Wine or beer on the occasion of any kind of entertainment, dance, picnic, bazaar, or festival (26USC5122)

Now that our employment roles have been reversed, I arrived to Mexico knowing that TJ was ready for me to play cruise director, especially on weekends, since he had little time or energy to make plans during the week. So I spent most of my first week making sure I would be ready to take the helm, but nonetheless, I still hit an iceberg. America's Finest Beer Festival, which I thought sounded like the finest way to relax, was canceled at the last minute.

This prompted my first homemaker rite of passage: I directed TJ to go play golf with the guys. Afterward, of course, he owed me, so I dragged him to a more cheesy pursuit, the U.S. Open Sandcastle Competition across the border in Imperial Beach.
Actually, I lured him with Rite Aid ads, which promised a variety of beer cases on sale. Other people, it seemed, needed no such bait. The strand around Imperial Beach's famous pier was crammed with enthusiasts of sandy chateaus.
We only glanced at about a half-dozen sculptures before we headed to the street fair and main attraction (for me, anyway): the food. TJ got a grilled chipotle sausage; me, an equally pork-packed bacon-wrapped hot dog. We shared "Baja" fries with chili, guacamole, cheese, salsa, and sour cream. As you can see, we had to sit on the curb because the street was filled to the hilt.
If nothing else, the festival was good for people watching -- or mocking. Like the post-middle-aged guy in the T-shirt with a Tide-style "Stud" logo. Or the dude in the Attila the Hun fur hat but no shirt. At least he was ink-free; as TJ said, southern California appears to have an "egregious" amount of tattoos. Even the entertainment was rockin' some fashion, if you consider a Selena-inspired leopard-print shirt and tight pink jeans stylish.
We sipped the rest of our agua frescas as we walked back to our car through the Tijuana River National Estuarine Research Reserve. Across the estuary, we could see our city of residence, including the Plaza Monumental bullring at Playas de Tijuana (I swear, it's there along the shore in the distance).
After a stop at the aforementioned Rite Aid, we were looking at Tijuana from the inside at the Festival de la Brasa, where we managed to find room in our bellies for caprese and carne empanadas and grilled oysters topped with pork and some cool vegetable that looked like mini-asparagus. The food was high-class, but the beer was low-cost: 25 pesos (a little more than $2) for a bottle of Bohemia. Still, TJ splurged on a non-alcoholic Clamato cocktail with heaps of whole clams.
Fully sated, we carefully drove up the steep inclines to our house, stopping at one level spot to snap the scenic view back toward the States. And so concluded the first of likely many weekends spent cruising between two countries.