Points West, Part 3: Land of Enchantment

The next morning is Sunday and they are planning to have a brief service at Black Mesa. My partner and I, having already said our goodbyes the night before, are driving directly to Albuquerque. Originally, I had planned for us to drive further west of Boise City into New Mexico, on a road that would take us past an extinct volcano, Mt. Capulin, that we could drive up and then hike down into the crater. Then, I reasoned, we would drive on to the town of Cimarron, with it's haunted hotel and cowboy past (my great uncle Garnet once bought a horse here, which he named Cimarron, or Cim); then further into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the Enchanted Circle, some parts of which are evocative of the Swiss Alps, particularly the charming village of Red River. We would pass the skiing resorts of Angel Fire and Eagle's Nest, move on to mystical, literary Taos, and then cut down to Santa Fe and, ultimately Albuquerque. However, since time was limited, I had to 86 the whole Enchanted Circle thing, much to my enormous chagrin. Intending to depart Boise City at 7 a.m., we fill up the gas tank at the nearby Love's at 8:30, and drive down the black hole road to Dalhart. I have to say that Dalhart is a very interesting place that still boasts many old buildings, brick streets, and a colorful past that can compete with the best old cowtowns. Passing through Dalhart, my partner is impressed with the sprawling feed lots that spread across acre after acre, as far as the eye can see. Maybe we caught a good wind because the smell isn't as almighty terrible as it could be. We change to Mountain Standard Time when we cross over into New Mexico, and stop for an early lunch at a truck stop in Tucumcari. My partner opts for McDonald's next door, but I get a semi-healthy sandwich at the truck stop's Subway, served with sass and a flirty smile by a cute, friendly waiter who's from the same Texas town as one of my cousins. Later in the afternoon, it seems like we're approaching Albuquerque forever. I haven't been on this stretch of I-40 since the nineties, and I'm surprised how far the urban sprawl has moved east. We're not even close to the mountains and already there are housing developments and chain motels. When at last we cross the mountain and descend into Albuquerque, we are greeted with massive road construction. Continuing on, the traffic gets heavier, but we finally come to our turnoff on Rio Grande Drive.

* * * * * *

My partner's cousin, although born in Cuba, left early and spent most of his adolescence in New Jersey. He was a teacher in a private school and married a gorgeous New York Italian girl, raised two kids, and seemingly had a good life in an upscale, picturesque Connecticut community. Not so good, apparently, as he divorced the wife once both kids were gone, and wound up, at age 50, marrying a twentysomething year old fellow teacher, and moving to Albuquerque. By the time he was 55, the cousin had two children, ages 3 1/2 and 1 1/2. They also have two chihuahuas, one older than dirt, and the other with the personality of a piranha. The cousin's house is a very nice, very large, modern faux-adobe structure, a southwestern style construction with an enclosed courtyard and a fountain that wasn't working when we were there. Behind the main house, accessible from both the house and a little side yard, is a casita, which is where my partner and I stayed, and is as large as our condo in Florida. After settling in, we discover that the children, both daughters, are direct descendants of Damien, the demon-child from "The Omen". Especially the oldest daughter who, in one particularly dramatic display, repeatedly threw her screaming self against the glass patio doors in a fit worthy of a Hollywood remake. These children are not merely bad; they are truly and simply the worst behaved children that I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. I don't condone corporal punishment for children; I have always felt that, by using violence, no matter how benign, to punish a child, you reinforce violence as a viable method of dealing with people whom you believe to be a transgressor of some sort. Having said that, I think that the cousin and his wife need a good spanking, just a good, old-fashioned butt-whupping for delivering these evil spawn into the world, and then letting the spawn run rampant while they, the parents, politely pass the wine and the Caesar salad, and ask me if I could please speak up since the kids are, well, a little out of control. A little? My ass! Wanting to put some distance between ourselves and the brats, my partner and I decide to go to Old Town (a three minute drive) where we see an old church and some other old buildings, and spend way too much time perusing useless objets d'art in overpriced junk shops. Honestly, Old Town is a very charming and interesting area of Albuquerque and well worth visiting, but I was already traumatized when I got there, and not able to focus on much. Founded in the early 1700's, Albuquerque was a government outpost for the conquesting Spanish, and some of the buildings in the area date back from those early times. There's also a nifty natural history museum nearby, although we didn't make it there on this visit.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, dinner is being served. We are sitting in the back yard and, at this hour of the evening, with the sun still high in the sky, the temperature has dropped to seventy degrees. It is pleasant, briefly, until the children finish eating, and all hell breaks loose. I notice that their mother, our hostess, is constantly on the verge of tears, as a streak of hysteria seems to bubble dangerously near her weary, disheveled surface. It strikes me as profoundly strange that these two people, the cousin and his wife, so genuinely nice, so obviously brilliant, so warm and open, can be in any way related to the two monsters wrought from their loins. With the furies upon us, my partner and I excuse ourselves and head for bed.

