When ISU was on break these past few weeks, how many of you can say that you learned anything?

I, for one, learned a lesson far greater than any textbook or recitation could have taught me. And all I had to do was walk through a turnstile.

During the last week of break, my boyfriend and I took a little vacation to Tucson, Arizona to stay with my grandmother. She was so excited to have us come visit her; in fact, she had the entire week’s itinerary all plotted out for us.

Day one’s adventure was a trip to Mexico.

Tucson is only about an hour from the border; just a short trip down I-19. I wasn’t sure what to expect, although Grandma, a veteran of several Mexican shopping sprees, offered her two bits about how to deal with the merchants.

Her main point was, “They need the money … they’ll take anything … never pay full price.”

Cool, I thought, picturing mile after mile of purses and jewelry and dim-witted salesmen, willing to sell you the Hope Diamond for a nickel.

Nogales, Arizona, is right across the border from Nogales, Mexico. As we drove through the town and inched closer and closer to the border, I began to realize that we weren’t exactly going to Acapulco. The paint on the buildings was getting more and more faded and chipped, and the cars were getting older and older.

By the time we parked our car, (and paid a guy $4 for the privilege), I would have thought we WERE already in Mexico, as we were the only white people in the area. Of course, that icon of American gluttony, the golden arches, was right there, reassuring me with the English on the sign that I wasn’t there yet.

That, and the fence.

As I looked just a block south, I saw the big border office, I saw a large wooden fence protruding from it in both directions. Unlike many of the buildings on either side of it, the partition stood tall and solid-looking, a foreboding reminder that we weren’t just going into another state — this was the real thing.

There weren’t any guards or anything telling us how exactly to get across the border; there were just a few faint arrows and words stenciled out on the sidewalk. We followed them to a big gate and turnstile- ironically, it reminded me of the ones at Adventureland.

This was sure going to be an adventure, I thought, as I twirled through the iron gate.

Instantly, every dream image I’d had shattered like cheap china on the sidewalk.

My first impression of Mexico was the lake-sized puddle I had to step over to avoid walking over the begging woman holding her cup up at me, begging me to give in a language I did not understand. Cringing, I herded Grandma and Cory into a shop.

There WERE a lot of shops, like I’d expected, but that’s where the similarity between my fantasy and the harsh reality ended. At the first shop we entered, I spied a purse I couldn’t live without. No sooner had I nodded my head in its direction before a salesman was in my face. “You like the purse? $100.”

We ended up getting it for $35, plus a dollar tip. The salesman thanked us profusely, telling us we were his first sale of the day. Never mind that it was already one in the afternoon, and there were people milling all around the shops.

No sooner would we set foot into a store than a salesman would jump down our throats. They were trying so hard, I began to feel sorry for them.

When Cory and one salesman were bickering over the price of a “genuine Mexican sterling” bracelet, the salesman uttered a line that I’m sure I won’t forget soon.

“I can’t go any lower,” he said. “I must buy groceries, pay rent, I can’t.”

Wow. Imagine if having dinner depended on whether t you sold a cheap trinket.

Even if it was just a sales pitch, I’m sure it couldn’t have been that far from the truth. I can’t even begin to imagine how we looked to the merchants, in our brand-name coats and jeans and shoes, Cory swinging his camera by the strap, Grandma lugging along her massive Liz Claiborne purse. We must have seemed like walking gold mines.

The entire place seemed more like a scene from a Feed The Children ad than a real town. Weak, static-filled music wavered faintly from the shops. The stores tried to appear colorful, but even their shiniest silver and brightest blankets were a dim shade of depression.

Just walking down the streets, I realized how lucky we were.

The roads were full of potholes and old cars. I don’t think there was a muffler or working exhaust pipe to be found in 20 miles.

Traffic signs were few and far between, thus we were treated to the harsh squealing of brakes and weak horns honking every few minutes.

There were more beggars than stop signs, and in the two hours that we were there, I never saw a police car, or an officer, or even heard a siren.

After we’d left Mexico and were walking to our car, I took one last look back at the foreboding fence, slowly crawling along the hill. Like the territory it bordered, the fence was cold, plain, bleak. Even where the sun peeked out and struck it, it stood as a monochrome barrier between the haves and have-nots

Maybe we “starving college students” aren’t so bad off after all.

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Holly Benton is a sophomore in animal science from Early.