Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 12

We awoke on Day 12 with a certain glumness. After almost two weeks on the road, we were shedding a Jew, since Alan had to return home. The fact that the four of us had made it mostly intact from New Jersey to New Mexico via a bowl-shaped route was tremendous indeed. Unfortunately, Alan had to return home, and so we made off for Albuquerque to drop him off at the airport.

Before he left, however, we had some time to kill. Therefore, we visited another winery, the umpteenth on the trip, and perhaps the best one. New Mexican wine is vastly underrated, if evaluated solely by the two wineries we visited in the state. As a bonus, we got free wine because the receptionist misquoted us the tasting fee. Due to the misunderstanding, management (i.e. the owner’s wife) graciously waived the not unreasonable “cover charge.”

Then it was time to say good-bye. We bid farewell to Alan at the Albuquerque airport – which the locals insist on calling “Sunport.” Unfortunately, Three Jews and a Mexican became Two Jews and a Mexican for the next couple of days. We immediately began missing Alan’s affability and pleasantly agreeable demeanor. The upshot was that we were much less likely now to be flashed by creepy older ladies.

Onward. We descended upon Santa Fe. Dustin, to have an in-person interview to join the staff of a certain “physically friendly” former-Mexican governor during the democratic primaries, while Moldman and Charlie would attempt to not get lost. All reports indicate that Dustin’s interview went well (he got the job), although it did force him to become a resident of the state of Iowa for a few months.

It was here when we finally suffered our first automobile accident. To this point, we had successfully avoided any unpleasantness despite our New Jersey license plates, Dustin’s penchant for changing four lanes in the space of 100 feet, and the generally indulgent southern speed limits. Unfortunately, our clean streak was at an end. As he was leaving his interview, a woman in a Lexus backed into Dustin’s car door. Nobody was hurt, and Dustin lost a golden chance to fake an injury and get a settlement. In his defense, he hadn’t started law school yet.

Albuquerque is a great city for killing two hours of time. There are about 3 blocks of stuff and then that’s it – the rest seems to be one large expanse of adobe houses. Frustrated with the fact that we had been in New Mexico for quite some time now and had found nothing of interest save for good wine and suicidal bats, we saw a sign for “El Pueblo Native Center,” advertised as a sort of Native American museum and gathering place, and resolved to, at the very least, at least get some culture from this state.

As expected, it did in fact disappoint. The facility resembled less a museum than it did a Club Med that had seen better days 20 years ago. I even hesitate to call it a museum, since literally every “exhibit” was for sale.

The one highlight there was this:


It was a chair covered entirely with fried bread. Dustin bravely offered to sit in it, and was rewarded for his efforts with a great picture, yes, but also with sticky pants that would no longer be kosher to wear on the Jewish high holidays.

Resolved to quit New Mexico, we took Route 66 and drove on towards Arizona. We even stopped at a casino (another one of our rules), and wasted 15 minutes playing $2 blackjack. While not as pointless an exercise as Supreme Court confirmation hearings, there was not much more to this than that. Although we did think that, for a second, we saw a certain high-ranking member of Cornell’s administration happily playing dollar craps. In retrospect, there is no way that could have been him.

Route 66’s defining feature was the prevalence of signs that read: “Don’t Pick Up Hitchhikers. Prisons Nearby.” Of course, much like No Trespassing signs, we took these as invitations rather than warnings. Unfortunately, and despite our best efforts, we did not see any escaped convicts. We would have to make do with the one former criminal in the car.

Presently we arrived in Flagstaff, the Ithaca of the West. It was a rather charming town, and it is a pity we didn’t stay longer. We had dinner there at the Beaver Street Brewery, thanks to the recommendation of an old man.

Us: I’m sorry, is there anywhere here you would recommend eating?
Old guy: Hmmm. Nothing comes to mind, sorry.
Old guy’s wife: What about the burger and pizza place up on Beaver Street.
Old guy: (yelling) OH YEAAAAH!!!!

Thanks to that rather enthusiastic endorsement, we had one of our best meals of the trip, served at the restaurant with the best name on the trip.

We drove on to Sedona, where we would spend the night. We splurged on this one, getting a really nice quasi-suite at the Radisson. Unfortunately for him, Moldman drew air mattress duty, largely thanks to his refusal to give up his bed the night before to an exhausted-from-driving Dustin. Moldman and I flipped a coin and I got the bed, which was awesome. These were the most comfortable beds I have ever slept on. Nestled in their cloud-like goodness, we were asleep within seconds.