Sometimes the border is a mirror, sometimes it's an escape, and sometimes it's just the bridge you cross to go home.

All borders entangle those who live on either side, resulting in many a tale. Take, for instance, these seven evocative stories coming out of the Kentucky Club on Avenida Juárez two blocks south of the Rio Grande. It's a touchstone for all who walk by or go in for a drink or to score. The border on which it sits is really no border at all. Like all special watering holes, it is a liminal space, undefined and unclaimed. It welcomes Spanish and English, Mexicans and gringos, poor and rich, gay and straight, drug addicts and drunks, laughter and sadness, and even despair. It's a place of rich history and good drinks and cold beer and a long, polished mahogany bar. Some days it smells like piss. "I'm going home to the other side," folks say. That's a strange statement, but you hear it all the time at the Kentucky Club.

Award: PEN/Faulkner Award - Winner