Whoa, Mexico. On the two cross-country road trips I’ve taken that have involved a swing through southern California, I’ve tried to convince my companions — TGOTS in 2000, the fella in 2006 — to make a little dip into Mexico. Both were wholeheartedly against the idea, for reasons of logistics and security and wisdom and who knows what else.

In reality, the kind of visit we would have made — waiting in line at the border for who knows how long, ducking into Tijuana for 30 minutes just to say we’d been there, absorbing the rich cultural experiences inherent in a strip of tourist shops and bars — would not have added measurable joy to either trip. I can recognize that.  I also recognize that I have a tendency, which I must battle, to do things or go places just for the sake of checking them off a sort of imaginary life list, which gives short shrift to said things and places.

But I do find Mexico tantalizing. So close, yet so … different. I feel the same way about Quebec, which I’ve visited a number of times. There aren’t too many chances to hop into a car and find yourself in another country, surrounded by people speaking a different language (who all, of course, know English too, because it’s that kind of world). I like the idea of this proximity to other cultures very much.

But I don’t know if I’ll ever make it to Mexico. These days, my closest experience comes via the wonders of Scooby-Doo and the Monster of Mexico, a full-length “film” that indulges in all possible stereotypes in service of a classic Scooby ghost story — and that also includes, entertainingly enough, a lengthy wait at the border in the Mystery Machine. Hm, maybe I should give Freddie a call!

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