2025 was a challenging year for many. It certainly was for me. Aside from the horrors of the second Trump administration, I had personal struggles with health and wealth. But I had to keep going, move forward, finding gems wherever I could.
Outrageous dental bills, health setbacks impacting my ability to work, and expensive car repairs kept me homebound this past year. My wanderlust of the previous year had come to a screeching halt. Long distance drives were reduced to one weekend in the fall to San Francisco and back. But at Christmastime, I couldn’t miss spending it with my 4 ½ year old grandnephew. After all, this was the year he got a bike with training wheels! I’m glad I made it to Los Angeles for that.
I had another goal for the long drive down the length of the state. My friend Hugo in Tijuana was trying to restart a cafe he once had. He had applied a fresh coat of paint, installed a broken tile floor, and was in the process of purchasing equipment for coffee-making and small-scale cooking. Most importantly, his goal is to develop a destination and meeting place for migrants. Waiting in TJ for their chance at the American Dream, migrants know that, because of Trump and his hellish policies and illegal actions against immigration, it will be years before they will be going anywhere.
The location for Hugo’s “Undocumented Cafe” is right at the corner of Latin America, where the border wall meets the sea. It is a unique and always strange sight to see a tall, steel fence sinking into the waves. When I talked to him on the phone back in October, he asked me for some paintings I had created during the pandemic, faces of children and mothers waiting for their chance to come to America, to hang in his cafe. I was happy to bring them to him, and to cross over to TJ one more time. The contrast between the two countries at this meeting point is always stunning. The wealth of San Diego and the abject poverty of Tijuana is always a lesson in the meaning of privilege.
I left Los Angeles around eight in the morning on the 29th of December in order to reach the border before eleven. We planned to meet up where Hugo was picking up a car to drive back across into Tijuana. There it would be fixed up in order for him to sell back in the states. When I arrived in San Ysidro, a district of San Diego which sits immediately north of the US-Mexico border, I parked in a lot surrounded by American outlet stores and money exchange businesses. It is a lower income, heavily Latino community where Mexicans with green cards cross the border every day to go to work, especially as farmworkers. They also come there for customs issues related to moving goods across the border. There is a strong connection between San Ysidro and Tijuana. They are just a short bridge apart.
Helicopters fly overhead both communities every hour. They fly low and loud, and drink up fossil fuel. No one would ever try to illegally cross the border in this location. There are way too many cameras, barriers, and border patrol personnel on the ground. The noisy helicopter seemed to me to be just a show of power perpetuating paranoia. It was definitely overkill and a waste of our tax dollars.
The tow truck delivering the car was delayed. But it was sunny and warm in San Ysidro, so I wandered in and out of shops, never seeing anything I was interested in buying. Shopping is one of my least favorite pastimes, so I was relieved when Hugo finally called around 1 and said the car was delivered but not yet drive-able. I drove to neighboring Otay Mesa to pick him up. I hadn’t seen Hugo for almost two years, but he always looks the same. He never seems to age. We are kindred spirits, concerned about the humanitarian issues surrounding immigration, and always supporters of the arts. Hugo calls us Artivists.
He showed me the way to the transit center to park the car where it would be safe and guarded by a security attendant. My paintings were packed up in cardboard boxes. I brought a portable dolly to help with the transport. We hopped on a trolley and rode a short distance to U.S. Customs and Border Protection. Along with many others, we walked up the bridge over the lines of cars waiting to cross the border. Once inside Customs, our passports were checked, and our packs and packages conveyed through metal detectors. We were observed by many border patrol guards.
Within minutes we were through and walking into Zona Rio. A small but crowded plaza emerged. We walked past vendors, smelling the wonderful aroma of Mexican street food and across a busy street to wait for our ride to pick us up. The traffic was horrendous. We were finally picked up by Hugo’s friend Gabba. I was amazed at how patient she was while negotiating the crazy maneuvers of other drivers. I was so grateful I was not in the driver’s seat.
I had not eaten since breakfast, and by the time we reached Playas, it was 3 o’clock. We decided to eat before taking the paintings to their final destination. Hugo recommended Tito’s which was very close by. He said they had the best fish tacos in town. And he was right. Even though I rarely eat fish, I think it was the best Baja fish taco I had ever had. It was nice to sit and eat and catch up with each other.
Finally arriving a little after 4 at the corner of Latin America and the home of the Undocumented Cafe, we walked down the steps to the corner building next to the beach and the border wall. I realized I hadn’t been there for six years. The sky had introduced some thin, feathery clouds and the air was cooling.
Hugo filled me in on all of his plans to make the space a comfortable destination for migrants and all passersby. One of Hugo’s favorite pastimes is karaoke, and he already has the machine. He plans to build a small stage, as well as buy a newer, bigger refrigerator and some tables and chairs. (He had given away the equipment he had to a shelter in need.) I hope he can make this dream come true. He is determined and tenacious, and always thinking of others- a resilient soul with a big heart.
I unpacked my paintings and lay them against the wall. I had displayed these pieces in Arcata during the height of the pandemic in an empty storefront by a Mexican restaurant downtown. After that, my brother used them for a couple of years as a teaching tools in his ethics classes. Now they were going to live in this place of good energy, at the heart of it all.
I knew I had better get back to my car in San Diego soon because the sun was starting to set and I would be driving in the dark back to L.A. that night. I stepped outside to look at the beach and the border wall and the setting sun. Many people were hanging out on the sand and the promenade, looking toward the ocean. The color of the sky went from a soft yellow light to pastel pinks and purples, then to bright pinks and purples. Then a most intense reddish orange dominated the area around the sun slipping behind the horizon.
It felt like a very magical moment to me. My paintings had arrived at their final destination. I was letting them go, a process all painters experience when they sell or give away a piece. The paintings had found their permanent home, and I felt like the sunset was celebrating the moment in all its glory. I looked around at all the people sharing the moment. These are the people we are all supposed to be afraid of. These are supposed to be murderers and rapists. These people are supposed to be a threat to me. But I was the odd one out. I speak a different language and look different from them. I also haven’t lived the harsh life so many of them have lived. We were all one in that moment. And I did not feel an ounce of fear.
Gabba picked us up and Hugo walked back with me across the border and all the way to my car. We said our goodbyes and I got on Interstate 5, heading north toward home. As always, there is that moment of sorrow I feel leaving all those behind who do not have the freedom I have to speed away on an almost empty five-lane highway back into the US of A. I don’t know if I will ever make it down there again. But I encourage those who may go to TJ to stop by the Undocumented Cafe and say hello to Hugo. Just follow the wall into the ocean. Give him my best! He is an uncut gem.
Maureen McGarry 