Greetings from the Golden State!

Sometimes a Great Notion… The plan was simple: Complete the final segment of our grand journey with a flourish. We’d do this by 1) relishing the sights on site – no settling for a passive “windshield view” of the desert landscape, and 2) taking full advantage of any (and all!) historical sights or curiosities that tempted us along the byways and in the towns. To honor the sense of adventure that TJ brought to this quest for roadside enlightenment, we would meet the journey with the same depth of gusto that launched and fueled us through seven states. Somehow, though… it wasn’t surprising that with so many miles behind us, and only a few remaining ahead, we finally hit the wall. Or, to put it another way – the fuel gauge tracking our enthusiasm was beginning to run on empty. Funny how it didn’t matter if TJ or Seagram was in the driver’s seat – we managed to find abundant enthusiasm in each day on the road… even when we found ourselves implementing Plan B first thing! Over those final miles, though, our vigor and moxie devolved into a count-down of the hours and days until we reached what became known as the finish line. The often lengthy stretches of highway and tight confines of space (the car, the suitcase, the shoebox economy accommodations…) began to loose their appeal and romance about the time we approached the California border. At first I thought I was the one loosing steam – after all Seagram was new to the mission. But somehow the driver’s seat imbued him with “baggage” of having been on the road throughout. Somehow he felt the toll of the distances and the days as keenly as I did. Indeed, State # 8 would be surprising in more ways than one…

Needling Each Other. More and more Seagram and I found that we’d jokingly lapse into the routine exclamation of every child’s favorite road trip query: “Are we there yet?” Thankfully, we were adult enough to take a deep breath, take stock and admit that yes, we were closer and closer at each of these verbal outbursts. Evidence of such progress came after crossing into California – a detour into Needles. A well-known way station to generations of railroad travelers and motorists, Needles originally flourished through the presence of the Santa Fe Railroad. Acknowledging it surroundings, the town’s name was inspired by the sharp, spiky peaks of nearby mountain ranges. It seems that almost everyone on road trip to (or from) the coast made a stop there, or knows someone who has. Our list of sites to explore was generous, and one that we thought would provide context for the area’s history. Beginning with the site of the Old Trails Inn (formerly Palms Motel), we proceeded on to the vacant, but still grand and handsome train depot named for Padre Francisco Garces – thought to have first made contact with the native Mojave people in the 1770s. We were pleased to hear that plans are afoot to restore El Garces – both the depot and Harvey House in the center of town. Seagram’s interest in the story of Harvey Houses and Hotels deepened as we continued to see them, and he found it hard to get away even when we needed to be moving on down the road. The flood of spirits, memories and history that he sensed in the landmarks was palpable. On to the stalwart Jedro’s Wagon Wheel Restaurant for a substantial early lunch stop – our taste for tuna melts and omelets was totally sated. Happily we caught sight of the Historic Needles Theater as we headed back to the highway.

I Can See for Miles and Miles… Just after our meal, Seagram complained of feeling tired and achy – so much so that curled up in the backseat (with the height of his frame, stretching out was not an option!)… and I took over at the wheel). We worked the switcheroo just before leaving Needles proper. An adjacent sign reminded me that we had 150 odd miles of the Mojave Desert ahead (and no services for the Route 66 stretch; limited services for the interstate traveler…) This alert makes an impression when you’re driving a high maintenance vintage car…how I longed for my trusty Toyota. Even so, I quickly checked all the dash gauges, and steeled myself with the ring of Seagram’s proclamation that all belts, fluids and parts looked “factory” new. What could I do but put the pedal to the metal, face the expansive Mohave, and say to myself with a fearless grin “bring it on”… Instead of making the copious stops we’d planned for, I focused on experiencing the inland ocean of the desert… all the while keeping an eye on Seagram’s dead-to-the-world backseat slumber. While taking in the vastness of the Mojave’s arid expanses, I also managed to get a 65 mph (or so…) glimpse of the roadway’s handful of ghost towns. Like so many of the towns we’ve driven through or passed by over the weeks, these map points were all but forgotten when I-40 became the motorway of choice. From behind the windshield my zesty (but legal) speed, I waved at and wondered about: Goffs, Fenner, Chambless (to the west is a substantial remnant of the Road Runner’s Retreat sign), Amboy (another great sign relic – this time for Roy’s Motel and Café, which in its time also included a gas station), Ludlow, Bagdad, Newberry Springs (the Bagdad Café site actually used in the movie, plus an old friend – a Whiting Brothers gas station sign), and Daggett.

