Spring Break in Mexico

**Editors' Note: This guest post comes in from a buddy of ours named Kenny.**

Several years ago while living in Arizona, my girlfriend, Betsy, and I decided to spend our spring break visiting Rocky Point in northern Mexico. Scarcely a twelve pack drive away, it was a popular destination for land-bound Arizonan's who wanted some beach time. We packed up and headed south, crossing the border just before midnight and arriving at the beach in the wee hours. We slept in the sand next to my trusty Honda Accord.

The next morning we woke up and headed into town for supplies. It was already hot, so pounding a few beers on the way seemed appropriate. As did smoking a joint or two. We entered town and, with Betsy at the helm, were navigating towards the supermercado, beers already warming between our thighs.

Familiar with the town, we moved qucikly along, windows down, stereo up, sipping beers -- until we stopped unexpectedly upon the bumper of the car in front of us as it waited patiently for a red light. As we peeled ourselves from the dash (carefree springbreakers, we dismissed the idea of seat belts) the large woman driving the car that was currently wedged beneath the hood of my Honda approached us, suggesting loudly in Spanish what amounted to her personal opinion on Gringos, spring break, drinking and driving, and godless heathens.

Betsy, speaking no Spanish, remained mute and simply applied direct pressure to the cut trickling blood from her forehead. My limited command of the language was further compromised by the remainder of our weed that I was choking dryly down.

Soon the cops showed up, and with very little ado, quickly confiscated my car and ordered us to report to the police station at nine the next morning. Considering ourselves lucky for leaving the scene without someone so much as smelling our beery breath, we split. And proceeded to party the rest of the day, and night away.

The next day we hitch a ride with friends into town and, nursing hangovers, we arrive at city hall promptly at nine. Betsy, tough girl that she is, walks towards the front door while telling me nonchalantly over her shoulder that she's "got this under control, feel free to wait outside". Which I do. For like an hour and half.

Finally, I go looking and enter a seemingly deserted police station, long halls extending in three directions. Somewhere a radio played tinny ranchero music.

"Hola? Buenas Dias?" Nothing. "HOLA?" Still nothing.

I wait.

Eventually I make my way deeper into the building following a long hall with flickery florescent lights. I hear a metallic clicking and look down another hall to see a heavy door swinging shut. Just before it closes I spot Betsy, sweaty hair in her face, hands held before her gripping the bars of a jail cell, looking wide-eyed right at me.

And then SLAM, the door shuts.