Who ARE You?
“Ring Ring”
I answered my cell phone in the shadow of the border fence … yet again. My team and I were shooting b-roll at Border Fields State Park in San Diego - the Southwesternmost point in the United States.
“Hey, what are you up to?” my friend asked when I picked up.
“Oh, the usual. Hanging out at the fence. Chattin’ up the Border Patrol,” I replied.
Over the past few weeks I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time at the border - working on stories in Southern Arizona and San Diego. And by ‘at the border’ I mean, quite literally, ‘At The Border’ - spending hours upon hours within sight of the boundary fence. My friends have become rightly puzzled.
“Who ARE you? - This isn’t normal,” she continued, “You haven’t taken up … you know … smuggling … anything or anyone have you?”
“No,” I replied, “…Not yet, anyway.”
The stadium housing Tijuana’s immense bull ring loomed over me, just a single city block and one fairly insubstantial chain-link fence away from where I stood.
“Good,” she laughed, not quite joking. “I was just checking - call me when you’re on your way home.”
“I will,” I said and hung up.
Just another afternoon in the last 10 feet of the United States.
