I used to live in LA. Right on Venice Beach tucked between the luxury boutiques of Abbot Kinney Boulevard and the crystal meth addicts of the boardwalk.
I was there to write and to surf, and often travelled the California coast northward in search of waves. But I never headed south towards the classic breaks around San Diego and across the border through Tijuana into Baja, as I was fearful of stories about police corruption, muggings, and worse.
Living back in London my reticence seemed ridiculous. And with my better half calling for a long slice of luxury and me harbouring desires for a rough-and-ready adventure on our next excursion overseas, the proximity of San Diego’s plush lifestyle and Tijuana’s wild reputation seemed like the perfect collaboration. Throw in some world-class surf along the way and new direct flights from London, and we were sold.
San Diego
San Diego airport sits in the middle of the city proper and flying in gives you a great view of its layout: the sprawling and surprisingly verdant north, home to some of the most expensive real estate in America; the infamous surfing beaches of Del Mar, Blacks and La Jolla (pronounced La Hoya) to the west; and south to the familiar glass towers of downtown.
As was our plan, we kicked things off in style at the amazing Rancho Valencia resort and spa, 25 miles north of downtown. With 49 individual casitas and haçiendas scattered among 45 acres of olive groves and tennis courts, RV is the number one resort in California and a haven of peace and relaxation.
For three blissful days we floated in our casita’s private hot tub, had tennis lessons from a Grand Slam winner, and gorged ourselves on locally sourced grub in the Veladora and Pony Room on-site eateries. We met exec chef Eric Bauer, who invited us along to the farms where he buys his ingredients, all the time preaching his farm-to-fork philosophy. It was hanging out with Bauer that snapped my attention back to the subject of surf as he invited me on a dawn patrol to the infamous Black’s Beach.
The morning chill didn’t seem to have put off the hardcore local surf crew, nor the growing crowd of enthusiastic beachgoers in their birthday suits that make this the biggest nudist beach in the States. Luckily, my eyes were focused on the building swells of the ocean rather than those on land, and before long I was stroking through chilly waters towards clean, peeling lefthanders and an intimidating pack of unfriendly looking locals.
Black's Beach
Black’s has a well-earned reputation. It’s a heavy place to surf thanks in no small part to the territorial locals who don’t appreciate kooks (that would be me, in this case) taking their waves, but mostly because of the waves themselves. With swells funnelling up the La Jolla Submarine Canyon, surf is delivered with explosive power and brings with it vicious rip currents and terrifying hold-downs. I spent the next two hours respectfully jostling for position with the pack, taking entire sets on the head, nervously scanning for sharks, and every now and again picking off a perfect left or right when the chance arose. I emerged exhausted with half the Pacific draining from my nose, but utterly stoked to have finally surfed this legendary spot. Surfed it and survived it, too – bonus.
As tradition dictates, a post-surf feed was in order. Heading into San Diego Old Town, we wandered through an Italian market, up unmistakably American boulevards peppered with architectural oddities and ladies what lunch until we reached Puesto. A celebrated Mexican street food diner, I hoped its culinary prowess would tempt my girlfriend away from the loving embrace of Rancho Valencia towards the bear hug that I expected Baja to be. Two carne asadas, one zucchini (that’s American for courgette) and a cactus taco later and we were both convinced – Mexico was calling.
Tijuana
For the busiest border crossing in the world, San Ysidro is a surprisingly hassle-free way into Tijuana and Baja beyond. A quick trip on the San Diego trolley, press the magic button to see if you get searched or not, and across you wander into a different world. Considering their geographic proximity, the instant buzz of Tijuana is a cultural sea change from the relaxed vibe of San Diego. Immediately we’re engulfed in a frenzy of street business as vendors try to hawk us everything from prescription drugs to cheap taxi rides to the nearest brothel, all the while framed by the Avenida Revolución stretching into the distance in a throbbing, glowing tangle of psychedelia.
