Ach du lieber, every Texan I meet thinks driving to Mexico is like running to the H-E-B for some tacos and a six-pack. Spoiler: it ain’t. And before you accuse me, ja, I’ve done it myself—with my stubborn German brain, a cooler full of Weißbier, and a map printed from the 1990s. Zefix, what a ride. Borders Ain’t Like Oktoberfest Gates In Bavaria, you walk into the Biergarten, maybe say “Grüß Gott,” and boom—beer in your hand. Easy. In Mexico?…