Also packed is a box with what you call your "special equipment." You smile at the euphemism once used by the OSS and CIA for clandestine assaination gear. Well, if you have to declare anything, that's what you'll call it. You still don't know how that little scene will play itself out.

You cross the border on foot. The San Diego cops give you nasty looks, like they do everyone leaving the U.S. these days, but you ignore them. The Mexicans are very happy to see you. Any gringo who wants to come to TJ and spend money is welcome. No matter that the U.S. dollar isn't worth much any more; the Mexicans remember being poor, and they'll take all they can get.

You stop briefly in a north TJ mall to get a burrito, then walk down to the Planetarium for the bus ride to the airport. The airport bus ride is free, amazingly enough. the Tijuana city government can afford this, as they get it all back when you exchange your cash on your way to the Moon.

You've got a *LOT* of cash. You've collected it for years doing illicit work on the net, keeping it away from banks. You never thought of emigrating until just recently though. It was the IRS raid that did it. How they fingered you, you have no idea. Could it have been a pissed off customer? You didn't think you had any of those. Everybody always seemed really cool. Now you're glad you rented that storage locker on 5th Avenue back home, because it really paid off. The tax terrorists found a few thousand in that shoe box on top of your fridge - "This guy's some kinda comedian! you remember the jackbooted Treasury agents laughing - but the bulk of your savings was safely tucked away in climate-controlled anonymity.

Thank God. They gave you a court date and then, miraculously, just left you at home. Maybe they wanted to see if you'd run. Maybe they figured you'd lead them to the rest. They surely were listening to your cell phone. Good thing you gave Mike the key and had him pick up your dough. He didn't want it, not as long as you paid him off in OxyContin - and they weren't watching him. Now you had your cash, and Mike had all of your Oxys - ironic, since you were going somewhere that they were not only legal but unsaleable, what with heroin patches being dirt cheap.

The bus is clean. That alone is a big improvement over Tijuana in the 20th Century. This particular bus is actually next year's model, out early in Mexico because they can afford it, fully carpeted with display screens on the back of every seat - too bad they only get Univision and Mexican state TV. Dammit, you think, "Mexico is rich. They could buy the United States for about the price of lunch. I kinda wish they would. Maybe then things would get moving again."

You don't have time to think about how far your country has sunk into the toilet. The bus ride is fast. Tijuana Internacional is in East TJ right on the California border, and you can see the huge fences being built up again after last night's border surges. Still more irony: this time it's the Mexicans trying to keep out the poor Americans who just want jobs, any jobs. They're not really against illegal immigrants - after all, San Ysidro remains open - but they love the chance to arrest and expel gringos after having it done to them for so long. It feels good.

And anyway, those people probably can't get through San Ysidro. Their Social Security Indentification Chips (SSICs) probably mark them as felons, and if so they'd be arrested at the scanner for trying to leave. The only reason you weren't is that your court date is tomorrow, so technically you're not a criminal - yet. And when you are you'll be long gone. Hooray for technicalities.

The bus pulls up to the terminal. You and a lot of other sweaty Americans and Gap-wearing, Hairesy-coiffed Mexicans get out. It smells a lot better outside, where the stink of your fellow Yanquis can be blown away by the Otay Mesa wind.

Inside you head straight for the PDROL Concourse. They actually call it the Interplanetary Concourse, which it technically is. Only one in North America, except for the Bahamas, which isn't really North America. Not geographically, you nitpick to yourself.

There are lots of Feds - Yanqui Feds. They're looking for anyone suspicious. What's suspicious? Anyone who looks like they think someone would suspect them. So you act nonchalant. You blend with the crowd. You see a woman with a baby cart, so you fall in next to her. Maybe they'll thiunk she's your wife.

After a not-very-long-but-very-nervous walk you make it to the PDROL Concourse. The Feds are thick. Mexican PDROL agents are thicker. You realize with a laugh that the Mexicans aren't taking any shit from the Americans. Why should they? you muse, "we can't afford to pay their salaries anymore. Now they're paying ours." You stop yourself in mid-thought. No, not ours, you think. I'm not a damned Fed.

You walk up to a Yanqui in a green uniform and sunglasses. Sunglasses inside - fuckin' Feds! You laugh openly. The Fed hears your laugh and turns to you. "Anything to declare, sir?"

"Are you a Mexican or PDROL government officer?"

"I'm an American Immigration Officer." You can hear the capital letters in his voice.

"Why the hell would I declare anything to you? I'm not entering the United States."

"We're just trying to help you out, sir."

"Really? Thanks - go fetch me a Coke!" you laugh again.

He turns away from you. That's a switch. Just a few years ago he would have been on his little Dick Tracy radio calling in a SWAT team. Now he doesn't even have a radio, and the SWAT team would be refused entry into Mexico.

DAMN. You marvel at how things ahve changed. You also loosen up, because it's obvious you're not going to have any problems after this. Not that you've had any up to now, but your nervousness has evaporated. The Mexicans aren't going to stop you from leaving Mexico, and the Lunatics aren't going to stop you from entering their, er, "country" either. You're on your way.

