The Baja California Issue

Through the looking glass

Exploring culture at puerto nuevo

Baja California feels vibrant, colorful, and full of life as we drive through the streets of Tijuana toward our Airbnb in Rosarito. It also feels oddly familiar, and I’m not sure why. This is my first time visiting Mexico.

“STOP!”

The collective panic of my passengers’ voices draws me out of my pensive state to focus on the incredibly stressful experience of driving through a city. (I almost ran past a stop sign.) I learned how to drive in the suburbs of Pennsylvania. City driving has never been my forte. My hands clutch the steering wheel a bit too tightly, my palms become sticky with sweat, and my heart rate increases. I slam on the brakes several times while trying to merge across lanes — pedestrians, motorbikes, and cars weave around each other in a pattern I cannot decipher.

I hesitate. Someone honks at me.

We make it to Rosarito without getting in an accident. After dropping our luggage off, the afternoon fatigue hits, and I ask Eden to take over driving for the rest of the day. Sasha moves to the front, and I settle into the backseat with Lexie and Alisa. As a passenger, I drift in and out of sleep, and I finally get a chance to take in the sights fully when I wake up rather than worrying about navigating around traffic.

At Mercado Hidalgo, we meander through the stalls overflowing with produce, figurines, and pots. I lose sight of my friends a few times as they wander off to look at whatever trinket or snack has caught their attention. After sitting down for lunch, we head to Pasaje Rodríguez, a market tucked in an alleyway. I find myself drawn toward a store with pastel pink walls, the soft colors setting it apart from neighboring shops with dark walls and wooden floors. Two enamel pins catch my attention, and after a moment of hesitation, I purchase them for my collection. I like to buy pins from the places that I travel to — they create a growing mosaic on my backpack of my experiences.

Walking around the streets of Tijuana, as I pass through clouds of cigarette smoke and squeeze between crowds of people, I realize why the city feels so familiar. I see the parallels to the bustling streets of China where I fear a car could barrel toward me each time I cross the terrifying six-lane wide roads. I recall the densely packed markets in Beijing where vendors yell at you from all sides to buy their goods.

More than that, however, I feel like an outsider in both cases. I don’t speak Spanish, and we look like standard tourists from the U.S. Nothing out of the ordinary. But when I visit my family in China, I feel like I’m intruding. I speak Mandarin but not fluently. I look Chinese, but I dress and act like an American. My mom has to constantly help me translate certain words between English and Mandarin.

The last time I visited my relatives, I felt miserable. I spent almost two months in China the summer before I started college, but I wanted to be at home in the U.S. spending time with my friends rather than distant family members who I struggled to communicate with.

I regret not putting more effort into learning the language and connecting with my family when I had the chance. Standing here now, trying to communicate with locals in fragmented Spanish I’ve hastily picked up from other Caravan members, I regret not trying to learn some basic phrases before the trip.

There’s no use dwelling on the past anymore. Traveling forces me to focus on the present. So we continue on.

In the late afternoon of the following day, we reach Puerto Nuevo, known as the lobster village of Rosarito. We stop to take a group selfie at the edge of a balcony overlooking the beach. Waves crash against the shore, and the sun begins setting as we walk around; the colors blend together into a muted rainbow across the sky.

While David and William play a game of chess in one of the stalls, I continue on through the streets in search of bracelets for my roommates and me. Several vendors encourage me to stop by: “Come in! Take a look.” Finally, I find four bracelets that seem perfect, but upon hearing the price, I decide to put them back.

We start walking away to find a place for dinner, and the vendor calls out to me, offering a discount. I turn down his offer, but after he brings down the price even further, I finally cave and buy the bracelets.

I remember my mom getting a lemon-patterned sundress at a discount for me in a similar manner the last time we visited my grandparents in Haikou. I had found the act of bargaining intimidating at the time because I had never encountered it living in the U.S. Now, it feels familiar and reminds me of past experiences.

After some deliberation, our group decides to enter Angel Del Mar, a large seafood restaurant overlooking the beach. Initially, our server leads us up a couple of flights of stairs and through three rooms into a corner where a live band performs so loudly that we can’t hear each other. It’s almost comical, but due to the impractical nature of this setup, we request a new table.

After some chit-chat, our food arrives, and I devour the lobster with the rice, beans, and tortillas that accompany the meal. Hunger satiated, we head to a nearby grocery store to stock up on supplies for the Caravan members waiting at the Airbnb. That night, I teach several people how to fold dumplings, the same way my mom taught me when I was younger. Standing around the kitchen island, flour covering the counter and floor, laughing because everything is funnier at 1 a.m., I am content.

Life is good.

When I joined Caravan, I sought to find a close-knit community of creative people who wanted to reflect meaningfully on their travel experiences. Now, I leave with treasured memories of trips I’ve taken with people who I’m grateful to call friends. I have often felt like an outsider, regardless of my environment — at home, in school, while traveling.

My parents and I speak different languages.

My friends and I hurtle down vastly different career paths.

I am a temporary visitor passing through a place that people call home.

Finally, I have found a place where I feel like I belong — comfortable to be myself. I don’t know if I’m ready to say goodbye.

But I look forward to whatever awaits.

Words: Nicole Ru

Photos: Emily Langston, Monserrat Urbina

Design: Haniqa Rahardjo