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After the reception I talked Brent and Bolero into heading down to Tijuana with me to do a little exploring.

“Tijuana?” Brent said.

“Tijuana?” Bolero repeated.

“Hey, uh, that’s in Mexico,” Brent said, raising his eyebrows and grinning.

“Mexico,” Bolero repeated.

Both of these guys had limps and were a bit on the small side. Though Bolero was taller he was on the skinny side. He had great teeth. We piled into the Cavalier and headed for Tijuana. We crossed over the border and found a parking spot after circling an area for half an hour, not knowing where we should stop, if we should stop or what we were going to do when we stopped. I never had that problem when I was traveling alone. I simply knew when it was time to stop, but these guys had game legs and none of us spoke the language. I was responsible for their well-being and continued freedom. I did know that if they got cut they wouldn’t bleed to death all over the sidewalk, but I didn’t have the need to prove a point. I was fascinated by the fried chicken stands which lined the slanted sidewalks side-by-side like carnival booths at a church picnic.

“How much?” I inquired.

“”Two dollars,” the woman in the booth next to the one I asked responded. I diverted my attention to her from the one I had approached.

“Hey guys, two bucks for a chicken dinner,” I said.

“This ain’t Colonel Sanders,” Brent said with a smirk. “I think I’ll pass.”

“This ain’t Colonel Sanders,” Bolero repeated.

I was truly amazed to find two members of the hemophilia community agree on anything. I sat down at the table and ate a chicken leg with green sauce, beans and rice, tortillas and chilies. I was in heaven, but neither did I have a weakened immune system. The two guys waited patiently very close by as drunken Mexicans nodded out at adjoining tables and others staggered down the street. It didn’t seem to be a very touristy night.

After the snack we ventured by a bar where a barker stood out front and invited us in, so that’s where we went.

“Do they have donkeys in here?” Brent asked.

“Chiquitas!” The barker responded, smiling.

“That’s a banana.” Brent said.

Bolero pushed him through the door and we were greeted by women immediately. A nude dancer performed on the well lit floor. We ordered bottled beer and were soon joined by very young girls.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Eighteen,” she said, “No Anglais.”

We each bought our Chiquitas a drink and bottled beers for ourselves while watching the naked girl on the floor as the disc jockey insulted us with panache over the public address system.

“Pendeyho, Gringos.”

My two buddies could have wiped out the entire town by ordering more expensive drinks for the girls. They both really liked girls a lot but they were too responsible to take it upstairs, even though they still denied that HIV caused AIDS. The warmth of the body of the scantily clad child in my lap made me deny that she was younger than 18. She didn’t speak English, or so she said. But she was wearing braces which did nothing to detract from her overall beauty. I was in a club in Tijuana. The music was loud and the dancing girls were naked.

“Where’s the donkey?” Brent yelled as he attempted to charm the young thing in his lap into submission.

Bolero was with the oldest of the three women and seemed to be having the only real conversation, but after Brent’s comment he managed to blurt out, “This ain’t Colonel Sanders.”

“Pendeyho, Gringo!” came the voice over the PA.

It was definitely time to move on. I drove Brent and Bolero back to the resort on the fringe of San Diego and then to a rest stop outside of San Diego where I slept in the trunk of the car. It’s another tequila sunrise. There’s a danger that lurks in your eyes. Let’s dance.

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