Editor's Letter

I had an old-fashioned at the Algonquin Hotel. That was a few weeks ago. It was made with 1792 Small Batch bourbon, Peychaud’s Bitters and fruit. It was strong. Frank Sinatra strong. And it knocked me back. Like being hit by a linebacker. But it wasn’t strong enough to knock me back to the 1920s. I’ve always thought that’s where I’d want to go if I could

go back in time. To the Algonquin, in the early days of the Round Table. Sitting with Harold Ross, Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker (especially Dorothy Parker), Heywood Broun … would have been fascinating. Like being at A&M Studios on the night they recorded We Are the World.

There’s another place I’d like to go if I could go back in time. It was called Brickwood’s Place, and at the turn of the last century, it was the most distinctive saloon in Arizona. As unlikely as it seems today, the old watering hole on Morley Avenue in Nogales straddled the international boundary between the United States and Mexico. All day long, Mexicans and Americans would go back and forth. They’d walk in the front door, on the north side, drink a beer in the U.S., and then walk out the back door onto a narrow wooden porch, which was in Mexico, and have a smoke.

“On the outer edge of the porch,” The New York Times reported in 1923, “was a receptacle for Mexican cigars served by attendants to patrons on the porch. A boundary monument was set into a niche in the south wall of Brickwood’s Place, half of it within the niche, the other half within the porch.”

The monument, identified as “No. 26,” was just a pile of rocks. It’s gone now, and so is the saloon — they were torn down a couple of decades before this magazine came to be. But even without the easy access of Brickwood’s, Arizona Highways has been finding its way into Mexico for more than a hundred years. Our first story, From Old Pueblo to Quaint Nogales, appeared in October 1925.

“As to the facilities for dining while in Nogales, Mexico,” E.M. Whitworth wrote, “the tourist will find several of interest, the most notable, perhaps, being ‘The Cave,’ which is built into the side of a mountain. As to the service and cuisine of this and the other delightful places one may find to dine, I think all will acclaim them most excellent. Wonderful sea foods from the West Coast of Mexico are to be had, to say nothing of the numerous vegetables and fruits of pleasing freshness, some of which are peculiar solely to Mexico and have a piquant flavor most satisfying.”
 

In March 1934, we did a piece titled A Voyage to the Old World by Auto. Then, in October 1940, we devoted an entire issue to Mexico. We did it again in September 1942. “Americans, as a whole, know very little about Mexico and the Mexican people,” Editor Raymond Carlson wrote. “It is to be regretted, also, that there is so much misinformation about our southern neighbors in this country, because Mexico is a great Nation. This, the September issue of Arizona Highways, is designed as a tribute to Mexico and the Mexican people, but if it is notable in any way, it is notable because of its omissions. To present Mexico in a few pages is an impossible task.”

Most of the photographs in that issue were made by Esther Henderson and Chuck Abbott, and our editor wrote every word. Every word. In all, there were 23 pieces, including profiles of Diego Rivera and José Clemente Orozco.

In spite of our editor’s disclaimer, the issue got rave reviews. We even got a letter from the nation’s capital: “It seems to me you have done a remarkably fine job in your September issue on the beauties of Mexico. It is so good I am passing it on to a friend of mine in the Mexican Embassy.”

The letter was signed: “H.A. Wallace, Vice President of the United States, Washington, D.C.”

A lot has changed since then, especially at the border, a place that’s become a metaphor for the divisiveness in our country. But Arizona and the state of Sonora have a kinship that can’t be divided by lines of latitude. In fact, it wasn’t so long ago — around the time Central Park was being developed — that Tucson was located in Mexico. South of the border. It didn’t become a part of the United States until December 30, 1853, when Antonio López de Santa Anna agreed to the “sale of the Mesilla Valley,” which extended the southern border of the U.S. from the Gila River to the place where Brickwood’s used to stand.

In the same way we change our clothes from one day to the next, the 500 people living in Tucson at the time changed their nationality. Overnight. What didn’t change was their Mexican heritage. Baile folklórico, Dia de Los Muertos, alebrijes, charrería, calabacitas, bacanora … those things never went away. And for that, we’re blessed. The Mexican culture that’s rooted in Arizona makes Arizona a better place to be. So do the people who keep those traditions alive. Including the crew at Pepe’s Taco Villa.

That’s where my team likes to go for lunch. And that’s where we went on our managing editor’s last day. For 13 years, Noah Austin has been purging our magazine of split infinitives, writing stories about scenic drives and books about ghost towns, and doing dozens of things that most people never notice. But I noticed. Every day. Thirteen is the unlucky number. But not for us. We’ve been fortunate to have Noah sitting around our round table for that long, as a colleague and a friend. On behalf of everyone at our world headquarters, muchas gracias, mi amigo. I’ll never say this again. Never. But out of respect to you, Noah, and your 13 years, I’ll give you two last words: Go Cubbies!