Best French fries, a pretty good milkshake followed by a search by the Border Patrol

On my way south of Tucson to visit the Tumacacori Historical National Park I noticed a large Border Patrol checkpoint spanning the northbound lanes of Highway 19. It was one of the big tented ones I’d seen before and didn’t think much about it except to notice the long, long line of waiting cars.

Fast forward a few hours and after wandering around the mission church at Tumacacori and viewing a very interesting small museum, I drove onto the frontage road heading north. A couple of miles up the road I saw a restaurant, the Italian Peasant, with a big sign advertising milkshakes and hamburgers. Sounded good to me.

Inside, I ordered the strawberry shake and a side of French fries. Each $6.50. The pretty good shake topped with whipped cream came promptly and with it was a metal shake container that was still almost full. About 20 minutes later the waitress brought a huge heaping plate of French fries. It was enormous. Fries for 4 hungry people, I swear. And bigger turned out to be better. They are the absolutely the Best French Fries I’ve had since the ones at Burgersmith (Garlic Butter Fries: $2.50) in Lafayette, Louisiana. I ate a few fries, took the rest to go and can report that even reheated on the stove top two days later these fries are great.

Now comes the part about the Border Patrol

Glad that the trip had not been a total disappointment, I drove north again on the frontage road where I had planned to stop at the historic Tubac Presidio, but suddenly saw a sign that read: Road Ends 1,000 feet. So I turned back and drove onto Highway 19 and, happily, the on ramp took me fairly close to the front of the long line of cars I’d noticed at the border checkpoint earlier.

I took a few photos as I was waiting and, of course, smiled at the cameras photographing all cars and their drivers. As we crept forward a BP canine officer with his German Shepherd on a leash was checking each car, moving quickly from one to the next, not stopping.

Finally, I got to the officer who I expected to wave me through as usually happens at these checkpoints. But he very politely asked me if they could search my car. Stunned I replied: “Search anything you want.” He pointed to a sign with a big 1 on it and told me to pull over and park there.

Two young Border Patrol agents came out from under another small tent and while the dark-haired one searched the trunk of my 22 year old white Camry, the other one, a blond, and I talked.

Me: “You’re not going to find anything because there is nothing to find.”

BP: “We still have to search.”

There was a small metal case, locked, in the trunk which I unlocked. Empty.

It was probably unnecessary but I was so nervous that I explained that I had bought the case to hold my money back in the days when I sold soap in the Farmers’ Market but that I didn’t sell soap in the Market anymore. From that point the conversation rambled to include lunch at the Italian Peasant and Tumacacori as well as Rita Moreno being age 88 and–he suggested–living a rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. I told him I didn’t think she lived that kind of life.

About this point I asked the blond one if I could take a photo of them and he essentially said “not a good idea”. I can’t remember his exact words, but when someone says they don’t want to be photographed I respect that.

Meanwhile the dark-haired officer pried up this and that in my trunk and looked in the spare tire well.

Then out of the blue the chatting blond-haired one asked me: “Do you smoke?”

Me: “No. I don’t smoke. Don’t drink. I eat my vegetables and exercise regularly.” I realized, of course, that he wasn’t asking about Virginia tobacco, but didn’t acknowledge that. And I am sure he thought that because we were having a friendly chat that he could catch me by surprise. He did. And what I told him was the truth.

As it became apparent that this search was going nowhere I asked why they pulled me over. He said the dog identified my car.

Me: “The dog? Well, your dog was wrong. Can I go now?”

So I left and drove back to Tucson, skipping the Tubac Presidio.

Later that evening I told a friend about it and she said that maybe I had run over something on one of the roadsides or parking lots where I stopped to take pictures and that could be what the dog smelled. That could be the case. But, remembering my short trip across the border in Nogales last Spring, it also seems that I may just have poor karma as far as the Border Patrol goes.

And now I need to have my car washed so I can go back to visit the Tubac Presidio.