albuquerque

Albuquerque
the rankings: A-6; B-7; C-9; D-8; E-9
why I was there: SW TX ACA/PCA conference
hours spent there: 55ish in February 2010

award: Cecilia's is the only thing that boosted Albuquerque from a 3 on food because everything else I had was mediocre except for the coffee which was terrible. But the sopaipilla burger I ordered on the "what the hell is that? guess I'll find out" grounds was mm-mm-good. Hamburger patty wrapped in a tortilla with lettuce, chopped onion, and, most importantly, red chili sauce that was really and truly spicy, that left my lips with the tingly slightly-swollen feeling you get from spicy food or prolonged making out. Win.



discussion:
Honestly, Albuquerque didn't do much for me. Weird Al to the contrary, it's just not that cool. I know multiple people who were there and every one of them swore that it was awesome, they'd move there, it rocks.

Clearly, we visited different versions of this city, cause for me, the best thing about Albuquerque was getting out of it and going for a drive down Route 66. Now, Route 66? If I were Keanu Reeves, I'd totally bust out a "whoa…" about Route 66, because I loved it.

Used-to-be-towns give way to can't-believe-people-still-live-here-hovels shakily standing their ground next to giant-effin'-casinos. Still so much highway without any of those. Red rocks and sandstone cliffs and sharp curves and tumbleweed. Buildings crumble back into the pinky-red earth that was ripped open to create them, testaments to what the American spirit and progress and ingenuity can do—and who and what they leave behind—as the glare of sunlight both whiter and warmer than it is anywhere else bears silent witness to it all.

In the middle of nowhere, on my way to Acoma Pueblo, the Sky City, I jerked the wheel of my Kia Soul (funny name for a car that didn't have any) to the left and stopped in one of those used-to-be-towns because a dog barked at the dust my Soul kicked up as I drove past. I got out of the car thinking I would take some pictures, but then without realizing I was going to, I opened the gate with a sign on it that said "come in, stranger!" One of the dogs was washing my face with his tongue while the other wriggled ecstatically against my boots when a woman said, "Don't get visitors out here much."

She showed me the property, told me about the neighbors (I'd thought the rusted-out trailers across the way were abandoned, but she only wished they were), walked me through her restoration of a stucco-walled cabin about eighty years older than my own historic house, and asked me about contemporary feminist theory. We were so busy talking—we talked for almost two hours—I didn't take any pictures.

Sometimes I wonder if it really happened.