It all started during a trip to San Diego for a comedy show at Comedy Heights. I was traveling with my Jamaican friend, Ryan and my East Coast buddy, Steve. We arrived in the early afternoon and hopped on the metro, heading to our hotel. We were kind of lost—but in a good way—because we had hours to kill before our show that night.
While on the train, I pulled out my phone, opened Maps, and searched for our hotel. (I don’t remember the name.) What I do remember is seeing the Mexican border on the map. Jokingly, I turned to Ryan and Steve and said, “We should go to Mexico.” Steve laughed, but Ryan, a military guy with travel experience and a passport, said, “Okay, let’s go.”
Steve and I were travel rookies—neither of us even had a passport. We started debating the logistics out loud on the train, figuring it was unlikely we could pull it off. That’s when a fellow passenger chimed in.
“You don’t need a passport to go to Mexico,” he said. “People do it all the time. Just head to the entrance near 7/11.”
We were stunned into silence, mulling it over. Before we could decide, our train stop was announced, and we got off to check into our hotel.
The hotel was decent—comfy beds, snacks in the fridge, and an amazing view. From the window, we could see the Mexican border. Steve and I looked at each other with wide eyes. “We should really go to Mexico.” It was a bigger deal for us than for Ryan, who’d already been all over the place.
But first, it was showtime. We got ready, called a ride, and headed to the sold-out venue. The room was packed, buzzing with energy. We saw comedians we knew from Los Angeles, got free drinks for performing, and felt like kings. Ryan performed first and crushed it. Then I went up, and Steve closed out the night.
After the show, we celebrated with the audience and other comedians—drinks, laughs, and a bit of smoke. By midnight, we were thoroughly buzzed and headed back to the hotel.
When we got to our room, the window was still open, and the lights from the Mexican border glowed brightly. That’s when it hit us again. We looked at each other and, in unison, said, “We’re going to Mexico tonight.”
Crossing the Border
Excited and nervous, we left the hotel and started walking. As we neared the 7/11 the guy on the train mentioned, we decided to pop in for snacks. I got candy, my favorite (Sour Patch Kids), while the guys grabbed chips and sodas. At the counter, we drunkenly asked the cashier, “What’s the best way to cross the border?”
He gave some instructions, but what stuck with me was: “Don’t go where all the lights are.” Naturally, as soon as we stepped outside, we walked straight toward the lights.
It was around 1 a.m. and the path to the border was surreal—lit up, lined with fences and barbed wire. Steve was starting to get nervous, but I trusted Ryan. He was military-trained, had travel experience, and wouldn’t let anything happen to us.
Finally, we reached customs. The guards, armed and imposing, asked for our passports. Ryan handed his over, but Steve and I only had our driver’s licenses.
“Where are your passports?”“We don’t have them.”The guards raised their eyebrows. “Who do you know here?”
“No one.”
“Why are you here?”
“We heard y’all have cheap drinks…”
One guard chuckled. “Oh, so you guys want to party? Are you trying to go to Hong Kong?”
“China?!” we blurted, confused.“No, Hong Kong,” he insisted, laughing.
Reluctantly, we said, “Sure.”
“Alright, $20 each.”
We handed over the money, and the guards waved us through. Suddenly, we were in Tijuana.
A Night in Tijuana
It was dark and eerily quiet. None of our phones worked—Steve started panicking, but Ryan stayed calm. Luckily, Ryan’s phone had international service, and we managed to call an Uber to take us to “Hong Kong.” When the price came up as 500, Steve and I freaked out.
“FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS?!”Ryan laughed. “That’s pesos, bro. It’s like 20 bucks.” Relief washed over us.
The ride felt surreal. We passed a woman grilling hotdogs on the highway and a guy sprinting across in sandals. “This isn’t America,” I thought.
When we arrived, we realized “Hong Kong” wasn’t a country—it was a strip club. And not just any strip club—it looked like the Las Vegas Strip condensed into three chaotic stories of dancers, drinks, and debauchery.
Inside, I got dragged into a dance I didn’t want, made the mistake of kissing the dancer, and Ryan scolded me: “Bro, she’s been servicing men all day!” Horrified, I stuck to hanging out with the guys after that.
Eventually, we realized we’d lost Steve. Just as we were about to panic, he reappeared, grinning. “Man, she was so fine!”
We decided to grab some food—tacos, pupusas, hot dogs—but halfway there, Steve smacked his forehead. “I left my phone!”
Back to Hong Kong we went. Steve searched high and low but came back empty-handed. Ryan wasn’t surprised: “Told you it was gone.”
Heading Home
Defeated, we called another Uber back to the U.S. border. At customs, the officer questioned how we’d entered Mexico without passports. After a brief lecture, he let us through with a stern warning: “Don’t do that again.”
By 5 a.m., we were back in America, exhausted and exhilarated. It was a wild, spontaneous night—and my first trip abroad.
Mexico Vlog : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_z6rwbz_eg
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