If you’ve ever driven south on I-95, there’s a moment when you realize you’re getting close to South of the Border.
It starts with one billboard.
Then another.
Then another.
Pretty soon, it feels like Pedro has personally rented every billboard between Richmond and Daytona.
“You never sausage a place!”
“Pedro says: Chili today, hot tamale!”
By the time the giant sombrero peeks above the pine trees, you’ve either been laughing for twenty miles… or wondering what on earth you’ve gotten yourself into.
A couple of weeks ago, I posted on X while I was headed to Savannah and made a joke about “you never sausage a place.” I thought everybody would get it.
They did not.
I couldn’t believe how many people had never heard the slogan. Then I remembered something: there’s not as many native North Carolinians as there used to be. Not everybody grew up driving I-95 with their nose pressed against the window, waiting for Pedro to appear.
But if you did grow up in North Carolina, chances are you’ve got a South of the Border story.
My family sure does.
Mama loved stopping there. We’d stretch our legs, use the restroom, grab a snack, and somehow leave with a bag full of souvenirs nobody needed. It was just part of driving I-95.
I must’ve crossed into South Carolina at that exit a hundred times before I was old enough to realize just how delightfully strange the place really was.
It was never the destination. It was just part of getting there.
Disney World. Charleston. Savannah. Florida.
Wherever you were headed, you were probably stopping at South of the Border on the way down… and probably again on the way home.
Seems like just about everybody I know has those memories. Brandon’s family certainly does. Mama Clark and Papa Clark even honeymooned there back in the ’70s. Somewhere, there’s a picture of two young newlyweds smiling beneath that giant sombrero, and I’d love to see it.
Like a lot of great roadside stories, this one started small.
In 1949, Alan Schafer opened a little beer stand just south of the North Carolina line in Hamer, South Carolina. At the time, plenty of North Carolina counties were still dry, so crossing the state line for a cold beer made good business sense.
Then Interstate 95 came through.
Most people would’ve been satisfied with a busy roadside stop.
Alan Schafer looked at thousands of cars driving by every day and apparently thought, “You know what this place needs? More sombreros.”
Then he kept adding them until nobody could accuse him of lacking commitment.
And somehow… he wasn’t wrong.
Little by little, South of the Border grew into the wonderfully odd place we know today. Restaurants. Motels. Fireworks. Miniature golf. A reptile lagoon. An observation tower shaped like a sombrero. Pedro statues that seem to multiply when you’re not looking. And, of course, those billboards that have been making motorists groan and grin for generations.
Today, the place is still there at Exit 1. Some of it’s showing its age, and honestly, I’d be disappointed if it looked polished.
You can still ride to the top of the Sombrero Tower, wander through the reptile lagoon, buy fireworks that’ll probably make your neighbors nervous, pick up a T-shirt you’ll never wear, and somehow leave carrying saltwater taffy you never planned to buy.
That’s just what happens there.
Is it tacky?
Oh, absolutely.
But in an age when every interstate exit looks exactly like the last one—with the same restaurants, the same gas stations, and the same hotels—there’s something refreshing about a place that’s never tried to blend in.
South of the Border has always been a little loud.
A little goofy.
A little over the top.
And completely comfortable being exactly what it is.
Maybe that’s why it’s still around after all these years.
Not because it’s fancy.
Not because it’s the best food you’ll ever eat.
Not because it’s the nicest place you’ll ever stop.
It’s because you’ll remember it.
Years from now, you won’t remember where you stopped for gas. You probably won’t remember what you had for lunch or which motel you spent the night in.
But you’ll remember the giant sombrero.
You’ll remember Pedro.
And one day, somebody will say, “You never sausage a place,” and you’ll smile before you even realize why.
Because some places aren’t memorable because they’re beautiful or historic or even particularly impressive.
They’re memorable because they’ve been part of the journey for generations.
And for nearly eighty years, South of the Border has been welcoming travelers with terrible puns, giant sombreros, and just enough roadside weirdness to make the trip a little more memorable.
