ABSTRACT
I am sitting at the moment in a middle-class suburb in what is now defined as the geographic center of the city of Tijuana. The center where goods and services are produced and the location of political hegemony. I am relatively close to the border where thousands wait hours to cross to the USA. I am a short drive away from where the Pacific Ocean patiently awaits for a gesture of acknowledgment from the city, and always jealous of Tijuana’s gaze toward the north. And to the east a New Tijuana is being built and is home to most of the city’s assembly plant workers, an urban edge that grows two hectares daily and is rapidly becoming post-Tijuana. I sit in my home located behind the great Tijuana Racetrack, the infrastructure that gave this city its raison d’être in 1915 and its legend as the city of sin, gambling, and prohibited recreation originating from the lust, thirst, and money of San Diego, creating (as Richard Rodriguez once said) a city of world class irony.