Dreaming the Days Away. In Barstow it was obvious that we would be off the road for a good part of the week. After checking in to the motel, I tried to reason with Seagram about getting to an urgent care center. In spite of his ashen face and blood-shot eyes, he could summon enough bombast and ego to insist that I track some “medicinals” at the local drug of discount store. With the bottles and boxes in hand, he headed to his room and proceeded to sleep for 48 hours straight. When I wasn’t sitting with, or seeing to, him (he never did explain much about his affliction, but diligently woke up to dose his self-prescribed rotation of over-the-counter syrups and tablets…), suddenly I had time to roam about town. Like so many of the burgs and cities we’ve encountered, Barstow owes its progress to the arrival of the Santa Fe Railroad. The municipality is even named for the a former president of the line, William Barstow Strong. The old Harvey House had been saved from demolition, and now the Fred Harvey Casa del Desierto housed the Amtrak and Greyhound stations, plus the Mother Road Route 66 Museum and Western America Railroad Museum. It was a delight to take in oddments, memorabilia and curio collections recalling the halcyon days of the highway and the west. Seeing all the minutia put me in mind of the countless stops and attractions TJ and I had dutifully investigated as we soldiered on along the Mother Road. After a third day or rest (in a waking state, with plenty of TV and two gentle forays back into solid food), Seagram had suddenly reconstituted into his fearless and hungry-for-adventure self. Fortunately we were able to work in a few of Barstow’s other civic charms – the usual tour of historic buildings and sign relics, plus the Mojave River Museum and even the Desert Discovery Center (exhibits and trails… Seagram was thrilled to stretch his legs!).

By the time we approached Victorville, Seagram was back behind the wheel, and ready for our next round of road food. Victorville originally prospered through the presence of the railroad and agriculture. As promised by an Internet guide, the town maintains its “vintage feel” even as it continues to be fast-growing. Cement manufacturing remains center of economy, and the small city’s a jumping off point to outdoor recreation areas. We found the California Route 66 Museum housed in the old Red Rooster Café, and were enlivened by the New Corral Motel’s neon sign (a “rearing horse”). When we reached Cajon Pass, and saw the Cajon Summit Inn’s large sign flashing in neon, we knew that we were nearing Los Angeles in earnest.

Promises to Keep. Even though Seagram had begun to experience what I refer to as “Sunday night syndrome” (e.g. feeling anxious at returning to one’s school or work routine after the weekend), he insisted that we stop for dinner in Rancho Cucamonga. He has a constant yen for old school steak houses – fine dining destination spots for which people drive miles out of their way. Faced with a handful of options, we finally opted for dinner at the Magic Lamp Steak House. Welcomed by a large yellow neon sign (a magic lamp, of course), that seemed to float in the dimness of dusk, we toasted TJ, the Mustang, each other, and the mystery of wanderlust as we tucked into sumptuous courses of celebratory fare. We could both all but smell the salty sea air of the Pacific as we settled the bill and headed out to find lodging for our last night on the road.

The last day of our trip was a blur. Stopping for breakfast before starting our final drive, I told Seagram that I’d been unsuccessful in trying to reach TJ. Neither phone nor texting nor email did the trick. Facebook seemed a bit far-fetched at this point in the game. I knew that he was out of pocket, and traveling to points beyond, but somehow his absence weighed on me. It seemed bittersweet – no, in all honesty sad and lonely – that TJ wouldn’t see the end to his vision quest. His departure certainly launched a level of seeking in Seagram that he continued to meditate upon. But with practicalities suddenly more of a concern, we were all but in LA, and dare I say left to minister to a finicky vehicle with no instructions on how to proceed. None of that seemed important or imminent when we parted ways in Albuquerque. To his credit, Seagram was very cool about my melancholy and worry. As we continued on through suburb after suburb, it all ran together in front of me – a Jackson Pollock concoction of strip malls, fast food restaurants, big box stores, palm trees, houses, schools, malls – streets and cars. We stopped in Monrovia to grab a glimpse of the Aztec Hotel’s remarkable temple-like exterior, and savor some much-needed coffee. While waiting for our orders to arrive, Seagram excused himself to make a phone call – likely letting some of his key “LA People” know that he was again on the scene. After we paid and returned to the car, Seagram announced that we would press on to Santa Monica – “all other business could wait!” It was an unexpected change of heart and logistics – Plan A had us making various stops around the city, and getting to the Pier for sunset. OK… Whatever… Let’s do this thing.

