There is, however, only so long even the staunchest of idealists and especially their dog can hold out against a blazing June sun and the realization that there are still hours of desert driving ahead.

One of the priorities of the Fox administration was to have a go at curbing the corruption of border officials. There has been a great deal of publicity regarding the implementation of Operation Paisano, a program to encourage the hassle-free border crossing of Mexicans or those of Mexican descent, the people who had routinely been ripped off to a much greater degree then Anglo tourists. Does it work? Who knows for certain. My guess is that things are better than in the 70's but then once an idealist, maybe always an idealist.

After half a day of discussion, Paul and the official were, if not buxom buddies, at least practically on a first name basis. But the minute Paul decided, ‘Enough is enough,' he stretched out his arm saying, ‘Allow me to introduce myself.' The guard eagerly shook hands allowing the folded bill that had been concealed in Paul's palm to be exchanged. In no time at all, we were on Highway 57 going bumper to fender with the 18-wheeler. The rationale for this maneuver was the appearance of an ancient Fanta sign peeking out from assorted shrubbery. ‘If they're advertising pop, they gotta have beer,' was Paul's comment as he neatly nipped into a dirt track as the truck thundered by. Past the shrubbery, we discovered a small semi-palapa hut covering maybe half-a-dozen rickety tables surrounded by an odd assortment of chairs in front of a simple shack, all of which was in an advanced state of disintegration. Driven by a German's interest in a cold brew, Paul was ready to tackle whatever.

Having never seen anything quite so grim before, and being in a foreign country to boot, I wanted nothing more than to become invisible and miraculously travel instantaneously the 3000 kilometers back ‘home'.

The weathered, middle-aged proprietors of the ‘establishment' must have had their doubts as well when they saw us.

Here they were in the middle of a ‘mesquite-dotted nowhere' and up pops a battered Dodge Dart with a cargo box strapped to the roof, a huge, furry, bizarre-looking dog sticking his head out the back window and two obvious gringos in front. It must have appeared the product of a desert mirage especially when the gringos emerged from the vehicle in more or less authentic 70's hippie attire.

Paul's long hair and beard made him a brown haired Eric the Red. Having only guidebook knowledge of the country, I had purchased the long skirt various authors stated was de rigueur for women. That ludicrous garment combined with my long hair, bra-less-ness, assorted jewelry and sandals must have made me quite the picture.

The couple, she in her simple dress and flat shoes, he in a shirt, jeans and boots, looked normal. We looked like freaks.

A woman we recently met on her first visit to Mexico related how she had also been told to wear a long skirt in the interior of the country. It was considered respectful and polite. That's all well and good but woman can safely wear pants, even jeans nowadays. Mexicans take great pride in their appearance both at home and out and about. however, as a gringo and a tourist to boot, you are given a certain leeway. Be conservative, neat and clean and all is cool.

Regardless of our weird appearance, Paul's request for a cold beer was readily filled as well as my guidebook-inspired request for pop. Having read that women do not drink in public I curbed my urge to follow Paul's lead. However, the warm, sticky, orange Fanta did little to satisfy my thirst.

By this time, I was also having some doubts about the advice found in various guidebooks.

How Paul and the couple became engaged in a very lively conversation escapes me. Mind dulled by the sickly sweet orange syrup that stuck to the roof of my mouth, by the fact that I had no clue beyond cognates what was being said and mortified by the fact that I looked like an idiot and knew it, I was somewhat removed from the scene until a boisterous group of ranch owners arrived.

It appeared that their Sunday afternoon custom was to converge en masse with pollo al pastor (grilled chicken) to be consumed with piles of hand-made tortillas and chile courtesy of Esperanza and an unlimited supply of beers courtesy of Furgencio. The idea seemed to be to eat, drink, get drunk and tell lies.

This custom was somewhat interrupted by the presence of the two gringos and their dog. In a gesture of friendship, the ranch owners decided to save the chicken bones for the gringo dog, a fact that met with universal disapproval from the crew of mangy curs circling the landowners' table waiting for the bones to be tossed to them.

The situation turned somewhat tense when the bones were ceremoniously presented to and rejected by the gringo dog.

Paul stated that no offense was meant. It was just that the dog only ate out of his own bowl.

While the landowners gaped in unison at this admission, dog and bones were taken to the far side of the car. There the bowl was produced and held up over the car for all to see.

While the dog was held prisoner out of sight, the bones were set in the bowl in full view. Then continuing to hold the dog captive, the bowl was set on the ground, allowing easy access to the back seat of the vehicle where the bones were hidden away one by one and promptly forgotten. Then the empty bowl was displayed for the inspection and approval of all but the roaming pack of curs.

A definitive slam of the car door concealed the evidence (until it was unearthed three months later by a surprised border guard searching for dope) and supplied a period to the unvoiced tension.

The dog was returned, somewhat befuddled, to his post by the table with the beer and Fanta.

		The dog that survived the chicken bone gaffe and went on to travel four more times to México. He definitely believed in the bumper sticker, "The place to be is Michoacán".

The landowners could then resume their drinking and lying, pausing only to ponder A) the oddity of a dog who didn't eat bones, B) the oddity of a dog who only ate from his own bowl and C) the oddity of a dog having his own bowl in the first place.

As time passed, one of the braver in the group lurched over to our table, lager in hand, to hold forth on politics with Paul. Now politics is always a particularly tricky subject for discussion, especially if you are discussing a country not your own in a language not your own.

It's especially tricky when you are talking to a person more than slightly inebriated.

In Mexico, as elsewhere, three universal rules apply to drinking situations. Perhaps one should add, these rules apply especially in Mexico. · Never argue with an overly inebriated person. · Don't try to keep up with the toasts. The glass can be raised and brought to the lips. Taking anything more than ceremonious sip will result in a series of never-ending refills. · Try for a surreptitious exit. Leaving to go to the bathroom and not returning has been known to be very effective.

Paul's escape route was limited, unless he wanted to hang out indefinitely behind the mesquite bushes.

The bushes started to become an attractive option, however, as the conversation got ugly when the landowner began a series of jibes at Furgencia and Esperanza. Paul deflected the disparaging remarks and the landowner developed a somewhat perplexed expression as he tried to figure out if he had been insulted or not.

Since no blood was shed and general laughter broke out, I figured all was well. The landowner staggered back to the table with his cronies.

It was evident Furgencio was genuinely pleased with whatever it was Paul had said to the landowner, since he inquired if we were hungry.

For Paul, this, of course, was a mute point since here is a man that is planning his next meal before the last has been consumed. For me, it provided what I thought to be a life and death decision.

Having been warned by the same quidebooks that advised wearing long skirts and drinking warm pop about the possible hazards of all food except, perhaps, soup in this country, I naively queried with a guidebook phrase, "¿Hay sopa?"

What was I thinking? Here I was acting as if this tiny dilapidated shack was a three-star restaurant complete with a menu where one selected ones meal from assorted options.