Do any preliminary reading on Tijuana and you’ll be showered in endless horror stories of corrupt cops, false imprisonment, drug cartels and grisly murders, but in truth this border town’s wildest days are behind it. Following a serious crackdown on drug cartel activity by the Mexican government between 2007 and 2011, and helped in no small part by the cartels wiping each other out, the actual risk of danger is now far outweighed by the expectation of it.
Still, where there’s smoke there’s fire. Having researched a little in advance, we 60 headed for the relative safety of the area I usually do my best to avoid in any new city – the tourist zone. Shudder. Picking a not exactly salubrious guesthouse in the Zona Río, we immediately decamped to a nearby street café and discovered the greatest of man’s culinary creations: the taco de pescado. Watching a sweaty hombre straight from the pages of stereotype handle your approaching lunch may not be everyone’s choice of appetiser, but I still ate five, all washed down with cold Pacifico beer and the amiable chat of our hygienically challenged chef. He offered us some words of wisdom too, advising us to see but not hang around La Revo (as the locals call Av Revolución) too long, but rather explore Tijuana’s loftier attractions.
So we did. After the sensory assault of La Revo, we made our way back along Av Constitución one block west for a more authentic peek at the cultural underbelly. We checked out the Tijuana Cultural Centre, a bizarre concrete edifice that looks like a half-shelled cashew and sits along the fantastically named Paseo do los Héroes where the city’s plushest hotels reside. We picnicked in the botanical gardens of Parque Morelos, watched grown men in masks and leotards wrestle at lucha libre, and chose to avoid the Plaza Monumental bullfights that remain a highlight of the local calendar.
But through all this burgeoning culture, we just couldn’t avoid Tijuana’s grubby side. Gaunt, leathery beggars pepper the streets; overzealous vendors hawk tat by the shop load with increasingly spurious promises of low prices and high quality; roads are broken and dusty; and litter blows lazily in the sea breezes, decorating the miles of wire fence that line the streets. Oddly charmed, we decided to embrace the grub with an early evening stroll into La Coahuila in Zona Norte – Tijuana’s legal, but still dodgy red-light district. Amsterdam it is not.
We took sensible precautions and ventured there minus anything of value (save our lives and dignity), well aware that signs of naivety or wealth are a beacon to predators. Prostitutes and transvestites line the main street, mingling uncomfortably with drunk locals and drunker tourists. Police too are there in force, keeping an eye out for trouble and, from what we heard, causing plenty of it themselves. It’s an unnerving, unwelcoming atmosphere that keeps us well away from the gloomier alleyways and in among the crowds, still fearful of pickpockets, con artists and overly aggressive pimps. Soon we found ourselves back in the relative safety of Zona Centro with not a tale of police corruption nor inappropriate seduction to tell.
Surfing Baja
The next morning, car hired, we hit the coast and headed south in search of waves past the Spring Break coastal haven of Rosarito and on to Ensenada an hour away. Home to the Baja 1000 off- road race and Hussong’s Cantina – where the margarita was invented – Ensenada is altogether more relaxed than its frantic neighbour and is close to great waves at San Miguel and Salsipuedes.
With a good swell running, I surfed over the next few days, and found the beach scene at direct odds with the city, especially in my ongoing comparison between Mexico and the US. Where San Diego is easygoing and friendly, the SoCal beaches are anything but thanks to the territorial attitudes of their locals. By contrast, south of the border, Tijuana is frenetic and menacing, but its beaches carry a laidback vibe with friendly locals and travelling surfers who have no more right to these waves than me.
And that’s what makes this stretch of coast from Southern California down into Baja California such a treasure trove. In two hours you can cross not only the border between countries, but also between cultures, experiences and opportunities. Stay in the unmitigated luxury of resorts such as Rancho Valencia and day trip into a different world, or stay south of the border for a grittier experience and dip a toe in the affluence of San Diego whenever you feel like it. Here you really can have the best of both worlds.
