Driving south on I-95, it is nigh impossible to ignore the looming tourist trap known as South of the Border. About 2 hours away, you encounter billboards with puns so bad they burn into your brain. You think about nothing else since there is nothing else distract on this stretch of 95, save swerving tractor-trailers trying to reach Florida on time. Getting closer, the billboards increase and grow stranger, some implying crashing your car is preferable to missing this totally amazing place. Yet closer, a sign every 100 ft. announces the imminent arrival of South of the Border. By the time you actually drive up near the gaudy neon mass of buildings, the sheer loathing of this place foisted on you over the last 3 hours is so strong you almost stop in just to throw a rock at it.
On the way down we skipped it and stopped at ordinary convenience stores. Fun Fact: most southern stores carry a local paper featuring everyone who got arrested that week, complete with mug shots, for only $2!
Unfortunately on the return trip the billboards wore us down and we had to slake curiosity. I give you: South of the Border.
Situated just south of the North Carolina border (haw), South of the Border is a sprawling, motley collection of buildings and neon with a Mexican/Vegas theme in South Carolina.
Located near a sizable Army base, the park’s seediness sits cheek-and-jowl with family fare. There’s a Dirty Old Man shop (actual name) in the back of a t-shirt store offering hardcore porn amongst other items, and a Pleasure Dome with cheap hotel rooms and a large jacuzzi area.
In case you were wondering what it looked like, in South of the Border did Paco a stately pleasure dome decree.
Paco isn’t just South of the Border’s vague ‘mascot’, it’s also the name of all employees regardless of gender, race, or actual nationality.
When we went the place was nearly deserted. No other families, no one in any of the enormous parking lots, and many of the restaurants were closed.
Turns out this Coffee Shop was mostly souvenir shop anyway, staffed by two surly women manning turnstiles in. Our minds boggled at the sheer amount of ridiculous cheap crap surrounding us.
Get it? South of the Border? SOB? Eh? Eeeehhhhh?
I can’t identify any of the animals here.
These towels were a bizarre combination of dirty grandpa humor and random nonsense.
What?
On the flipside were these posi-core laminated placemat/posters, though outside of Williamsburg types going through their early-90s revival phase I’m not sure who’d buy them.
The Sombrero Tower had a weak arcade at the bottom featuring half the machines off and a pool table around which some people were playing and smoking.
Is Fort Pedro really licensed to sell mortars?
