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I first went to a bar in Juarez, Mexico when I was 17 years old. Now to high schoolers 45 miles away in Las Cruces, this sounded like a great bargain. A quick drive south with some friends, a stroll over the high, wide bridge that separated the U.
Thursday nights would sometimes spill over to Friday nights and maybe Saturday nights too. Why the hell not, I mean after all it was illegal to drink back home and we were less than an hour away.
What was it like? I guess it must look like the central strip of any third-world country. On either side of Juarez Avenue were blazing, neon signs advertising the various nightclubs.
Loud dance music pumped from speakers above the doors, giving the place a noisy racket matched perhaps by Las Vegas Boulevard on a spring Friday night. The Alive, the Copa, the Brown Derby, and many, many more. Beside the nightclubs were souvenir stores, hawking everything from boots and blankets to knock-off Rolexes and Gucci watches both of which I brought back with me, and both of which broke in short time.
The sidewalks were crowded with the souvenir peddlers, the doormen of the nightclubs, the taxi drivers, the prostitute, the policia, and the thousands of other Americans that would flock there at night. And it was dangerous. And this stuff happened all the time, and yet still we went.