We depart early the following morning. We're going to take the scenic route to Santa Fe by driving along the Turquoise Trail. After negotiating the early morning traffic, we cross back over the mountain and turn north. Clinging to the hillsides above are neighborhoods of beautiful adobe-style homes, artfully situated among pinon trees and boulders the size of taxicabs. The view from the roadway becomes even more impressive as we pass from the Albuquerque city limits. On both sides of the highway, cars are parked while the occupants stand painting at easels. There is less sprawl out here, as the suburban congestion gives way to breathtaking vistas of high desert and dazzling sunlight. We finally come to a stop in the village of Madrid (pronounced MAD-rid) and not (Muh-DRID), as in the Spanish capital. Madrid is an old coal mining community that once boasted hotels, saloons, and its own minor league baseball team. When the demand for coal lessened, Madrid became a veritable ghost town, idling into a slow, but scenic demise that was halted in the 1970's when it was rediscovered by artists and counterculture types. Although occupying only a mere few blocks along the highway, Madrid is now home to dozens of art galleries, a couple of bed and breakfasts, a tea house, cafes, and a saloon frequented by Harley-driving bikers. Still untamed and pretty much unyuppified, Madrid has an edgier, funkier feel than what is found in the more upscale, sophisticated Santa Fe to the north. When we stop for a quick bite of breakfast, we notice that most of the shops and galleries haven't yet opened, even though it's past ten, and the signs on the doors say that they open at ten. My partner offers that, from the looks of things, maybe they were up all night smoking reefers and hadn't yet managed to get their mornings started. It's that kind of place, and I really liked that quality, where people are independent enough to be on their own time schedule, and not slaves to conformity. My partner ate a muffin and I got a scone from the tiny tea room at a cool, rambling bed and breakfast. Enroute to the car, we stop to chat with a local shopowner who is just unlocking his doors. Speaking with a vaguely European accent he's very helpful when we ask for a cheap place to buy gas. A few miles outside of town, we pull into a gas station masquerading as a western set. The illusion is somewhat shattered when I walk inside and am greeted by a middle-eastern gentleman wearing a turban. Hoping to use the store's bathroom, I finally reach the conclusion that the current occupant, who has barricaded himself inside, is not coming out anytime soon. Either he has some serious issues going on, or he is, quite simply, lying dead across the toilet. I give the attendant with the turban one last look as he shrugs helplessly and I pee-pee dance to the car. With no convenient turnoffs in which to take care of the business at hand, I grimace, and cross my legs tightly, as we continue towards Santa Fe.

The New Mexico State Prison lies just on the outskirts of Santa Fe, on a high stretch of land overlooking a lot of desert. The prison itself looks massive and foreboding, and I remember the unimagineable ultra-violence of the riot that occurred there in the not too distant past: the taking of hostages, and reports of one man having his head taken off by a blow torch, while others were tortured, dismembered, and decapitated. In all, 33 people lost their lives, and another 100 sustained serious injuries. Allegedly, this 1980 riot could have been prevented as the authorities had been previous alerted that something was about to break loose. The fact that they did nothing until the death toll had already started to mount has been the subject of many arguments and much debate.

