FORGOTTEN AMERICA ROUTE 66: ALBUQUERQUE
A
city’s reputation has never been a strong determining factor in my decision to
visit a habit born, most likely, through years of defending my own hometown,
Dorchester, from brass generalizations and ill-informed assessments.
That is
not to say that I am not prepared for what I find. My first impression of New
Orleans, for instance, was much like I had heard but even here I gradually grew
comfortable in the Big Easy, especially in the Garden District which is
practically a small city with invisible but clearly drawn boundaries. Chicago,
on the other hand, was a surprise. I walked freely through the streets there
day and night and never once felt unsafe nor saw reason to for that matter. San
Francisco was an interesting case. I saw evidence of the homelessness and
substance abuse problems that have become almost synonymous with the city, but,
for the life of me, I really could not make the case that it was any worse than
Boston or New York City.
The
reason, I suspect, that the underbelly of San Francisco has stirred more
disgust than its eastern counterparts is because there is such a dichotomy
between its prohibitively expensive living costs and the harsh reality that
rears its head in every city that even the slightest intrusion of poverty in the
city known for its wealth will bring a storm. Chicago was known as a gritty
city even before Al Capone arrived, the horror of its stockyards at the turn of
the 20th century documented in graphic detail by Upton Sinclair in The
Jungle. Boston and New York both have a long-standing reputation as tough
cities despite being meccas for intellects and the elite, but San Francisco’s red-lighted
Barbary Coast faded from collective memory as the city became the heart of the
counterculture movement and activism. Not surprisingly, national dilemmas, like
lack of housing and substance abuse, came as an unwelcome reality check in a bohemian
city of peace, love, art…and a price tag.
And
still, I could not quite make out Albuquerque. In truth, I had heard very
little of the city and my state of mind upon arrival was dictate by two things:
for a change of pace I was looking forward to arriving in a major city after
days of travel in abandoned towns and, counter to everything I celebrate about
traveling on Route 66, I was excited to be spending at least one night in a
popular hotel and my favorite chain, Springhill Suites, at that.
Indeed,
my first few hours in Albuquerque felt but little different than the rest of my
journey. My first stop was at a coffee chain I had grown quite fond of during
this trip, Dutch Brothers Coffee, from which I passed through the ruins of more
once iconic Route 66 motels. After checking in at Springhill I spent the
evening driving through downtown.
Nob
Hill and the business district offer a treasure-trove of bygone hotels and
signage and, with its stunning murals, is an artist’s fantasia. At dusk it has
a pleasant thriving café culture and the streets light up beautifully with the
colors of the Southwest.
At the
time I was there, Albuquerque was hosting a marvelous exhibit, “Fantastic
Animals from Mexico: Alebrijes and Nahuales”, and Central Ave was lined with
magnificent sculptures of creatures from both the Mexican plains and the local
folklore standing some twenty feet tall, all beautifully crafted by Mexican
artists.
At a
certain undefined cutoff, however, the struggles of downtown Albuquerque become
glaring. Right around the International District the effects substance abuse and lack of
housing in the city are evident. The heat makes it more brazen than I was used
to in Greater Boston and the magic of the city wore off. I must confess this
took me by surprise, but I cut my drive short especially as it was becoming
darker.
But
then, the following morning, I discovered Old Town Albuquerque which, much like
the Garden District in New Orleans, is an oasis within a city. Of course, the
beautiful villas, adobe buildings and old churches are preserved for tourists,
but this was what this journey was about for me. My first stop was Duran’s Central
Pharmacy and Diner, which had been recommended to me. It is one of the last old
school pharmacies with a dinning space, operating much like it has since it
opened in 1942.
Next, I
was truly humbled by the kindness of the operators of Rio Grande Trading, a
popular spot specializing in Native American jewelry and crafts. Matt Smith,
the manager, was kind enough to open the store some five minutes before opening
when he spotted my car in the lot although I assured him he didn’t have to. But
this was not just a customer service move for Matt, he is a genuine, nice guy
who wants to know the stories of his visitors. His down-to-earth affability
with people is reflected in his staff, who are some of the most personable
shopkeepers I ever had the pleasure of working with.
I ended my day in Albuquerque touring Old Town, visiting the historic San Felipe de Neri Church dating back to 1793 at the time of Spanish rule. While strolling through Old Town Plaza a string of peppers dangling from balconies and railings caught my eye. A postal worker on her cigarette break came out to talk to me about the ristra peppers, as such strands are called. She told me she was the granddaughter of Mexican immigrants and through her family learned how to dry the chili peppers harvested in the fall to keep them fresh throughout the year. The process involved tying them in the bands such as those I saw lining many buildings in the Plaza. What fascinated me even more than the history of the ristra peppers, however, was that a middle-aged woman, with what by all accounts is a high-stress job, spent her short break voluntarily talking to a stranger about her heritage and the town’s history with no prompting on my part.
Moments
like this are ultimately what I remember the most about Route 66 and the people
that have made the road a home for them and also millions of visitors. Route 66
has seen its share of turbulence but the story of resilience it tells is born
of the resilience of the people who the road has shaped. I later learned that
ristra peppers are a symbol of hospitality in the Southwest. More than
anything, it is this spirit that has kept the Mother Road alive.
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