A few weekends ago, Peter and I went down to DelMarVa for crabs. On our way back, we took the slow way through New Jersey. We needed to stop for dinner, so we picked a town at random–Lakewood–where we’d stop.

Downtown Lakewood, it turns out, is entirely Mexican–except for the Hasidic owners of Gelbstein’s Furniture. I finally got an inkling of what it might feel like, as a non-Mexican American, to have your town demographics shift in just a decade.

Personally, I can’t imagine an America without Mexicans–growing up in Albuquerque makes the whole idea of closing the borders seem pretty ridiculous. And I was overjoyed when Mexicans finally showed up in NYC (there weren’t many here when I first arrived in 1998), and even happier when Astoria became a major home base.

In Lakewood, Peter and I parked the car and strolled the length of the main street. Teens chatted on street corners, oompah music blared from the corner store, families shared a giant bottle of Jarritos at the pizza-taco joint, neon glowed from everywhere. It was the liveliest downtown we’d seen all weekend.

Our hearts were warmed–because we’d also been thinking what a dismal place America must seem like to many Mexicans (or most immigrants from friendlier cultures). Everyone drives around in their separate cars, no one talks to their neighbors, there’s nowhere to hang out on a Sunday afternoon–it’s all so lonely. So Lakewood–which I’m betting had a dead downtown before the Mexicans came–was a sociable oasis.

The only non-Mexicans we saw were hanging out in front of the liquor store. Later, when we were sitting at the counter in one of the restaurants (how did we decide which? I think because it was the grubbiest-looking), one of them–a haggard junkie-looking white woman–came in and made a beeline for us and asked us for a dollar. Also, the only English we heard.

After our crazy-tasty cabrito soup and tacos al pastor, and a big cup of horchata, we perused the Mexican baked goods. Honestly, they’re never as good as they look. But you gotta look. And there was a big puffy thing stuck together with jam–resistance was futile. (I also like the MX bakery tray-and-tongs service system–I often buy something just so I can use it.)

When we paid for it, the woman said, “Se llama un beso”–“That’s called a ‘kiss.'”

Lordy, if that’s true, the Mexicans have the biggest love in the world. Check it:

The beso was a sort of dry sweet-corn bun, with a wee bit of jam–initially uninspiring, but strangely addictive. Even so, we couldn’t begin to eat it all.

We left Lakewood happy, full (and fully beso-d), and relieved the junkie woman hadn’t broken into our car. We could’ve done a lot worse for dinner.

But the US couldn’t do better for neighbors.