July 07, 2002
2175 miles to home. Of course, no trip to America would be complete without a trip to South of the Border, and I dutifully stopped by. No matter how many times I've been there it's always a thrill to see the giant sombrero appear on the horizon, much as the Statue of Liberty was to millions of Ellis Island immigrants. It was always a highlight of my family's annual trip to Florida, with the billboards marking time and space for me better than any odometer could.
As anybody who has traveled I-95 knows, billboards featuring the ubiquitous Pedro begin appearing about 100 miles before the site, and grow more and more frequent as you approach Dillon, SC. [Though the classic Pedro billboards, with their delightful broken English and bad puns, came down about five years ago after years of complaints.] By the time you reach S.O.B., it feels almost like an act of subversion not to actually stop in.
As for what awaits you when the billboards end, suffice it to say that if Louis XIV had decided to build a tourist emporium rather than the Palace of Versailles, it would be South of the Border. What I remember from my childhood as a few giftshops and weird statues has now grown into a massive complex which included an amusement park, a couple of bars, a half-dozen gift shops, motels, restaurants, and anything else weary drivers might spend a buck on. Unfortunately, I didn't get to S.O.B. until shortly after midnight, by which time all but a gift shop or two is closed. Knowing that it would be the last big moment of my trip, I lingered in the gift shop, picking up a sackful of logoed crap, and it felt damn good.
From South of the Border it was another 100 miles before a motel room, followed by a tiring day of northwest traffic jams, and finally home. And now, to sleep, this time for free.
As anybody who has traveled I-95 knows, billboards featuring the ubiquitous Pedro begin appearing about 100 miles before the site, and grow more and more frequent as you approach Dillon, SC. [Though the classic Pedro billboards, with their delightful broken English and bad puns, came down about five years ago after years of complaints.] By the time you reach S.O.B., it feels almost like an act of subversion not to actually stop in.
As for what awaits you when the billboards end, suffice it to say that if Louis XIV had decided to build a tourist emporium rather than the Palace of Versailles, it would be South of the Border. What I remember from my childhood as a few giftshops and weird statues has now grown into a massive complex which included an amusement park, a couple of bars, a half-dozen gift shops, motels, restaurants, and anything else weary drivers might spend a buck on. Unfortunately, I didn't get to S.O.B. until shortly after midnight, by which time all but a gift shop or two is closed. Knowing that it would be the last big moment of my trip, I lingered in the gift shop, picking up a sackful of logoed crap, and it felt damn good.
From South of the Border it was another 100 miles before a motel room, followed by a tiring day of northwest traffic jams, and finally home. And now, to sleep, this time for free.
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