Tijuana, Mexico, has become a bad dream that exists in reality just twenty miles from where I lie down to sleep every night. Today I walked into the city from the busiest border crossing in the world at San Ysidro, California. The last time I was there two or three years ago and all the times I was there before that, thousands of visitors mingled with thousands of Baja California residents in city street scenes that always seemed to be happy celebrations. In the old days music and laughter and color washed over whole district from the border all the way out to the bull ring on Avenida Revolution and down to the Centro Cultural Tijuana in the River District. Now all that seems to be left of those good times is the color. Patrick, Vincent and I saw only a couple of other people from north of the border in our walk around the district. The streets are empty. Most of the shops and restaurants are closed. There were no police officers on the streets, and we saw only one police car in a couple of hours.. Two armed Mexican soldiers wearing full face masks had stood watching as entered the city, but they were the only ones we saw. Except for the Amish couple and their baby crossing back into California at the border, the city reminds me of Saigon in the early seventies.The abstract image with the ragged gash running from bottom to top is a picture of the Tijuana River basin from a pedestrian bridge in the River District. In the other picture those people who seem to be having a delightful picnic on the levy by the river basin are really homeless families.