Campeche

El Paisa was an exclusive bar of a different kind. Fellow Campecheans would’ve stood out from the select crowd, so my tall Danish companion and I could not have seemed more out of place. But, with a beer price lower than that of the corner store, and lovely ladies offering homemade Mexican snacks, we were quick to establish ourselves as regulars. After several all-day sessions we became accustomed to El paisa’s unique surroundings. The filthy ice packed urinal encouraged a steady flow, the cordial laughs of drunken Mexicans persuaded a simile, and the industrious work ethic of the friendly señoras brought a feeling of achievement. One of the waitresses was multitasking as mother to her mentally disabled son; due to the Mexican welfare system, or lack thereof, the woman was forced to bring her 30 year-old child to work; he would spend his days drinking with the regulars, often making more sense than anyone in the establishment. He was subject to just one extra condition: after a certain level of intoxication he was required to wear a construction helmet.
We attended El Paisa religiously for almost two weeks. We were there for the ten am opening each morning, and dutifully remained until the precision close at, around about six or seven, but sometimes as late as eight in the evening.
We drank tequila and played dominoes with some of the oddest people in Mexico. At close of business one evening a group of regulars invited us to the dirtiest strip-club south of Texas. Nursing scull-splitting headaches the following morning Tobias and I agreed that it was time to move on.
We returned for a final drink at El Paisa before setting out that evening. We took the funniest photos of our new friends – I'm not sure what these people had been told about photography but their happy smiles turned to blank faces as soon as they were in range of the camera. I now have an entire photo series of Tobias and me smiling contently alongside the most dejected looking group of Mexicans.