I Love LA. Somehow I felt that I knew Southern California better than I really did. With so many years of seeing LA and its environs through the backdrops of innumerable TV shows and movies, it seemed as though I’d traversed the area time and again. But, nothing on a screen compares to the real-time motion, structure or choreography of this high energy city. Seagram deftly navigated the loops, the exchanges and the expressways as though he drove them every day. I had woefully underestimated his traffic savvy – but also got the vibe that he would be glad to throw the gear shift into park, and call his car service when we were at the finish line. Lulled into a comfortable ease as we proceeded through Santa Monica’s gracious neighborhoods and inviting streetscapes, I felt a spark of energy as Seagram make the final turn– and we saw the Pacific ahead. We looked at each other with smiles of relief and accomplishment– and talked about a ride on the famed Ferris Wheel at the Pier.

As we expected, parking was dear. Seagram dropped me off at the Pier’s entrance, and set out to find parking space. Walking down the boardwalk, I wondered if we could buy a bottle of champagne nearby. Somehow that celebratory element was lost in the fits and starts of the week. Nearing the water, I noticed a bag next to the railing, complete with fluted glasses and a frosted pink cork cover peaking out. Props to people with a plan, I thought. At the end of the Pier, I still saw no sign of Seagram… and had visions of him circling endlessly for a space. Focusing on the beauty and repetition of the tide, the sweet mist disappeared on my face, I felt a sense of completion and peace at what the three of us had done. Pioneers, trail hands and explorers in our own small and modern way. The rhythm of approaching steps contained my revelry–surely those were Seagram’s Luccheses traversing their final stage of the trip. As the steps froze, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and spun around to ask Seagram if the car was still in Santa Monica. Replying with a jokingly jaded “Well I surely hope so..”, TJ set down the bag of flutes and champagne, steadied himself on the rail, and said in a halting voice, “I wouldn’t have missed this moment for the world” As we began to catch up and fill in some blanks, Seagram appeared with an impish grin on his face. “Did I miss the Hollywood kiss?” he quizzed. In unison, TJ and I quipped “I’ll never tell…” After finding a bistro where we could enjoy tapas (and discretely, our bubbly), I learned that Seagram had tracked down TJ (the LA People, it turns out, are quite the talented lot), and arranged for our Hollywood ending. When we’d shared the better road stories, and had our fill of celebration, Seagram nabbed his gear and headed out to meet his writing partner. They had a meeting lined up for a new project in Santa Fe of all places! Seagram vowed to keep in touch, and said he was thinking about returning to the Southwest. But for now, international datelines called. TJ gave me a knowing look, and we both whispered in a conspiratorial and joyful tone: FERRIS WHEEL!

As we rocked and circled around, seeing the lights come up, and watching the sunset, TJ reported that the international deal he was set to work on fell through, and that the company he was anchoring was folding. Family feud among the owners, unpaid bills, lawyers circling… something that was all to common to his California years. While thinking of something wise and supportive to say, TJ’s face became very calm. “Hey…no need to say anything. It’s all good. Once I get packed up here, I’m going to do a solo roam in the Mustang… and then think I’ll head back to New Mexico. I can work and paint anywhere, and maybe Seagram and I can cook up a tasty project… so to speak”. So, as do all journeys, this one ended where it began. The knowledge and experience we gain changes us, but it also brings us back to ourselves. Call it closure, or coming full circle, that night on the Santa Monica Pier found us right where we needed to be. And when TJ asked if I’d like to drive as far as Albuquerque with him when he was ready to roll, how could I resist such a homecoming? Luckily I had just enough leave left to ride shotgun one more time, be the second, and savor the road that inevitably brings us all home.

