Sorry, I was just doing some research on Palancar Reef in Mexico, and came across one of those horrifically cliched-many-times-over bits of travel writing that make you wonder if it’s being done Mad Lib-style:
Cozumel is an island of contrasts. It is a quaint and timeless village, a charming mix of Mayan and Mexican cultures. It is a modern resort, assuring the services and amenities today’s sophisticated traveler appreciates. It is white-sand beaches and rocky coves fringing a vast uninhabited jungle. But most of all, Cozumel is turquoise, tepid waters and fabled reefs.
Really? “X is a Y of contrasts” is to travel writing as “The X was a revelation” is to food writing. Banned.
(But then I also read this and cringe a little, because I’ve certainly thought about places being full of contrasts. It’s hard not to when you see a donkey next to a Mercedes, for instance. So when you’re writing something like that, it at least seems true. And I also cringe because I have a feeling I’ve used the phrase “vast uninhabited jungle” at some point. Mental note: pencil in self-flagellation.)
Anyway, that’s not really what I came here to complain about today. In fact, my main complaint is that it’s Day 1 of my second New Mexico research trip, and already I’m gripped with paralyzing jadedness. Southwest NM, which I toured in April/May and only just recently finished writing up, was interesting at first, but eventually became a tortuous exercise in describing ghost towns–there are scads of them down there, all with the same “and then 1893 happened, and the place went bust” story (1893 was the silver devaluation). Now here I am in the opposite corner, the northeast, and I’m dreading the tales of dead railroading towns I’m going to encounter.
I’m in Las Vegas, NM, which is the polar opposite of “Vegas, baby” Vegas. There are no high rollers here, no players, no glittering lights. The movie theater is named the Serf. I’m not sure why. But it does seem like the least glamorous name you could choose. Also, alas, it looks like it was last open when In Her Shoes was playing. I have not seen any of the actors from Red Dawn prowling the streets (it was shot here), but I have seen lots of guys in with mustaches. In fact, they’re all downstairs in Bucky T’s Saloon, in the lobby of my hotel.
Early this afternoon, Beverly and I wound our way up Hwy. 14 (aka the Turquoise Trail) and through the town of Pecos, and then cruised Villanueva State Park. We didn’t want to backtrack, so I scouted out a little dirt road to get us back to I-25. We drove and drove, and eventually came to the village of El Cerrito, which was pretty hardcore, because when you think about it, there are very few communities in the U.S. today that cannot be accessed by at least one paved road–especially in regions where it snows heavily in the winter. The whole place was built of adobe bricks and tin roofs–in that respect, it looked like a village in the Pyrenees, where everything is made of the same material. A guy with a mustache in a pickup truck told us we couldn’t go on–never mind what the map said, there was no more road.
So we drove back and back and back, and then got back on I-25, and I have to say, that stretch between Santa Fe and Las Vegas is one of the dullest in the state. For about two minutes, you’re thinking, Wow, rolling plains! And look at that big sharp ridge way over there! And then you’re settled in, and nothing changes for the next 45 minutes.
It was around then that Beverly said, “OK, I think I’ve seen about enough of the rest of New Mexico. Can we go home now?”
I know this is not the boundless curiosity that people want in their guidebook authors, but we all have our bad days. Las Vegas is quite pretty, and I’m suprised it’s not more gallerified than it already is, given its proximity to Santa Fe. (Must be that dull, dull drive.) I won’t even mention dinner, because it was also quite dull.
Tomorrow will be a livelier day, I trust. Land of contrasts, don’t you know…