Chris Tharp

It takes me a while to find a joint that’s open at eleven in the morning, so I’m hoping my first hit won’t be a dud. As I make my way around the barrier that prevents prying eyes from taking in the boozy sin within El Tiburón, I adjust my gaze and see that there is only one other customer in the place, an emaciated old white dude who’s almost sliding off his stool.

There is a notion among some travelers that the real magic only happens once you dive in deep and savor your new surroundings; that you’ve got to put in the time to reap the rewards. While I’ve certainly embraced this point-of-view, I’ve also found that some of the most gratifying moments happen early on, when you initially set eyes on that big destination.

I was still in Phoenix, but it felt like Mexico. As I sat in the one-room bus station in that sprawl of a town, I was surrounded by a flurry of travelers chatting in the lilt of Mexican Spanish. All the posters were in Spanish, as were the handwritten paper signs clinging to the greasy glass with Scotch tape. I had even mustered my best Spanish when I purchased my ticket: “Un boleto para Los Mochis, por favor.”