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Needless to say, it wasn’t much.
When I finally came upon an old terra cotta-looking structure, I felt blessed. Perhaps it was a diner, or a bar, and I could catch something cool to drink. Either that or a lovely case of Montezuma’s revenge.
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I wasn’t entirely across the border, though. I had a couple hundred miles to go, but for the time being, I was in some tiny Arizona town, one so small that I didn’t even catch it on an interstate road sign. It was the 2nd of May, and I was heading down to Mexico City to participate in the Cinco de Mayo celebrations. I had a few friends who were already vacationing around that area, and I was to meet up with them there.
So, with my sunglasses glued to my face and my boots generously slathered in the dust, I headed into the little clay establishment, praying they had some sort of liquor there. I wasn’t meaning to get drunk, for I still had a ways to drive, but I did need to take the edge off.
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It felt like a scene from some 70's spaghetti western, and that I was the lone cowboy (girl), heading into the saloon.
I laughed out loud, for it was so trite. My head practically lived in Hollywood.
I shook my head and pushed aside the double doors (just like a saloon! Hell, why not?). There was a modest little gathering that looked up upon my entrance. A man halted in the midst of a pool shot, a few looked up from their booze to catch a glimpse–I felt like I had been sent before a firing squad, just by some of the stares I was receiving. I obviously was not a local, and they could sniff me out without any trouble. I decided to just walk in there, order as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, and get the hell out.
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