Avenida Revolución

This is a story about friendship. To be more exact, this is a story about two events, mostly unrelated, that happened over a decade apart, mostly irrelevant, but maybe not. This is a story about racism.

Larry, Peter and I went down to San Diego to visit our friend Seijin, who at the time was an undergrad at UCSD. We did this every so often, mostly to escape LA, but partly to see Seijin. Peter, ever the adventurist, wanted to go to Tijuana to obtain painkillers. I wanted to go, because I missed out on the previous trip where Peter and Larry had their money stolen by the bouncer of a strip club through a cartoon-like grift. 

So we made our way across the border, with Seijin staying behind because he was "busy." We hung out on  Avenida Revolución, the main street in Tijuana, with Peter visiting pharmacy after pharmacy to find one that was loose on the need for prescriptions. Larry and I ventured off the beaten path, finding a store on a street parallel to Revolución that sold t-shirts.  

We started to look through the selection of cheap, horrible shirts, when the owner (I presume), looked at Larry and said "Hey, ching chong ching, buy a shirt?" Larry, being Chinese, was understandably upset and walked out without saying a word. 

So I bought a shirt. 

This pissed Larry off, enough where he gave me shit as we walked back across the border to the car. I tried to joke about it, but Larry claimed I betrayed him. I could see his point, but it would be years before he would see the humor in it that I did. 

Well over a decade later, I was living back in Los Angeles after a six year stay in Armenia. We were on Glenoaks boulevard in Glendale, for some reason or other when Larry spotted Larry Larson Music Store. During my time away Larry had become a fan of ukuleles and he wanted to see if Larry Larson had any for sale. 

So we parked the car and went inside. Larry Larson was simultaneously grumpy and affable, as though he could not be bothered to show his selection but also recognizing that he needed the sale. Larry took his time, trying out the different ukuleles and asking about their make and price. 

At some point, for no reason in particular, I asked what it was like being surrounded by all these Armenians (Glendale, California, for those unfamiliar, is a Mecca for diasporan Armenians). I did not expect the response I received.

Larry Larson went on a tirade about how Armenians ruined his beautiful city, graphically trashing the race and presumably not realizing he was talking to an Armenian. I was about to say something, but before I had a chance, Larry selected the ukulele he wanted, pulled out his credit card and completed the sale. 

As we stepped outside, I was going to say something about betrayal and racism. But, once again, before I had the chance, my good friend looked at me and said "Tijuana."