Greetings from the Grand Canyon State!

New Horizons. This afternoon finds us in Kingman, where we’re catching our proverbial breath, and making final preparations for the coastal push. I’m taking a break from sorting out the accumulated oddments that have joined the journey since it’s beginning in Chicago (e.g. postcards, magnets, caps, pens, coasters, stickers, pins…) Most of the items were of-the-moment purchases by TJ – somewhere between here and the Santa Monica Pier we’ll get them boxed and delivered to his loft. He’s incommunicado just now – and while not unusual, he’s likely overseas and embroiled in corporate and creative work. This collection of curios leaves me with the thought that our great adventure has become somewhat of a relay race. Seagram and I are running the last leg, “taking it home”. Just now my dutiful friend and relay runner is at large. His plan was to stop in at the local branch of the Mojave County Library to catch up on work (writing, schedules, research), and then see to the resolution of a few minor car issues. (Likely he’ll find his way to one of the local Starbucks, if history does indeed repeat itself!) When we set out from Albuquerque, I was concerned that Seagram’s level of enthusiasm might not be sustained for the fullness of our 640+ mile drive. However, for someone who’s spent the last 10 years exploring exotic locales worldwide – and has become accustomed to car services and subways when he’s home – he’s taken nicely to the both the Mustang and the more mundane aspects of our daily mileage. He admitted sotto voce that the “cool factor” the car imparted to him was “priceless”.

As we drove from Gallup into eastern Arizona, an olio of trading posts and “travel centers” of various vintages and states of repair (or disrepair?) met us. At first we were flush with amusement and nostalgia to encounter these outposts. But upon leaving the red rock bluffs beyond the state line, we entered into a more desolate landscape and a distinctly somber state of mind. It was clear that the trip had become somewhat of a vision quest for Seagram. He commented with regularity how needed this diversion was – what serendipity that have met up at this particular time – and that he’d been living fast and hard, but to what end? With poignancy he revealed that “I spent most of my young life cultivating the hipster burn-out persona, but it’s feeling like the real deal now – not just youthful affectation fueled by endlessly amping The Ramones and lighting up Camels…” That said, Seagram observed that he viewed the car as our conveyance, rather than our focus. It was energizing for him to step outside of his usual world of deadlines, production logistics and schedules – to just step on the gas, see where the road would take us.

“Runnin’ Down the Road…” Our first Arizona meander was Petrified Forest National Park, with an orientation stop at the Painted Desert Visitors Center. We were both impressed that the surrounding landscape was home to one of the “world’s largest concentrations of petrified wood, historic structures” and “archaeological sites”. Seagram was particularly intrigued by the park’s artists in residence program, and loved the idea of geocaching among the rock formations and petrified wood findings. We followed the Park’s list of suggested activities for a one-hour visit, which afforded us a 28-mile drive throughout the site, a stop at Kachina Point, a bit of exploring down Blue Mesa Road, and a stop at Rainbow Forest Museum. We added in Painted Desert Inn (today a museum and bookstore only), where Harvey Girls served diners and travelers when the Fred Harvey Company took over management of the Inn. As it turned out, one of Seagram’s favorite (and more adventurous) aunts was a Harvey Girl. As we left the park, factoids tumbled out rapidly from Seagram. Quoting from a guide, he asked if I knew that “Petrified Forest National Park is almost solid quartz, weighing in at 168 pounds per cubic foot?” He further read that “it's so hard, you can only cut it with a diamond tipped saw!” Petrified wood, fossils, petroglyphs, wildlife – the park is indeed quite an assemblage natural elements.

In need of food and gasoline after our Petrified Forest excursion, we next exited the highway at Holbrook. Unable to resist the temptation of the central business district and its main street, we followed an historic walk that began at the Navajo County Courthouse. Holbrook’s twist on the usual array of historical oddments – old signs, buildings, tourist sites – added nicely to our ongoing inventory of roadside impressions. Interestingly, the Little Colorado River runs past Holbrook on its way to join the Colorado River at the Grand Canyon.

