Out in the West Texas Town of El Paso

I woke to the sound of Buena licking something.

She hopped out of bed and raced toward the RV door, facing it and retching.

Within seconds, I’d hopped out of bed and pulled on my slippers and coat. Leashing her and opening the door, we flew outside where she retched onto the ground of the Walmart parking lot.

Walking over to the sandy lot across from the entrance to Walmart, I loosened my control of the lead, letting Buena sniff the ground.

We were just east of El Paso. Over the edge of the hill, I could see the city lights glittering like gems in the darkness. Juarez and El Paso lit up like one giant city, both thriving as sister cities but in different countries. Overhead, the full moon poised to sink into the pocket at the edge of the earth.

* * *

Driving across Texas scared me. Really scared me.

The miles seemed like they would be long and empty.

No one would come rescue me if I broke down.

I needed to know it was the voice of the Lord and not some gypsy wind beckoning me across Texas.

There was no need to rush getting across such a long state, I reasoned. When would be the next time I’d be here in El Paso? Maybe never. What did I really want to see?

There, at the top of my list: Rosa’s Cantina.

Out in the west Texas town of El Paso,

I fell in love with a Mexican girl.

Night time would find me in Rosa’s Cantina.

The music would play and Felina would whirl.

Against the hum of continuous El Paso traffic, I pulled up the directions on my phone. Finding Rosa’s to be only 29 miles away, I decided to splurge on the 3+ gallons it would take to get me there.

I took 375 along the Mexican border, looking at Trump’s border wall. It is a smart thing to have clearly-defined boundaries, both personally and internationally. Just as a person needs to show they will not be run over by another person, countries need to do the same. Just as a person needs to demonstrate to others these-are-my-rules-and-personal-parameters-of-my-life, so do countries need to say these-are-our-rules-here.

Passing the long rust-colored slats pointing up from the ground, I looked through to the other side. It was like driving past a neighbor’s house at night and looking through the lit-up window to see if they put their Christmas tree up…or took it down.

On the other side, an amusement park peeked through the fence. There was so much propaganda about Mexico. Not-for-profit agencies and politicians wanted to exploit Mexicans for money and power. Media—print ads, television, internet ads, leaflets asking for money—media paints the poor Mexican in a hovel, looking for a better life. That’s not to say they don’t exist; poor Americans also exist, looking for a better life. But there are amusement parks in Mexico. And—up ahead—is some big red X-structure, which as I passed it seemed to be some kind of outdoor arts center. Any country affluent enough to support entertainment and the arts is affluent enough to take care of its own people.

Now, this isn’t to say we shouldn’t help our neighbors. We should, but we should also know when we are being taken advantage of. Illegal border crossers trespass against our good will, flooding our system with under-the-table-pay employees, bankrupting our tax system, while helping ensure the rich get richer and the poor stay poorer. The border wall is the first line of defense against trespass, helping to ensure a stronger America. It is only in our strength that we can help others, both on a personal level and on a national level.

Rosa’s Cantina sits in the southwest pocket of El Paso. The humble stone-and-brick building had been painted white. In simple lettering, black letters read ROSA’S CANTINA.

For just a moment I thought about getting the Marty Robbin’s burger but opted instead for something more local to the region. “I’ll have a chile relleno and an enchilada,” I told the pretty Hispanic bartender. For just a moment, I thought it might be Felina, but she introduced herself as Kayla, recently from Nashville and waiting for the coronavirus pandemic to end so she can finish her last year of nursing-school clinicals in person. “I can’t learn them online,” she had said. “I’m a hands-on learner.”

We talked for a bit about education and her family. I told her my daughter Ria was a bartender and—at one point—made more than me, her college-professor mother.

“Yeah, I’ll never knock the industry. There’s some serious money to be made in bartending. It’s a hard profession to get into.”

Later, in the midst of my chile relleno, her mother came in. I told her she raised a wonderfully intelligent daughter.

Two bikers sat at the appropriately-marked “six feet away” cluster of bar stools. One was “the coach,” the other was “Sal.” Coach wore his leather coat, a loose facial covering draped around his throat. A shock of windswept grey hair spilled over the bandana on his forehead. Sal sat further from me. He looked younger, Hispanic. Maybe in his late 40s or early 50s. About my age. His warm brown eyes seemed to hold Coach in high regard. They entertained me with their stories about being a biker gang of two, not like the leather-clad monkey group sitting at a long table made from several smaller tables.

“We tried to get a third person to join,” Sal began.

“But he ran away,” Coach finished. “We don’t want to join any other club either. I always say, ‘Any club that would have me as a member is not a club I’d want to belong to.’ Like those monkey’s over there. That word on the back of their jacket. In Spanish it means ‘monkey.’”

I didn’t want to be in the center of two dueling biker gangs, so I quickly changed the subject. “So,” I began. “I was thinking of going over into Mexico…”

“Oh, don’t go into Juarez,” Coach said. “That’s a dangerous town.”

“I was just thinking of going right over the border, like to those shops just beyond customs.”

“Those would be safe,” Kayla cut in, then cautioned, “just don’t go past those.”

“If you’re looking for knick-knacks and gifts, my buddy Sal here sells leather goods…makes them himself.” Coach turned to Sal, saying, “Show her, Sal.”

As Sal rummaged around in a small bag, I said, “I wasn’t going over for souveineers. I was going over to buy some hydroxychloroquine. I’m thinking there’s a possibility the virus will get worse before it gets better. I just wanted to have some on hand, and since I’m so close to the border and it’s legal there…” I let my voice trail off, knowing I didn’t need to say more for them to understand.

Sal showed me a few key chains he’d made.

“Those are really nice, but the only leather I need right now is a dog collar. My dog broke hers,” I said this, hoping he didn’t have dog collars because I really had no money to buy a dog collar right now.

“I could make you one,” Sal said, “but it would take a few days.”

I didn’t have time to wait, I explained. I had to hit the road. “Either east or west, I don’t want to hang out in El Paso. It’s a nice town, and I’m enjoying sitting here, but it’s too busy.”

“I know what you mean,” Coach said. “That’s why Sal and I ride the back roads. Hey!” he said suddenly and brightly, his wrinkled face suddenly looking clear, “you should take 9 out to Columbus, New Mexico. There’s a good border crossing there. Pretty safe. Border town on the other side is Puerto Palomas.”

“It’s pretty safe there,” the bartender chimed in. “Look for the Pink Store.”

It was the same border town my pastor’s wife suggested when I texted her earlier in the day with my idea. There’s a Bible passage that reads “in the mouth of two or three witnesses, let every word be established.”

So, it was settled.

I’d head west before heading east.