For the past two weeks I've been cycling down to Mexico. Amazingly, I've kept a perfect journal. Every evening before going to bed I'd take note of the events of the day. I probably won't bother transcribing those entries online, but they exist, which is the important thing. I've kept with my New Year's resolution.

Yesterday we woke up on the beach of Bagdad Bay, however that is spelt. There was talk of staying an extra night, which I was not keen on. I had already stayed a day long than I needed and wanted to, and it wasn't a particularly good night, either. Everyone else got drunk and stayed up talking about . . . things that didn't interest me. And then the police accosted us sometime in the early morning, blinding us with two flood lights and aiming MK47s at us. Nothing bad happened, but it was a terrible sight to rouse me.

Anyway, I didn't want to stay an extra night. The decision hinged on whether or not our friends could meet up with us at the beach. While everyone ate their breakfast tacos, I started sending txt messages. It took an hour for them to get back to us, but ultimately the answer was no. We then called a taxi and went back to the border.

I was terrified that they wouldn't let me back across, as all I had was a state ID while what they really wanted was a passport. The building was oppressively short and florescent, and although the designer had made the corridors wide, the space still felt crampt. I waited in line, involuntarily running through my route excuses for why I didn't have a passport. Even then, I knew it was a bad idea to do that, as when I think about a response too much, it develops an inathentic twinge. It sounds like a rehearsed lie--which, I suppose, is exactly what it is.

The man who checked my papers wasn't a native English speaker and spoke under his breath. It was difficult for me to discern his repremindations as anything more than a blur of threatening phrases, "you're suppose to" "since July 1" "back to the other side of the border." He then asked what my business was in a Mexico, and I responded honestly that it was to deliver a bicycle. He seemed utterly unphased by this, and simply handed my ID back to me and gestured for me to proceed. I was so shocked that I asked him if I was suppose to move to the next station, and he nodded curtly, exasperbated by both my inability to understand him and the long line waiting behind me.

The bus ride then followed. I slept. And slept. And slept.