Tijuana: The Vegas before Las Vegas
But then I climb out of the passenger seat — that’s right, it’s me in the car — to make sure they hear me right.
“That sign across the street,” I say, pointing toward the towering words MOLINO ROJO in scarlet neon. “From what year is it?”
The guys look at each other. They have seen many things on this block, but an architectural preservation tourist, it seems, is not one of them.
“From the ’30s?” I ask hopefully.
They squint across the street and scoff.
“Fifties or ’60s,” one of them finally says.
Bummer. And welcome to the search for the Tijuana of the ’20s and ’30s — the city that was Las Vegas before Vegas was Vegas, the city that some Tijuanenses pine for and others treat like incriminating evidence. This bygone Tijuana lives on in tattered postcards and historical-society monographs, its casinos paying off in American silver dollars, its horse-track bettors forever tempted by the prospect of a nightcap at the world’s longest bar.
Looking for remnants of that place in 2007 is like diving for a Mexican Atlantis. Instead of checking out the hotels and fancy restaurants along the fast-growing Baja coast, you squint at history through a veil of border culture and discarded architecture, the scene scented with carnitas and beer.
The casinos are the key. If you persevere, you can learn why a Muslim mirage rises over the heart of Tijuana today and how two enduring trophies of 20th-century high life, the Caesar salad and the margarita, were born or adopted here.
And you can wonder: What if Baja’s old casinos had endured? Would Vegas be Phoenix? Would the strip run from Tijuana to Cabo San Lucas?
By now the world takes for granted Tijuana’s reputation as a den of forbidden thrills (or, as Krusty the Clown on “The Simpsons” puts it, “the happiest place on Earth”). Yet until I came across a new book by Los Angeles writer and preservationist Chris Nichols titled “The Leisure Architecture of Wayne McAllister,” I had not thought much about the roots of that reputation or the Tijuana-Vegas connection. In the course of telling how McAllister landed the job of designing a long-lost resort called Agua Caliente — at the advanced age of 19 — Nichols sketched a bigger picture that explained much.
From 1919 to 1933, alcohol and casinos and prostitution and horse racing were all forbidden or tightly restricted in California, and all were easily available in Tijuana. Because of that, great pleasure palaces were built, including the city’s fabled Agua Caliente casino, and countless Hollywood celebrities and their imitators crept south by car, rail, ship and small plane.
One Los Angeles Times reporter, surveying the Agua Caliente casino in 1929, concluded that “there isn’t another place on the continent, outside of a U.S. mint, where you can see so much money piled up before your eyes at one time. Its only rival in the world is Monte Carlo.”
That casino was the crown jewel of the era. It opened in 1928, tiled and stuccoed, Moorish and missionary, vast and self-assured. It lay six miles south of the border, covered 655 acres and cost about $10 million at the time, the lion’s share supplied by American investors. It was “one of the most opulent resorts ever to grace the Americas,” writes Nichols, “but more significantly, it was the inspiration for Las Vegas.”
Along with a casino offering roulette, baccarat and faro (but no windows or clocks), it featured about 400 rooms and bungalows, a horse-racing track, a golf course, a spa fed by natural spring water, an Art Deco ballroom, various cocktail bars, tennis courts, a riding academy, a landing strip for small planes, a blue-tiled minaret and an iconic bell tower, a replica of which now stands at the beginning of Boulevard Agua Caliente.
Charlie Chaplin and Gary Cooper came to the races. Douglas Fairbanks sat on the board of directors. Jean Harlow tried the golf course. Bing Crosby and Clark Gable saddled up horses, and the showroom featured a teenage dancer, Margarita Cansino, who later changed her name to Rita Hayworth.
Architectural Digest gave it 16 pages in 1929. Hollywood gave it a movie — “In Caliente,” featuring Dolores del Rio and Pat O’Brien, shot on location in 1934.
But by then the cards had started falling another way. Nevada legalized gambling in 1931. The U.S. ended Prohibition in 1933. Santa Anita racetrack opened in Los Angeles County in 1934. In 1935, newly elected Mexican President Lazaro Cardenas banned casino gambling. (One of the leading casinos of that era, historians say, was a downtown venue called the Molino Rojo. A school replaced it, but as the sign I saw attests, another entrepreneur has revived the name at a new location.)
Tijuana kept attracting American thrill-seekers, and sports betting and several other kinds of gambling have endured. But once the high-end gamblers left, thousands of service- industry jobs were lost and the palaces crumbled, burned or were retooled.
I made two trips to Baja and enlisted three guides to help me find that lost Tijuana, all the while knowing that the star attraction of this journey probably would turn out to be a ghost.
At one point, as a guide and I waited in our car at a busy Tijuana intersection, a ball of flame erupted in front of us. Then another. Then I realized they were coming from the mouth of a roadside beggar. Between fiery bursts, he raised a jug of God-knows-what to his lips. And then the light changed and my guide hit the gas without even bothering to shrug.
“People breathe fire for money,” he said in the tone of an indulgent urbanite tutoring a bumpkin.
Maria Curry, an architectural historian who led me through downtown on another day, takes the opposite tone. “This is a magic place,” she says as we pass a workaday scene: the peppers and pinatas of the Mercado El Popo on 2nd Street. Then she explains its roots (in the market’s case, the late 1920s and 1930s).
Curry, who was born in Mexico City and moved to Tijuana in 1993 after graduate school at Cornell, splits her time between here and San Diego. For several years, she and other Tijuana and San Diego academics and architects have been trying to get more respect and protection for Old Tijuana.
But it’s no easy job. Tijuana didn’t declare itself a city until 1889 and didn’t have 1,000 residents until about 1915, when its first horse-racing track opened. Most of the 2 million or 3 million people who live here now (estimates vary) have come from elsewhere in Mexico .
As we walk and drive the city, Curry traces the outline of unspectacular Old Tijuana, such as the stately brick walls of the hilltop Alta Mira Cultural Center, which was built as a schoolhouse in 1930, or Teniente Guerrero Park.
This park was the city’s first, founded just a few blocks from Revolucion by a group of female activists in 1924. It served then as a haven for all social classes, from the wealthy merchants to the families of hotel and casino workers, and it’s not much different today: chess players, kids wrestling on the ragged grass, ancient shoeshine guys, moms pushing toddlers on the swings, and over by the west end, freelance auto repairmen.
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