Because something in the landscape we've traveled calls for recognition, I'm writing in the windy sunshine of our last day at Hidden Valley Ranch RV Park in Deming, NM, about Santa Rosa, and our drive to Albuquerque.
There we were preoccupied with navigating a city full of traffic to be with family. There, the landscape of the mesa predominated—the beautifully laden table. At Mary's and Frank's; at the best Asian restaurant I've ever experienced; at the far-away Flying Star for Saturday breakfast where they served homemade buttery croissants, bagels, fresh fruit, homemade non-Hostess snowballs(!), tiramisu cake, the forbidden coffees.
We left Tucumcari for Albuquerque on Wednesday morning in rain that became snow. We pulled off after about forty minutes at Santa Rosa and found a lovely and almost-deserted RV park. As we went through the day, and afternoon became blue evening, the snow continued to fall quietly. When I talked with my brother in Albuquerque, he—a seasoned driver on these roads—said we were wise to stop. We ate lunch, and for the second day I indulged in Southwestern Mexican food. I was surprised to find that the enchilada's green chili sauce I chose over the red was actually a potato, pork, green chili stew.
At this in-the-family-for-over-25-years cafe on Route 66, I talked to the Sheriff who said that the highway had been closed ahead where my brother said we would be most likely to run into trouble. The sheriff had no idea how long the storm might go on, or when the road would re-open. That night we were muffled in snow, and I felt more than content to rest and enjoy it. We were flexible; my family in Albuquerque was too. My brother told me that on one of his many trips coming back home from Tulsa to Albuquerque, I-40 was closed and he was forced to stay in the armory in Santa Rosa for two-and-a-half days. He said families who were strangers to each other were sharing motel rooms there. The sheriff said that often the road closed, and there would be a scramble for lodging in town. We were safe, unscrambled, and looking forward to the morning, when we might leave.
We hooked up and drove off in slush the next morning, Thursday, with a slice of sun laid across the hills before us. Despite one entrance onto I-40 being closed to right a UPS tandem semi, we found another one open and headed onto the highway. We traveled a road that was clear and wet, slushy tinted with red sand, overcast, in sunshine, and through a section of heavy fog. Everywhere were traces of yesterday's trouble on the highway. Now, we were in bright sunlight. On the median, a banged-up semi and trailer with its bright cargo spilled onto the snow lay waiting to be removed. To my right, on the snow beyond the shoulder, I saw a car perpendicular to the road with a driver inside. Soon, I saw a truck on the right, next to a fence on the strip beyond the shoulder. It faced the highway, and two men were standing next to it, smiling—sheepishly? bemused? in light shock? There was one more car ahead in a similar position, but empty.
We climbed, then descended into Albuquerque and navigated our way to the RV park in town where we lived briefly with the permanent motor home dwellers there. While Andre rested, I crossed the road and had a third day of Mexican food, then crossed again later to procure hamburgers for him.
I located the new spotless laundromat nearby, and found myself surrounded by mostly Spanish-speaking customers, wondering about the translation of one word in a sign about the washing machines. That experience increased my awareness of our slow transition into an aspect of American culture that for decades has been especially strong and vibrant in the Southwest.
We agreed to have dinner at Frank's and Mary's on Friday night, and celebrated our arrival and the warmer, snowless city with an early bedtime.
There we were preoccupied with navigating a city full of traffic to be with family. There, the landscape of the mesa predominated—the beautifully laden table. At Mary's and Frank's; at the best Asian restaurant I've ever experienced; at the far-away Flying Star for Saturday breakfast where they served homemade buttery croissants, bagels, fresh fruit, homemade non-Hostess snowballs(!), tiramisu cake, the forbidden coffees.
We left Tucumcari for Albuquerque on Wednesday morning in rain that became snow. We pulled off after about forty minutes at Santa Rosa and found a lovely and almost-deserted RV park. As we went through the day, and afternoon became blue evening, the snow continued to fall quietly. When I talked with my brother in Albuquerque, he—a seasoned driver on these roads—said we were wise to stop. We ate lunch, and for the second day I indulged in Southwestern Mexican food. I was surprised to find that the enchilada's green chili sauce I chose over the red was actually a potato, pork, green chili stew.
At this in-the-family-for-over-25-years cafe on Route 66, I talked to the Sheriff who said that the highway had been closed ahead where my brother said we would be most likely to run into trouble. The sheriff had no idea how long the storm might go on, or when the road would re-open. That night we were muffled in snow, and I felt more than content to rest and enjoy it. We were flexible; my family in Albuquerque was too. My brother told me that on one of his many trips coming back home from Tulsa to Albuquerque, I-40 was closed and he was forced to stay in the armory in Santa Rosa for two-and-a-half days. He said families who were strangers to each other were sharing motel rooms there. The sheriff said that often the road closed, and there would be a scramble for lodging in town. We were safe, unscrambled, and looking forward to the morning, when we might leave.
We hooked up and drove off in slush the next morning, Thursday, with a slice of sun laid across the hills before us. Despite one entrance onto I-40 being closed to right a UPS tandem semi, we found another one open and headed onto the highway. We traveled a road that was clear and wet, slushy tinted with red sand, overcast, in sunshine, and through a section of heavy fog. Everywhere were traces of yesterday's trouble on the highway. Now, we were in bright sunlight. On the median, a banged-up semi and trailer with its bright cargo spilled onto the snow lay waiting to be removed. To my right, on the snow beyond the shoulder, I saw a car perpendicular to the road with a driver inside. Soon, I saw a truck on the right, next to a fence on the strip beyond the shoulder. It faced the highway, and two men were standing next to it, smiling—sheepishly? bemused? in light shock? There was one more car ahead in a similar position, but empty.
We climbed, then descended into Albuquerque and navigated our way to the RV park in town where we lived briefly with the permanent motor home dwellers there. While Andre rested, I crossed the road and had a third day of Mexican food, then crossed again later to procure hamburgers for him.
I located the new spotless laundromat nearby, and found myself surrounded by mostly Spanish-speaking customers, wondering about the translation of one word in a sign about the washing machines. That experience increased my awareness of our slow transition into an aspect of American culture that for decades has been especially strong and vibrant in the Southwest.
We agreed to have dinner at Frank's and Mary's on Friday night, and celebrated our arrival and the warmer, snowless city with an early bedtime.
posted by Susan at 4:20 PM
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