Some masterpieces are unintentional, the result of a freakish accident or an explosive act of sheer weirdness, and the fence that divides Nogales, Ariz. In a lifetime of crossing borders I find this pitiless fence the oddest frontier I have ever seen β more formal than the Berlin Wall , more brutal than the Great Wall of China, yet in its way just as much an example of the same folie de grandeur.
Built just six months ago, this towering, seemingly endless row of vertical steel beams is so amazing in its conceit you either want to see more of it, or else run in the opposite direction β just the sort of conflicting emotions many people feel when confronted with a peculiar piece of art.
You can, of course, also go through it, which is what I wanted to do. And there was the entryway, just past J. I pushed the turnstile and stepped through the narrow door β no line, no other formalities β into the state of Sonora, Mexico, where I was instantly, unmistakably in a foreign land. The roads were bumpier, the buildings vaguely distressed; I was breathing in the mingled aromas of bakeries, taco stands and risen dust.
Glancing back a moment later, I could not see Arizona anymore, only the foreground of Mexico β small children kicking a ball, men in sombreros conferring under a striped awning, steaming food carts. Usually a frontier is a river β the Mekong, the Rio Grande, the Zambezi; or a mountain range β the Pyrenees, the Rwenzoris.
It can also be a sudden alteration in topography, a bewildering landscape transformation β hilly Vermont flattening into Quebec. I am nattering on about this border fence, partly because it is a visual marvel, something like a stockade, and also because, as the guard demonstrated, it calls for a decision.