Before speeding on full bore to Flagstaff, we stopped for the night at Winslow – and carved out the better part of the next day to discover it’s hidden charms. First on our list was a visit to the La Posada – formerly a Fred Harvey Hotel. Built in 1929 for ATSF railroad and designed by Mary Colter, we admired the impressive restoration that’s underway. A must see point of interest was the “Standin’ on the Corner” Park and Mural, located at 2nd & Campbell. Of course, we burst into song – remembering what we could of the Eagles hit song commemorated by the site. While downtown, we also walked the 1st Street Pathway from the Hubbell Trading Post (said to soon be new visitor center) and back to La Posada Hotel – and unexpectedly enjoyable 6-block long landscaped pathway. We were sure not to miss the Peter Toth monument– a hand-carved totem pole– and also dropped in on the Old Trails Historical Museum. Re-purposed from an older bank building in the business district, we saw all manner of local, cultural, Native American and Route 66 artifacts. Seagram insisted that we finished our time in Winslow by driving out to McHood Park (5 miles south of Winslow), and have lunch at in the deep rock canyon area of Clear Creek.

Flagged Down by Flagstaff. We ended up taking a pass on Meteor Crater, but on our approach to Flagstaff found the San Francisco Peaks to be other-worldly in their subtle might and beauty. As we drove into town on Route 66 (the main east-west artery), it was obvious to us both that “Flag” was worth a few days of rest and investigation. Passing an assortment of old motor courts and numerous contemporary motels, we made our way to the Visitors Center downtown. The Center shares space with Amtrak in the old train depot, and has a gift shop chock full of Route 66 souvenirs. Seagram was transfixed by the selection, but opted to “think about” the various babbles that caught his eye. We left car there, and walked down S. Beaver to the NAU campus (passing through a funky neighborhood of restaurants and houses), then returned and crossed over into downtown. Heritage Square– on Aspen Ave between Leroux and San Francisco Streets– presents a wonderful continuum of ageless buildings and outlets that contribute to the thriving business district. We’d hoped to stay at the historic Hotel Monte Vista, but we unable to get rooms at the last minute. Plan B diverted us to Little America– which turned out to be more in the spirit of our odyssey. The two-level low-slung brick hotel makes a subtle, unassuming impression amidst stands of Ponderosas – and reminded me of the glamour and élan attached to Albuquerque’s fabled Western Skies. The Mustang fit right in. You could all but feel and taste the era when barge-like sedans would roll in off the highway into the parking lot, and road-weary guests would check into outsized, finely appointed rooms. Naturally we wanted to visit the Grand Canyon, but time was again not on our side. Seagram was getting close enough to home that responsibility and commitments were beginning to weigh on him. We opted to take full advantage of Flagstaff’s rich array of sights, including Lowell Observatory, a quick jaunt to the entrance of Oak Creek Canyon (featuring a generous vendors space and spectacular look-out) and the Museum of Northern Arizona. We became semi-regulars at Little America’s Western Gold Restaurant; even though Seagram makes a good living with his sophisticated palate and culinary skills, he cannot resist a buffet! We finally broke with routine to enjoy a dinner at the Galaxy Diner on West Route 66-a great convergence of retro chrome siding and neon that says 50s. Suddenly we were transported back to the diner fare that had sustained TJ and me over many miles of asphalt and concrete.

Onward Anew. A morning in Williams allowed us to discover the town’s frontier and railroad roots. We especially enjoyed the funky / touristy shops and eateries along the main street, and relished our stop at the Grand Canyon Railway Depot. Built by the ATSF railroad, the depot had been home to The Fray Marcos Hotel and a Harvey House. After settling in to Kingman for the remainder of the day, we are again assembling road sign “refrigerator magnets” to arrange as a poetic epic. Driving through Route 66 points of interest such as Ash Fork, Seligman, Truxton, Valentine, Kingman – and with Goldroad, Oatman, Topock left to go – we’re beginning to see how the story of this journey will write itself. I’m starting to feel excitement at the prospect of reaching our destination. Travel is a force of personal change and transformation. I can’t wait to see who we are when we arrive at the Pier, and inhale the elixir of Pacific Ocean air.

