"Oo," he breathed softly, "wait, wait."
The Mexican officials came out, grinning, and asked please if we would take out our baggage.
We did.
We couldn't take our eyes from across the street.
We were longing to rush right up there and get lost in those mysterious Spanish streets.
It was only Nuevo Laredo but it looked like Holy Lhasa to us.
"Man, those guys are up all night," whispered Dean.
We hurried to get our papers straightened.
We were warned not to drink tapwater now we were over the border.
The Mexicans looked at our baggage in a desultory way.
They weren't like officials at all.
They were lazy and tender.
Dean couldn't stop staring at them.
He turned to me.
"See how the cops are in this country.
I can't believe it!"
He rubbed his eyes.
"I'm dreaming."
Then it was time to change our money.
We saw great stacks of pesos on a table and learned that eight of them made an American buck, or thereabouts.
We changed most of our money and stuffed the big rolls in our pockets with delight.
5
Then we turned our faces to Mexico with bashfulness and wonder as those dozens of Mexican cats watched us from under their secret hatbrims in the night.
Beyond were music and all-night restaurants with smoke pouring out of the door.
"Whee," whispered Dean very softly.
"Thassall!" A Mexican official grinned.
"You boys all set.
Go ahead.
Welcome Mehico.
Have good time.
Watch you money.
Watch you driving.
I say this to you personal, I'm Red, everybody call me Red.
Ask for Red.
Eat good.
Don't worry.
Everything fine.
Is not hard enjoin yourself in Mehico."
"Yes!" shuddered Dean and off we went across the street into Mexico on soft feet.
We left the car parked, and all three of us abreast went down the Spanish street into the middle of the dull brown lights.
Old men sat on chairs in the night and looked like Oriental junkies and oracles.
No one was actually looking at us, yet everybody was aware of everything we did.
We turned sharp left into the smoky lunchroom and went in to music of campo guitars on an American thirties jukebox.
Shirt-sleeved Mexican cabdrivers and straw-hatted Mexican hipsters sat at stools, devouring shapeless messes of tortillas, beans, tacos, whatnot.
We bought three bottles of cold beer – cerveza was the name of beer – for about thirty Mexican cents"; or ten American cents each.
We bought packs of Mexican cigarettes for six cents each.
We gazed and gazed at our wonderful Mexican money that went so far, and played with it and looked around and smiled at everyone.
Behind us lay the whole of America and everything Dean and I had previously known: about life, and life on the road.
We had finally found the magic land at the end of the road and we never dreamed the extent of the magic.
"Think of these cats staying up all hours of the night," whispered Dean.