This past Labor Day weekend I added another country to the list of places I've been. Nogales is a Mexican border town just south of Arizona. Catering to U.S. tourists, merchants are hawking everything from locally crafted trinkets to non-prescription (at least in Mexico) pharmaceuticals. Suburban Sally can buy margarita glasses at one store and Oxycontin just next door. Prices are always negotiated and the U.S. greenback is the currency of choice.
Sightseeing in this place is amazing. In just the few hours I was there I saw a guy chasing a chicken, two six-year-olds peddling bracelets, a live donkey painted to look like a zebra and a sign that read "REAL CUBAN CIGARS -- NO BULLSHIT." I passed on the bracelets, the cigars and the donkey. To the guy chasing the chicken I got close enough to snap a picture, but I sure wasn't going to lend a hand. Tourists don't participate; they spectate. The average tourist here is fat, forty and flippant. I was an exception. I'm only 33.
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