The first clue should have been the deserted tunnel that ran from San Ysidro to Tijuana.
It was seventy degrees on the Sunday early afternoon, a sunny day bookended by severe storms.
Yet no one but my cousin's wife, Genny, and I strolled past the graffitied walls, over the bridge and across Avenida Revolucion to the plaza.
My dad had warned me against going into Mexico. My husband kept his phone on the whole time, waiting for the call of how much they wanted to give me back. Neither of my girlfriends would go with me. But Genny would, so we headed over the border in search of skeletons and tin art.
After picking up a poncho and straw hat for Dave and several
eskeletos for the kids, I realized that Genny and I were the only shoppers in the alleys. Most of the metal doors had remained shut, and in the last open store, we asked the furniture vendor at what point in the day they would open.
From under butterfly flags, she explained that the stores weren't opening. That because of bad media and the recession, the sellers had gone for good.
She went on to tell us that we were the only "white people" she'd seen in a week. A week!
There were no tourists. There was no money.
On our way back to the bridge, Genny and I visited the
Bomberos, our international family of firefighters. There were more engines there than in any station I've ever seen. Do you sell shirts, I asked them. They said they didn't. But one insisted I take his.
Of course, I didn't want to take the man's uniform. He probably only had a couple, if that, and I suddenly felt selfish and thoughtless.
But when the man brought me to the back of the bay, to a room not unlike Dave's in Oregon, and when he pulled a shirt from his bag and handed it over proudly, I accepted with humility.
I thanked the man and hugged him, and as we crossed Avenida Negrete, I held up the shirt to a passing van of
policia, who got a good laugh.
In the vast customs building, I looked over my shoulder. Thousands of border crossers were herded like cattle through metal stalls. And not one of them, not one, was "white."
Maybe it's true that Tijuana isn't perfect. Maybe bad things happen there, maybe even to good people. But on this day, the worst thing that happened was that it was tough finding a Diet Coke (Coca Light).
It reminded me of Anne Frank's famous quote: "...Despite everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart."
For the fifth year in a row, my kids put up a Day of the Dead display in our library.
which we thought was pretty random. Until we took him to Mexico a couple months later, and our little toddler chose a clay basketballing eskeleto. 
You can see that our display began a little skimpy. 
