Located right on the brink of the two Carolinas sits a sprawling landmark infamous to all who have journeyed southeast. A beacon of early 1950s rest stop/roadside attractions. A graveyard of tackiness with a lively Mexican-bandido mascot--a borderline graveyard in every respect.
Every trek down Interstate 95 has taken my family past this notorious place, and its image stains every storybook road trip we’ve taken to Hilton Head, South Carolina, for as long as I can remember. Those familiar with South of the Border know that it is quite the monument, and it’s a bit of a joke amongst Carolinians both north and south of this strangely out of place mini-metropolis. My family and I have never stopped inside (which is probably a good thing), but we’ve definitely considered doing so, just “for the experience”--a South of the Border bumper sticker was always a coveted item, and would be the ultimate proof of our bravery had we ever been adventurous enough to travel through its gigantic orange welcome sign. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to take a ride up its towering sombrero structure, the safety and integrity of which has always been questionable to me. My dad speaks wistfully of the days that he, my aunt and uncles and my grandparents would travel down to Hilton Head from New York--how the kids would beg and plead to stop at that brightly colored Mexico-themed Disneyland. I assume those were the South of the Border glory days, the days when you didn’t wonder if maybe it was a front for a drug cartel, but instead a pure and magical land complete with a motel, tiny amusement park, and souvenir shop.
Even if you’ve somehow never noticed it, you’ve probably noticed all one hundred and twenty of the billboards advertising South of the Border as you’ve gotten closer and closer. Every mile or so, there’s a brightly colored sign depicting a caricature of a poncho wearing, mustached man and his donkey friend, urging you with blank, painted on eyes to visit the ailing roadside tourist trap. I’ve always felt bad for the place, and it’s a miracle to me that it stays in business. In all my eighteen years of passing that barren wasteland of neon scaffolding and variegated buildings, I’ve never seen a single soul even filling up their car with South of the Border gas. It’s always been cold, distant, and sad, sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of highway forest, the fading yellow of its heroic sombrero a lonely still life against a Carolina blue sky.
We once drove past at night, and this time it came as a total surprise--the darkness had swallowed each and every apprising billboard. It was lit up like Christmas time, its colored bulbs framed by the inky night. I felt very old looking at this image of neglect, shining proudly off the side of the interstate. It was a lively ghost, a dim and yet formidable shell of itself in its heyday, a phantom tourist trap existing in the in between--unable to choose life or the hellish locale where dated places go to die. With my forehead pressed to the car window, I watched it fade backwards as we passed, a small blob of colorful light on an endless timeline. 
