We crossed the border on a Sunday, five days shy of a college degree. I’m not sure how I got invited. Maybe because I had the old blue Nissan that was reliable enough to make it the three-hour drive to Rosarito. Maybe because they needed one more person to cover the rental fee on the condo that overlooked the beach. Everyone was paired off that weekend except for me and Carley so we lucked into the room at the top of the stairs, with the wooden doors that opened to a balcony. They’d all been at different times, but it was my first time across the border. My grandmother was born in Baja, but no one had ever gone back. My friends talked about a famous bar that had been featured on MTV Road Rules. It would be our first stop, the highlight of the trip. We arrived midday to see the famous sign with the white letters and the green ampersand stood high above us. The parking around us the first sign of something off—empty save for our three-car caravan. Closed between the traditional spring break and the start of the summer season on Memorial Day. Now the place is open 365 days a year, but back then party season had a limit. We ate instead at some nearby restaurant with lobsters and watered-down margaritas.
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