I sat down at the corner café, ready to battle my notebook again, but my coffee betrayed me, turning from fresh espresso to tepid sadness faster than I could open my pen.

Last night’s dreams lingered, absurd: A spiral staircase leading nowhere, and a goldfish gently asking me for career advice.

I offered some tips— (“Swim against the current,” I said, sounding wiser than a half-asleep human has any right to be.)

Today, caffeine is failing at its only job: Coffee hits like tap water, and tap water, well, it feels more like a tranquilizer dart.

Maybe my goldfish client has it easier after all.

Wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget… but I still might.

I stopped for pancakes at a diner just off Route 9 in Plattsburgh, NY (ZIP: 12901, for my fellow map nerds). It’s one of those places where the menu hasn’t budged since about 1983—and neither have the prices, bless their hearts. As I drowned my short stack in syrup, I overheard the table next to me stumbling through their breakfast order in hesitant French, earning bemused smiles and gentle confusion from their very-much-English-speaking server.

Here’s the kicker: Lacolle, Quebec, is a breezy 40-minute drive north. Cross that line, and French flows effortlessly—c’est naturel. But in Plattsburgh, French feels oddly out of place, like cowboy boots at a vegan potluck.

Contrast that with Texas, where you can be miles and miles from the Rio Grande and Spanish is as comfy as old denim. Of course, Texas spent a significant chunk of its formative years as part of Mexico—history has deep roots, deeper even than pecan trees. In fact, there's still a quiet undercurrent among some Texans who feel the border never quite landed right, culturally speaking. Texas is practically its own country—Tex-Mex traditions, bilingual street signs, and communities where crossing linguistic boundaries happens every day without a blink.

Why the stark difference in Plattsburgh, then? Historically, the border between the U.S. and Canada was largely shaped by treaties between distant governments rather than by cultural or economic tides. The northeastern U.S. border, once delineated, hardened into an identity line. Economics played its role too: trade, jobs, and daily life largely stayed separate, preventing cultural blending.

Meanwhile, the U.S.-Mexico border region remains fluid, economically intertwined, and culturally overlapping. Families and businesses sprawl comfortably on both sides. The flow of goods, people, and especially language has softened that border into something more porous, more natural—more human.

America’s borders are funny like that. Sometimes they split cultures cleanly; other times, the lines blur beautifully. And as I wiped up the last sticky bits of syrup, I thought about how borders are drawn in ink—but lived in pancakes, language, and the raised eyebrows of a diner waitress.

Until next time, keep braking for historical markers.