Tijuana can never get a break. It’s a city whose reputation precedes itself, and rarely in a good way. No matter where in the world I am, whenever I’ve mentioned Tijuana, I’ve gotten a reaction. Usually, that reaction is snide comments or exaggerated expressions from people who have heard tales of a city that parties hard, flaunts prostitution and has a legendary reputation for drugs and narco-violence. Although that is doubtlessly a truthful part of Tijuana’s dynamic tapestry, it has always saddened me that those salacious aspects too often define the city I know and love. Tijuana deserves more than that. The people of this city deserve more than that.
I’ve spent over eight years of my adult life living on or near the beach in Tijuana. For six of those years, I crossed the border only for work and school, foregoing a San Diego social life in favor of an experience where I learned Spanish and adapted to a culture so wonderfully different from the rural Vermont life that I grew up in. Even when I returned to live in sunny San Diego in 2010, I would still spend many weekends enjoying the vibrant markets, incredible food and exciting nightlife in Tijuana. In the summer of 2018, I moved back to my beloved Tijuana on a part-time basis. This move gave me the fresh revamp of scenery and lifestyle that I sorely needed.
Over the years, I’ve seen Tijuana survive and overcome incredible challenges. When the drug war emptied the city of foreign tourism, the businesses adapted by focusing inward and creating spaces for local tourism to flourish. In recent years, I’ve seen some of the best developments in my time here, with an exploding food scene, a mind-bending variety of arts and culture programming and a top-notch nightlife that has something for literally everyone. “Tijuana is a lot of things, but it’s never boring,” I often say as part of my sales pitch to scared Americans anxious about getting kidnapped and murdered if they venture into TJ.
And then … came coronavirus.
Once the United States’ lockdowns went into effect, I knew that my stay-at-home experience was going to take place south of the border. I was going to quarantine in Tijuana, or as I put it, “quaran-Tijuana’d.” With coronavirus shutting down the U.S.-Mexico border for non-essential travel, my regular border crossing would be cut back. Although I still live part-time in San Diego, it is a lot easier to isolate myself in my spacious and hidden Tijuana house.
“When San Diego gets a cold, Tijuana gets a fever.” I’ve heard various versions of this saying over the years. What happens in the U.S. eventually reaches here, although often delayed and always more impactful. The response to the pandemic was no different. When all the restaurants closed for dine-in in California, Tijuana restaurants, bars and beaches were still operating like business as usual. I felt like I knew something that everyone around me did not yet fully understand the breadth of. I had a growing sense of dread, coupled with denial for what was to come. When toilet paper and cleaning products disappeared in the U.S., stores in Tijuana were still well-stocked. Stores and pharmacies even moved their toilet paper supplies to the windows or stacked them into ceiling-high towers that took over sections of the store. People (like myself) started purchasing toilet paper and bringing it INTO the U.S.
The change from pre-coronavirus to post-coronavirus wasn’t quick. The first signs of the pandemic began with handwritten, hastily hanged signs outside stores asking people to use sanitizer, stay socially distant and send only one person from each family in at a time. Everything began to slow down. Traffic lightened, streets emptied of people, and there was a noticeable hushed tone in places that were usually alive with laughter, music and movement. It felt like the calm before the storm as bars closed, seemingly overnight, and beaches and parks remained open. I jokingly called it “quarantine light.” During the next month, everything locked down.
In late April, the stores ran out of beer. There was plenty of advance warning. Notices went out that the factories were going to stop operating, and once the supplies dried up, no Mexican-made beer was going to make its way to the shelves of OXXO (Mexico’s 7-Eleven) or any other store. I don’t drink beer, but it still surprised me to see the shelves empty except for strange microbrews and foreign brands that would remain on the shelves even in a beer shortage. I became the designated beer mule on my increasingly rare trips to the U.S. In many ways, Mexico took the coronavirus far more seriously than the U.S. It was a sight to see the mutilated and scarred lines of “caution tape” blocking all stairs and roads that lead down to the beach. I’ll never forget the police and Mexican military, with their automatic weapon-adorned vehicles, posted up at crucial beach access points. During Memorial Day weekend, all entrances to Rosarito were obstructed by big cement barricades. Access to the port city of Ensenada and the famed Valle de Guadalupe became so restricted that only people who could provide proof of residency were allowed in.
After a while, everything became a blur. Information became more and more “word of mouth,” and it was hard to find out what the rapidly evolving rules were. Evident changes caused by the COVID-19 pandemic showed up steadily around me. Many of the already waning businesses in my immediate neighborhood began to close permanently. A few healthy businesses were gone by mid-June. My direct neighbor, a popular and successful shoe repair shop, was gone by late June. When people started complaining loudly about masks and the loss of their rights in the U.S., Mexico doubled down on safety protocols. People here did not need to be convinced that the threat was real. In a country where often four generations of a family live under the same roof, the risk to vulnerable family wasn’t an esoteric concept; it was a terrifying reality.
One thing I find that sets Tijuana apart is its people. I’ve always felt that Tijuanenses have far fewer resources but far more empathy, kindness, and regard for each other. Although economic disparities lead people to live in survival mode, the average citizen of this city is a hard-working, empathetic individual who cares for their neighbors and family above all else. There will be no stimulus check for the people of Mexico. There will be no enhanced unemployment benefits or government bailouts. There will be no cancellation of debts. But the people here will make it through nonetheless. Part of it is a stubborn resilience. Some of it is well-honed survival skills, but I believe it is mainly because people here think of each other over their own needs.
Today, Tijuana is still walking the tightrope of safety versus the economy. Some bars opened for a day or two and then promptly shut back down. The beach is still closed, although the street above the beach is coming back to life. The restaurants slowly began to put their tables back in their dining rooms, and now dine-in is welcome. Masks are required to enter any business or building. Temperature checks are mandatory at grocery stores and Walmart. Recently the beer returned to the shelves. As life painstakingly returns to the new normal, I find myself even more in love with this city and its people. Coronavirus certainly changed the course of my experience living here in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Still, it also reinforced my belief in the value of community, empathy and my conviction that when people act together and look out for others’ well-being, few obstacles are insurmountable. And that is the impression I hope people get about Tijuana in the future.
