I get across quickly because I’m headed in the right direction, by which I mean the wrong direction. I’m going where no one wants to stay. On the opposite side of Highway 5, a sparkling line of gridlock points north toward the United States of America.Over there, the traffic lanes are supermarket aisles. You can buy popcorn, cookies, lollipops, cigarettes. You want coffee? You can get it from a boy barely tall enough to reach your car window. You want the paper in Spanish? Great. In English? Maybe. You want an animal-print towel? There are hundreds.I’m headed to a literary gathering held in Tijuana and Mexicali that’s been billed as an encuentro. I’ve gathered this means something between “festival” and “conference,” but when I think of encuentro I hear the word for “story” (cuento) coaxed from the word for “encounter” (encontrar)—an intersection that hints at what will happen at this upheaval of debauchery and roundtables: Stories will be currency, people will be signing books, people will be confused, people will be making book deals, people will be talking shit about Mexicali and wishing they were in Oaxaca.