At the PDROL gate you walk below an enormous sign. The English part reads:

There is an enormous crowd at the gun counter. Everyone is pissy and crabby and some are shouting and arguing. One big fat black woman is angrily telling a Mexican gun dealer, "I don't have eight hunnid dollars! I only gots seven hunrit! Take it or leave it!" The Mexican is plainly happy to leave it, at which point she yells, "Look, Ah cain't git up to da Moon wifout a gun! *PLEASE* sell me a gun!" The Mexican replies, "Eight hundred dollars!" Then the black woman starts shouting insults at the Mexican, which brings the PDROL agents and - surprise! two Americans - over to the counter. They lead her away kicking and screaming until they get the plastic trash bag thingies on her wrists - what do you call those things anyway? They make cheap handcuffs. The Mexican starts dealing to an Indian who obviously has money. DOUBLE DAMN. Even immigrants to America are now emigrants.

You look at the wall behind the gun counter, trying to spot what it was the woman wanted to buy for eight hundred dollars. The only thing for that price is a little Davis .22 pocket automatic, what the Feds derisively call a "Saturday Night Special" at $799. Everything else - any good gun - is in the thousands.

Not to worry. You and a few other well-prepared individuals step right up to the gate without going near the gun counter. It's not exactly laissez-faire; they do seem to have customs here. There are several lines and several long tables, probably with scanners beneath them. You see this really hot-looking chick in a uniform so tight you can see her nipples - *nice* tits too. You get in her line.

"Anything to declare, sir?" she askes the guy in front of her.

"Yes ma'am - you sure are titty," he says, feigning a mistake. "I mean pretty!"

She laughs. "Why thank you! Got a gun?"

"Right here!" he pulls a little black automatic out of his pocket. You catch a glimpse - looks like a Kel-Tec P-11. Smart dude.

"Okay," she continues, "well you have a good time on the Moon sir."

"I will! I ain't comin' back!"

A few more people pass through, then it's your turn. She really is very titty - er, pretty. She's a redhead, about 5'6" and well-upholstered, just the way you like'em. She looks like Lauren Ambrose but with a better figure, which you had thought was impossible.

"Anything to declare?"

"I just wanna second that other guy's opinion!" you smile.

She blushes. "I get that all the time! Really, you guys are so blatant!"

"Yeah, well, I also wanna declare that I've got a gun," so you put your bag on the table and pull it out. It's a cheap-o Lorcin 9-millimeter, not much, but at least it is a gun. You briefly speculate on how much it would cost at the gun counter and thank your lucky stars you bought it before they were outlawed.

"Very good. You came prepared," and then she looks you straight in the eye. "I like that in a man."

WHOA!! You go for it. "So, uh, do you live on the Moon?"

"I do. I gotta get these people through so see me on the flight, OK?" Then she turns to the Stetson-wearing couple behind you. Following your cue, you enter the gate.

Inside the gate, on PDROL "national" territory it is much calmer. It's obvious the commotion outside was from people who knew they wouldn't get through. Here everyone sits quietly, reading, chatting or checking their bags. The only small crowd is around the currency exchange window, where you are now headed.

There's a window open with a cute Mexican girl behind it. "Dollars, sir?" she asks in perfect Southern California English.

"Yes," you reply. "I bundled'em up to make it easier for you."

"Thanks." She seems genuinely grateful. "Just put'em on the counter."

Here goes nothing. You pull out your savings: $57,416 in paper and 84 cents in change.

"Oh, we don't accept the coins. It costs too much to melt'em down."

"So what do I do with them?"

"You can take'em with you or just throw'em away."

Sweet. You used to complain because penny candy cost a dime. Now it's a dollar, and that dime is too much trouble for anyone to accept unless they have to.

You take out your bundles of cash, $1,000 each, and lay them on the counter. She takes each one, cuts it open and loads it into a bill counting machine. It counts the last remnants of your life. Amazingly it comes up with $57,416 - no mistakes and no cheating.

She does a little math on a calculator, then turns it around to show you. "You got 21.6664 ounces of gold here. In metric that's--" she turns the calc back around for another operation, then turns it back to you. "Six hundred seventy three point eight nine grams. Do you want to exchange all of it?"

Well, DUH. "Yeah, exchange all of it."

She punches one last operation into the calc then opens a drawer and starts counting coins. "My God," you think, "that's real gold. They really do use gold coins for money." You knew it, of course, but you'd never seen it. Now the reality of it hits you: you really are going to the Moon.

She counts out your money to you: 640 grams of gold, ten grams of silver and three grams of copper. Copper?? She explains, "This is all you got in gold, silver and small change. It's minus five percent because of the tax."

"Tax?"

"Mexico. Exchange tax." She smiles apologetically. She seems really sorry about it. You just laugh and say, "Thanks," and take your coins. You go to one of the long, plush couches and sit down.

Taxes. Should have known you couldn't escape one last mordida, you fool. Oh well. At least now it over. Unless ... would they have Mexican taxes on the way? After all, if we're on Lunar territory but they still have taxes here ... nevermind. At least you've got your money. At least you're here. Fuck all the rest.

You look around the terminal. This is the old American Airlines Councourse - you appreciate the humor in that - and there are big windows to let the passengers see the jets landing. Now those widows are all covered with advertising painted so they glow with the outside sun behind them. That's cool; you hate direct sunlight anyway. Of course you're going into outer space, where it's ten times worse, but you'll be safely underground there. You don't plan on getting any super-tan if you can help it. In fact it's the controlled, even quality of the light in Lunapolis that first attracted you. Nowhere else on Earth - nowhere on Earth you correct yourself - can the glare of a midday sun be avoided ... and nice, easy filtered sun be had 24 hours a day, forever.