I walk into the
Wendy’s in Moab, Utah, and the first thing I notice is not the menu or the
customers or the backlit pictures of delicious Frosties above the counter. It’s the mustache on the
cashier lady. First thing. My eyes are drawn to that ‘stache like it’s exerting
gravitational force.
Meanwhile, an older Hispanic gentleman at
the soda pop fountain can’t figure out where the water comes out. The cashier
agitatedly hollers instructions to him loud enough for everyone to hear, but I
don’t think Hispanic Guy speaks English. We all sort of watch him fumble with
the machine, spattering lemonade and Fanta on his pants. I wonder if I should
be the Nice Guy and travel the six feet required to help out Hispanic Guy. But
as I ponder the metaphysics of a good deed, Satan Biker Guy steps around me
and, surprisingly gently, takes Hispanic Guy’s cup, shows him the water switch,
and fills the cup with ice and water before passing the full cup back to him
with a smile. So, basically I’m a worse person than Satan Biker Guy. And also, don’t
judge people by their shirts. Or lack thereof? No, probably you should judge
people by their lack of shirts. Especially girls.
I’m standing in line behind an iffy biker dude with a t-shirt that
says “Ride Like Hell” and has a picture of a freaky-looking wild boar riding a
motorcycle with Satan on the back. I unconsciously take a step back, because my mom says the devil is bad. She's been wrong on other things, like when she said I'd like the movie Ghostbusters, but I think she's on solid ground with the whole Satan thing.
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| Northwest of Cuba, New Mexico, where the cigars flow like wine. |
But wait. I thought all the fun was over at Wendy’s, but as
I take my to-go bag an old, old, old guy shuffles in, bellies up the counter,
and orders hot chocolate. It’s Moab,
Utah. It’s July. Mustache Girl is befuddled, so Old, Old, Old
Guy creakily leans across the counter and pushes
the “hot chocolate” button on the cash register. He used to work at Wendy's as a less geriatric teen?
Lowlight of the trip leg: the northwest corner of New
Mexico. You cross from rolling verdant hills in Colorado into a rocky dustbowl
where every road sign is heavily graffitied. New Mexico even had to put up a new “Welcome to New
Mexico” sign about 500 feet in front of the old one, because the old one has
stylized graffiti covering up the slogan “Land of Enchantment.” And they just
left the old one there.
Shiprock, Farmington, and Bloomfield, New Mexico, Indian
reservation towns strung together by Highway 64, are a little depressing.
Tired, squat old buildings sprawl along the highway, housing way more
Laundromats and pawn shops and pay-day loan joints per capita than I’ve ever
seen elsewhere. Local businesses like “Al’s Trailers” or “Mitch’s Mufflers and
Hitches” (props to Mitch for coming with a kind of catchy business name) sort of
loiter by the side of the road with dirty windows and guys smoking out front.
But New Mexico improves with south-ness and east-ness.
Highway 550 climbs over the Continental Divide and falls down the other side
into breathtaking, red-sand badlands, colorful hills, babbling rivers (all
evidently called “rios” in New Mexico), and hardy scrub pine stands. Even
Albuquerque, which I expected to be an unsightly smear of urbanity across a
brown, dusty wasteland, was quite beautiful, nestling up against majestic mountains
and boasting tasteful southwestern architecture and colors.
Plus, the Cherry Coke is better in New Mexico than in Utah.
Well done, New Mexico, well done.