International Travel.

I think I was about eleven or twelve years old when we made our first expedition into foreign worlds. The year was either 1955 or 1956 I think and President Eisenhower lived in the White House. The same man, by the way, who promoted and built the Interstate highway system, but that’s not the point.
It was about mid-summer and our uncle Kelley wanted to do some International traveling. Then, all we cousins loaded up in his two tone green 1955 De Soto sedan. One of the first cars with an automatic transmission. So the seven of us headed south.
Our international destination was the Mexican city of Tijuana. Just south of the Mexican/American border. And just south of San Diego. A place where we kids had never been before.
When we arrived about two and a half hours later one could observe the difference. The difference between our East Los Angeles suburb we lived in and the dusty streets of TJ(as it was known back then). Possibly more reminiscent of the rural dusty southern Oklahoma town of Wilson. Where our parents fled from in 1941.
None the less, we arrived, bailed out of all car doors, and filed up and down the main street of Tijuana. Following our uncle wherever he went and observing his interaction with local street merchants. What I observed very early on was, you never pay the street vender what he suggests is the only and final price. Always offer to pay a low-ball amount I observed. Very much UNLIKE shopping at Woolworth in East L A. We always paid the posted amount at the five and dime no matter if it was for a Mr. Potato head or parakeet with cage. But, no sir! Not in TJ. You’d be a knucklehead if you paid the full price. So, up and down the avenue we haggled and wrangled. I came away with a ceramic painted bull bank with coin slot atop which also included testicles down below. Got a great deal. Now after about two hours of engaging street retailers I learned what international travel was all about. Thanks for the great bargains senors. Audios.

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Published by OkieMan

I come from a family who migrated from the parched red dirt Plaines of southern rural Oklahoma. Migrating to blue collar working class community of East Los Angeles. There is where I was born. I am Mr. Writermelon. I can only write what my grammar and spell checker allows. I am neither profound nor profane. Boy howdy! Send comment to:

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