El PASO Texas. To get there from Mexico, you must cross the Rio Grande--without dying. March is the best time of year because the current is low. At least it was when we crossed over. Cross at night and steer clear of lighted streets, move in the shadows of the concrete legs under the Caesar Chavez highway. Then, if you make it that far, after evading the Texas National Guard, are armed with AK-47s and steel-tipped boots, if you make it past them -- then -- run! For the vast sea of sand of the wide-open desert, which is coming right at you, run as fast as you can, because the border patrol is coming. Keep running through fences of needle-sharp cactus, sliding over boulders, dodging deep rabbit holes, whip right passed the detritus left behind by the other departed -- water canteens, ripped jackets, unlaced shoes -- a dead animal, a human skull – you don’t have time to stop, or stare, or take deep breaths or pray, because the border patrol is coming right at you. Fly for your life under dazzling stars, who are your only friends on this unfriendly journey. You’ll drop a few things, like your poncho or knapsack or rosary beads, but you won’t care, with the border patrol behind you, helicopters whirling, flood lights flashing, attack dogs barking, you’ll just want to high tail it north just as fast as you can, to Pancho Villa’s hideouts in the mountains, where you think you’ll be free at last. But you won’t make it, of course.