it wasn’t anything that I wanted. I’m beginning to understand that my life’s experiences over the past 3 years or so have changed me for the better.
What I want out of life is love. What Tijuana offers is so blatantly counterfeit that it holds no power over me. It’s like the memory of these big, giant, golden grapes that I picked right off the vine at my Uncle’s farm in Georgia when I was a kid. They were so sweet and pure that the puny little grapes they sell at the grocery store just don’t compare. I want those golden grapes again. My heart’s desire is for the type of love that comes straight off the vine and is so sweet and pure that nothing this world manufactures can compare to it.
Recently, I’ve seen a few old acquaintances and relatives on MySpace, and their lives seem so trivial and pointless. At first it disgusts me, and then saddens me, and then I see the whole world in need of love and compassion through those small glimpses that MySpace provides. I’m a different person than I used to be. Maybe some people don’t see it, but I think a few do. I didn’t really see it clearly myself until I sat in a small booth, in a strip club, in Tijuana Mexico. I feel like I saw the world through different eyes that evening. I saw the fake and compared it to the real, and I instinctively knew which one I wanted. That trip was a mistake in many ways, but I’ll take that little good from it and keep working on showing the same kind of love that I so desperately want to see in this world.