Beyond the haunting walls of the prison, we cruise into the Santa Fe city limits. We pass blocks and blocks of chain stores--Starbucks, Borders, Pier One, Burger King, Holiday Inn Express, all the usual suspects--before I spot familiar landmarks. It's been fifteen years since I've been to Santa Fe, and in the interim, it has experienced its own urban sprawl. By the time we reach the downtown area, I remind my partner that my kidneys are on overload and that we need to be stopping soon. We park in the city parking lot behind one of Santa Fe's many old churches. I duck into a nearby business and use the bathroom as the burden of the morning's Coca-Cola is relieved from my bladder.

Back out in the sunshine, I gaze at the old plaza, the Palace of the Governors, and the impressive St. Francis Cathedral. Santa Fe is one of the oldest cities in the United States. Although there were organized communities in the area as far back as 1000 A.D., Santa Fe was officially founded in 1610 by Don Pedro de Peralta, the third governor of Nuevo Mexico. Santa Fe served as the capital of Nuevo Mexico, as well as the provincial seat of New Spain. There are several impressive buildings in the area that date back to colonial times, and at least one from the Pre-Columbian settlement (it's now a pizza restaurant!).

Our first stop is St. Francis Cathedral, a circa 1880 church built, not from the usual adobe, but from stone that was loaded in from a quarry near Lamy. A quietly imposing building, the cathedral occupies a block facing the square. Inside, renovations are underway, so our movements (as well as our time there) are limited. Outside the cathedral, there is a long, narrow park where a group of children picnic with a teacher.

Across the street, at the low, rambling, centuries-old Palace of the Governors, dozens of local Native Americans display their wares to tourists in the shaded comfort of the long porch. Propped up on colorful blankets are the ubiquitous turquoise jewelry, beaded earrings and necklaces, silver items, belts, paintings, sketches, pottery--it's a cornucopia of tchotchkes, kitsch, and genuine artistry. I find nothing that I can't live without, although I am momentarily tempted by the kinky looking, black leather wrist snaps setting incongruously amongst the other merchandise.

Further from the plaza, we pass through a few more shops and galleries, and then stop in at the famous La Fonda Hotel. Already old when Fred Harvey, of "Harvey Girls" fame (check out the Judy Garland movie if you don't know what I'm talking about) added a second floor to the property, the La Fonda has, through the years, played host to presidents, foreign dignitaries, and movie stars. Once "the place to stay" in Santa Fe, it now faces stiff competition from other newer, upscale properties, like the Inn of the Anasazi, the Inn at Loretto, and, a little farther afield, the colorful Bishop's Lodge. However, we're not checking into the La Fonda today. My partner's cousin has recommended two restaurants for lunch, and I ask the gift shop manager if he can give me directions. A kindred spirit--Santa Fe is full of my kind--the manager tells me how to reach the Coyote Cafe, a short block and a half away. Once there, we opt for lunching on the rooftop, enjoying the sunshine and startling blue sky. It's also a perfect place to survey the street scene below and check out any points of interest that we may have missed. The cafe is crowded and bustling, but the service is good, as is the food, which appears with surprising swiftness. I put down an enormous soft taco of fish and white sauce, and my partner devours a generous looking pork dish. Everything comes with huge amounts of rice and black beans, and chips with three kinds of salsa. During the feast, my partner's cell phone keeps ringing. We have work being done in the master bathroom back home, and they are calling with hourly updates and bad news.