Greetings from the Land of Enchantment (Part 2)!

Leavin’ on a Jet Plane. With a nightcap (e.g. carry-out coffee) in hand, and the crossword from today’s Gallup Independent mostly completed, I’m awash in the ambience and mystique of El Rancho Hotel in Gallup. This “Home of the Movie Stars” – as pronounced by the hotel’s promotional materials – has been our base camp for the last couple of days. Seagram’s busy in the parking lot checking the car’s vital signs and pre-packing gear for tomorrow’s departure – his toils well-illuminated by El Rancho’s prodigious neon displays. While in Albuquerque, and then the stretch Route 66 in western New Mexico, we’ve traveled not only into the mythic past of the highway. We also revisited the myth of our own memories and lives from younger days spent in a different way along this road.

Of course, seeing TJ off at the Albuquerque International Sunport was bittersweet. Surrounded by a totemic array that included three duffle bags, two laptops, miscellaneous taped-up boxes and his backpack – TJ and his gear created a singular tableau. Glancing back toward the car from the Sky Cap’s stand, he gave us the thumbs up sign, waved mightily, and took a long and appraising look at the Mustang. His wistful grin hinted at the enormous bond he felt with the vehicle – they were co-conspirators, sharing a secret or crafting a scheme. It astonished me that TJ was game to let Seagram and me finish the drive without him. Although the two never hit it off in earlier years, somehow in the last 48 hours they’d found common ground in this caper, and seemed surprisingly simpatico on most fronts. Perhaps some of evidence of middle age’s calming effect on the long arm of college angst and hubris…? As TJ turned around and headed into the terminal, I could tell that he was excited about embarking on his next odyssey. Being an unabashed nomad, he could never resist the call of a new adventure or challenge. And, Seagram was revved up to carry on with the mission at hand – delivering precious automotive cargo to its new home.

Duke City by Day. Since finishing college, Seagram (like TJ) had been in and out of Albuquerque countless times. But once they navigated the airport, they would immediately head north on I-25 for business, a weekend party, or a spiritual retreat. Consequently, Seagram hadn’t seen anything of ABQ proper in years. It was a given that with our combined years of residence in Albuquerque, Seagram and I were no strangers to its attractions. Driven to make up for lost time and experience what he knew well in a new way, Seagram suggested a more deliberate approach to revisiting our favorite haunts on 66 – the local edition. Thinking of his recent research and writings about the Slow Food Movement’s growth in the US, Seagram reasoned that we could apply a similar principle to our meanders. We would re-trace the steps from our UNM years along Central Avenue – literally. Catching the Route 66 bus at a stop just off Central and Tramway, we improvised a Gray Line Tour – riding west until reaching the stop nearest to Monroe and Central. Seagram relished that East Central had remained just as it was years ago – gritty, edgy, no-nonsense and wide-open. An unassuming mix of manufactured housing outlets, independent mechanics, small businesses, chain motels and fast food spots persisted and thrived, even if the signs and storefronts changed with some regularity. As we continued farther west, the concentration of mom and pop restaurants stood out to us more, as did the number of old motor courts and inns in various stages of repair. Ghosts of our past lives met us at corner after corner. Our ersatz bus tour drew past Griff’s (where one of Seagram’s friends fortified himself each night on a double burger and rings before starting his shift as night auditor at a nearby motel), the State Fair Grounds (Seagram had worked as a seasonal employee at the race track), and then the tall beacon that we will always call the First National Bank building, (even thought it now carries Bank of the West’s name). After exiting the bus near Monroe, we walked to the Hiland Theater and admired its grand, if empty marquee. Both of us recalled more than one occasion in the 1980s when we waited in lines that wrapped around the old Walgreen’s store (and then along the east side of the building) to see blockbuster movies on the venue’s huge screen. We returned to our westward walk – with Seagram remembering low-on-the-line-up touring bands that stayed at the Zia Motel and old Ramada Inn long before they lapsed into sketchy destinations and were razed. He was relieved to find the De Anza remained somewhat in tact; his grandparents stayed there when visiting snowbird friends in the 1960s and 1970s. Intrigued to see how other area motor courts had been re-purposed, Seagram felt an immediate kinship with the Aztec Motel’s outsider/folk art flourishes.

