One of the first people I worked for after arriving in Los Angeles loved to tell stories about his less than stellar past. One of my favorites was about a weekend trip he took to Tijuana. He had rode down on his motorcycle and was wandering around back streets looking for a good place to have a drink. Suddenly, a door flew open; one of those doors that's below street level. There stood an American sailor. "Help me," he cried. My boss looked down and saw that the young American was being chased by half a dozen Mexicans. So, my boss put his foot on the guy's chest and pushed him back into the bar. "Weren't you worried those guys were going to kill him?" I asked. "No, I worried they were going to kill me."
So, a few Americans on a pass, having a drink or two and not being chased by the locals.
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