The published closing time was six. It closed at four. I arrived at twenty past, with a bus that had already left and a queue of eleven people ahead of me being told, politely and finally, to come back tomorrow.
The town
Border towns exist for one reason and it shows. There were four guesthouses, three of them full of people in exactly my situation, all charging roughly double what the rooms were worth. This is not exploitation so much as arithmetic — the demand is entirely made of people with no alternative.
I got the last room in the fourth. It had a fan, a bed, and a window onto the generator. I have slept worse.
The evening
The unexpectedly good part. Eleven strangers with a shared grievance and a whole evening to fill will make a society very quickly. We ate at the one place still open — a family kitchen with four tables — and by nine we had established a rough plan for the morning, a pooled understanding of the fees, and someone’s cousin with a van.
Two of those people I still email.
The lesson, which I already knew
Arrive at a border before noon. Not before three, not before the published closing — before noon. The published hours describe intent, not practice; posts close early for staffing, for weather, for lunch that runs long, and for reasons never explained to the queue.
I knew this. I had written it down in my own notes. I took the later bus because it was cheaper by three dollars and I spent eighteen on the room.