After lunch, we venture over to Canyon Road, a gently sloping street that once led to the city's water supply. Now, Canyon Road is home to scores of expensive galleries, with a few restaurants and tea rooms sandwiched in between. This is where the serious art collectors come to purchase paintings and scultures. I know this because I find an absolutely magnificent (and very large) painting that I think will look just fine in our living room; with a ceiling that gradually slopes to a height of close to 15 feet, I feel that the painting is an obvious fit, and am willing to shell out a couple of hundred bucks should the need arise. Well, that just goes to show you how much I know about art. The price is actually on the painting, albeit on a tiny tag, easily missed, located at the very bottom, right-hand corner. The gallery's proprietor--another kindred spirit--is nearly called into action to help lift me off the floor after I read the that the price is$85,000.00! That's eighty-five thousand dollars! With as much dignity as I can summon, I inform him that I will check back later, and then hasten from the premises. This is one of the first galleries we stop in, and I cop a serious clue as to what to expect from the others. It goes without saying that we will not be purchasing a lot of art on this leg of the journey.

A little further up the road, we duck into a charming little cottage for herbal tea and homemade cookies. While here, my partner is seized with a sudden case of intestinal distress, prompting his immediate search for the restroom; in the meantime, I am pursued by a wasp that chases me outside into the courtyard. Afterwards, we proceed to a garden full of rock fountains, where we discuss sculpting with an exquisitely pale, fiftyish goth girl who exudes an otherworldly Bride of Dracula vibe. When, finally, we are galleried out, we hike back to the Journey and drive out towards I-25, the expressway that will carry us back to Albuquerque, and to the lair of the hellspawn. On the way out of town, it comes to our attention that we still need to pick up some souvenirs for a few lucky recipients so we pull into the parking lot of a mammoth trinket warehouse that sort of resembles a southwest-style Big Lots. There are rows and rows of every sort of knicknack imaginable, most of which can be had for under $10! This is more like it! Finally, satisfied with the Land of Enchantment coffee mugs and the allegedly size small tee shirt that would comfortably ensconce a Mini Cooper, we head down the road for our last night in New Mexico.

In the casita, I pack everything except what I'll need to get ready for our early departure the following morning. I'd like to get on the highway by 7 a.m. so we can be back at my parent's house by 2. Of course, my partner and I both know that we have a better chance of scaling Mt. Everest on roller skates, but I am ever-hopeful. The shrieking has been underway in the main house ever since we returned from Santa Fe, and, putting on our best faces, we enter into a scene of utter chaos. The cousin's wife, red-faced and bleary-eyed, is clutching the 1 1/2 year old to her bosom and chasing the other hellion, threatening to send her to her room so that she can't interface with us on our last night in town. Oh, please let it be! The cousin, himself, smiles Stepford-like, and looks beyond the unfolding drama, burying himself in the newspaper that he's probably read five times since its arrival that morning. He suggests that we go to dinner at a nearby restaurant, and that his wife remain home with the girls, since they're all "a little cranky". Sounds good to me. However, the wife has other ideas, and she's not about to be left behind in the seventh circle of hell. She orders the eldest child to go put on something appropriate, and the child dons an outfit that might have looked fetching on Madonna circa 1983. When her mother tells her that the ensemble is not going to work, the kid doubles over and begins to scream like a banshee. Inexplicably, the mother apologizes and asks her to please put on something pretty. The daughter reappears in a unit that is even less attractive than the previous one. The parents praise her for her taste and style, and we load into the cars and head for the restaurant.

The Flying Star Cafe is a few short blocks from the house, and is located in a cool, little strip mall that has a nice size book store. A slave to good book stores, I am forcefully dragged past its entrance as we proceed to the restaurant. Once inside, both children make an immediate beeline for the kitchen, disappearing amidst a clatter of pots, and the collective gasps of cooks and servers. Their father races into the kitchen, steering both girls back into the serving area. Once seated on the outside patio, we all enjoy a brief period of relative calm. The Flying Star has a varied and enormous menu so it takes us awhile to make up our minds. I wind up with a sandwich made from marinated and grilled crimini mushrooms, avocado, tomatoes, and caramelized onions on a sourdough roll. I know this because I still have the menu. It is delicious and much too filling to permit my indulging in one of the great looking desserts that are being served at a nearby table. The hellion, on the other hand, demands dessert, so her mother obediently orders some concoction of chocolate and cake and ice cream and whipped cream, and I don't know what else, and I salivate as the evil slurps it down. Once we are enroute to the car, the riotous carrying-on begins in earnest, as each child vehemently protests her insertion into a car seat. My partner and I climb into the Journey and ponder which parent will be the long-term survivor of the ongoing melee. At first glance, one would assume that the father, an athletic 55 (who doesn't look a day over 45) would still be the first to buy the farm, simply by virtue of his age. However, the poor mother--shut away with those daughters, day in and day out, sleepless, haggard, ever on the verge of sobbing hysteria--doesn't appear to be a good candidate for longevity, at least not outside of a mental health facility. When we arrive back at the house, we slip through the little side yard and lock outselves securely in the casita.