Continuing on past Carlisle, we picked up a snack at La Montanita Co-op in the Nob Hill Business Center, and took an inventory of chic and whimsical store fronts as we munched and walked. We figured that we’d officially entered the University area as we strode beneath the neon Route 66 “arch” that spans Central just each of Girard. Memories flooded into our conversation as our path crossed Harvard: record buying jags at Budget Tapes & Records, scoring concert tickets and jeans at the General Store, raucous nights at Okie Joe’s, pre-Starbuck’s era espresso at the Purple Hippo, and the parade of hippies, heads, iconoclasts and poets who waved their freak flags high and mighty at Yale Park. On the block west of Yale, we fell into peels of laugher walking past what had been Don Pancho’s Theatre. Who could say how many times we’d seen the revival house’s double-feature of “The Last Waltz” and “No Nukes”, or how many friends we knew who’d had a vehicle towed from the parking lot designated for customers of the St. Germain “Purple Flame” laundry. We both recalled a morning spent recovering a car from savage and towing lots on South Broadway. After a fashion we again boarded the 66 bus, and took in the landmarks of Huning-Highland, Downtown (especially the KiMo Theatre), the Country Club area, and Old Town. The tour ended with an early evening dinner at Dog House drive-in. The neon sign had just lit up – with the wiener dog ardently munching on a string of frankfurters while his tail wagged in delight.

Westward Ho. With the Mustang freshly fueled and detailed, we made an early departure from Albuquerque, ascending Nine Mile Hill with a sense of expectation and curiosity as to the sights and experiences that we’d meet ahead. Driving west, we kept a log of Route 66 landmarks and points of interest. Seagram envisioned a travelogue project that he could build from our brief observations and recordings – a collage that deconstructed traditional postcard elements into discrete blasts of text and image. He liked to do this with the classic French dishes he was adept at cooking – his streak of culinary anarchy shining through. Along the way we walked across the historic Rio Puerco bridge and admired scenic views of Laguna Pueblo. Seeing the exit to Cubero, Seagram noted that Ernest Hemingway worked on The Old Man and Sea there. Farther on we stopped to inspect and photograph the old Whiting Brothers sign between McCartys and San Fidel, and diverted to Acoma Pueblo’s Sky City Cultural Center and Haaku Museum. By this point along the highway, we’d enjoyed regular sightings of trains – both BNSF freight and Amtrak. Trainspotting was officially adopted as our version of the license plate game – with the passenger dutifully calling out and recording train engines as they appeared. In Grants we visited the New Mexico Mining Museum, learning about the mechanics and logistics of working underground in this risky, but potentially profitable, pursuit. We also took time to hike and explore Mount Taylor – one of four sacred mountains to the Navajo. And after a tasty repast at El Cafecito, we headed to our lodging. We both ended the day by imaging the postcards that we would write that night to share such a comfortable and engaging fall day.

Red Rocks Rock. We’d decided to stay in Gallup for a few days. Seagram’s schedule included two more weeks of down time, and he seemed to revel in taking what he termed an “olde time car trip.” One of the reasons he left the east for college was the mythic call of the West. Seagram’s family traveled extensively in Europe when he was young – but until his arrival in New Mexico as a UNM freshman he’d never been west of the Mississippi. He loved the Mustang, was in his groove, and was hungry for more. The town and place name signs we passed en route to Gallup seemed like poetry to Seagram – word magnets that you could re-arrange on a refrigerator: Milan, Bluewater, Prewitt, Thoreau (pronounced “threw” we both announced), the Continental Divide, and our favorite – Iyanbito. Seagram was enthralled by El Rancho. With hundreds of celebrity photos decorating the dark wood walls of the lobby and halls, he felt transported to the pages of an old movie magazine – or even one of the B movies that had been filmed in the area during the “golden years of cinema”. The guest room appointments in the original section of the hotel – twin wagon wheel headboards, heavily lacquered western-style furniture, and original tile and fittings in the bathrooms – made it all the more vivid and transporting. Our days included a trip to the Zuni Mountains, and hiking the Pyramid Rock Trail plus the High Desert Trail System. We also poured over hundreds of jewelry creations from Zuni, Navajo and Hopi artists at trading posts such as Richardson’s, Perry Null and Joe Milo’s. Seagram caved, and become the proud owner of a handsome and substantial thunderbird bolo tie. When we were overwhelmed by the fun of those explorations in addition to downtown walks, or trainspotting time at the old station between the tracks and US 66, we fell into a table at the venerable Earl’s Restaurant. What could be better than a promise of a hearty, square meal fulfilled at any time of day? We discovered beautiful handmade jewelry, arts and crafts sold by Native artists through Earl’s vendor program (shop along the front of the building, or from your table as artisan’s and their family members stop by to showcase their creations). And, we were charmed by the end note of a free desert (jello or soft serve) after the filling fare of New Mexican favorites or down-home American entrees.