I am awakened the following morning by more than the usual din of disorderliness coming from the main house. The cousin's wife screams the name of the eldest child, and then apologizes for screaming. Doors slam, and soon there is a knock on our door. Dressing quickly, I open the door to reveal the red, tear-streaked face of a woman in full mental collapse. Clasping the 1 1/2 year old to her breasts, she clutches the other daughter in a headlock. "The dogs are gone!" she moans.

"What?"

"I let them out in the little side yard this morning, like I always do, and apparently the gate wasn't shut last night, and they got out!" She gives me an accusatory look as the words bubble from her lips.

Uh-oh. I don't remember checking whether or not the gate latched securely when we came in last night and I was the last one through. Shit.

The hysterical woman informs me that her husband is already scouring the neighborhood on his bicycle in an effort to find the dogs, and that she and the girls are taking the car to look. "If we're not back before you go, it was nice seeing you," she snarls, clearly inferring that we will be eternally cursed by the fates if we even think of departing before those dogs are found.

With the search branching out across the neighborhood, my partner and I set out on foot, hoping that we might see something that the others have missed. Of utmost concern to me is the fact that our host's house is located right next to a very busy street--Rio Grande--which merits its own exit off nearby I-40. I squint to see if there are squashed remnants of chihuahua splattered in the road. Seeing nothing, I heave a sigh of relief, and we turn a corner and stroll past a construction sight. Suddenly, I see movement as two chihuahua sized creatures scurry along a fence row parallel to us. My excitement turns to disgust when I determine that they are huge rats, fully capable, I fear, of devouring the hapless dogs. Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. I tell my partner that we'll never get out of Albuquerque now, that we'll be planning (and paying for) a funeral (possibly our own) if those dogs aren't found alive and well. We run across the cousin, who is still frantically roaming the sidestreets on his bicycle. My partner makes it clear that he wasn't the last one to pass through the gate last night (and is thus, blameless), and they both look at me as I apologize profusely. The cousin smiles the Stepford smile and tells me that it wasn't done on purpose, but his words are of little comfort, especially when the wife whirls by in her car, and I catch a glimpse of her broken down face. We go our separate ways again, and I start to sweat, realizing that this is not looking like it's going to turn out well for anyone. Finally, as my partner and I start back towards the casita, the cousin rides up on his bicycle, the dogs tucked securely in his arms. I nearly faint from relief, as does the wife who shows up and loads the dogs into the car with the monsters. When we get back to the house, there is much laughter as our hosts tell me that you have to slam the gate to make sure that the latch catches, a minor fact that they failed to mention upon our arrival. They then relate other times when the dogs ran away, the ensuing hysteria, the relief and feeling of giddy silliness when the dogs were found, and on and on. I absolutely want nothing more out of life than to get the fuck away from there as quickly as possible.

At 9:30 a.m., the cousin stands with his wife and children in their driveway to see us off. Clutching one child to her bosom while headlocking the other, the wife issues a pained smile and tells us it was lovely having us and to come back soon. As we pull out onto Rio Grande Boulevard, I glance back and see a perfect family tableaux--handsome, professorial husband, athletic, young wife, and two beautiful, little daughters standing before a well-appointed, well-maintained home--and I feel an urgency to escape, as if the hounds of hell are about to be loosed upon me. We drive east on I-40 and navigate morning traffic until we cross the mountains once again, and the sprawl of Albuquerque gradually disappears behind us.