As with our separation from TJ, leaving New Mexico is bittersweet. You miss the familiar places and people you’ve come to know and value…but you also can’t help to wonder with excitement might be waiting down the road. Maybe that’s why I always find myself coming back to New Mexico; the adventures and their allure are abundant, but there’s no place like home.

Greetings from the Land of Lincoln!

Springfield, IL, 7:00 am: I’m sipping coffee and waiting for my eggs at the Filling Station Restaurant, part of the Route 66 Hotel and Conference Center (last night’s lodging). Mighty luxe after the more budget-minded accommodations we’ve been taking since departing Chicago! Our flight into Midway went without a hitch, and so began the odyssey that I alluded to in my phone message earlier in the week. My friend TJ got word on Monday that the children of a classic car collector in Cicero, IL, were willing to sell his mint condition 1968 Ford Mustang GT Fastback for a surprisingly reasonable price. The gentleman was moving to a retirement community, and no longer had space for his impressive array of vintage rides. Since the car is all about revisiting TJ’s youth and his nostalgia for summer road trips, he was inspired to drive the car back to the west coast along Route 66. So, I find myself riding shot gun – with vintage Ray-Ban Wayfarers firmly atop my head!

To keep within the spirit of the “Mother Road” experience, we agreed to a number of ground rules before setting out:

1. No iPods, MP3 players, XM/Sirius, CDs or cassettes. When we’re driving, we rely on whatever broadcast stations we can pick up. This was a hard condition for TJ to swallow, but he won a round when I caved in on an hour of WIFI each day – wherever it turned up. We both agreed on no texting, and limited email (TJ looked a bit green at this decision, but is taking it bravely). Postcards are encouraged and allowed.


2. No television or videos. For entertainment and diversion, we’re reading books about the places we’ll be visiting. We’re both keeping journals, so this should occupy us (and help me not to miss CSI and Top Chef too much…)


3. When possible, eat only at local diners and restaurants. TJ is pretty psyched about this, and we hit the jackpot at the Filling Station – the horseshoe sandwich. He was munching antacid like crazy last night, but is undaunted, and ready to do it again for the breakfast version. Amazing how the allure of road food can make an ardent juicer and raw foods enthusiast cross over to the darkside!

Some highlights so far: TJ has been reading through The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg, which he picked up at a used bookstore we found near the University of Chicago. I’m revisiting Sara Paretsky’s mysteries and Stephen B. Oates’ With Malice Toward None: the Life of Abraham Lincoln for this leg of the trip. We’ve been able to follow some good jazz stations out of Chicago, and can usually pick up a daily dose of NPR. Lots of country and oldies on the airwaves, too! Many a strange and wondrous sight along the road, as well. A ways down the pike from Cicero, we were delighted to discover the “Gemini Giant” in Wilmington – a fine exemplar of a “muffler man”. Just north of Pontiac we had lunch at the Old Log Cabin – a Route 66 fixture of some years. A great selection of diner favorites populated the menu (sandwiches, plates) – but we ended up ordering numerous sides, with a slice of cream pie for dessert. Talk about a return to the foods of our childhoods! We’re seeing some good neon, and a variety of old gas stations. If only they remained active – and a battery of young men would race out to fuel and check the car…

Eggs are here, and so is TJ. Time to experience the awesomeness that’s the horseshoe sandwich one last time. More soon – from Missouri! Take care, and be well.