As part of my research for the forthcoming Moon New Mexico guide, I end up reading all those glossy visitors guides that are always in your motel room, usually with a coffee ring on the cover left by the previous tenant.

Every sad little town has one, written with varying degrees of cogency and featuring more or less faded photos. The most desperate ones–which combine tourist info with data on why you might want to invest in this particular exit off I-40, for instance–always make me depressed. Like seeing the ugly puppy left at the pet store in the mall. Sad. But I’m not going to help it either.

The worst part is when the reach so clearly exceeds the grasp, as in this kicker from–well, it seems too mean to name the chronically windy town of 5,000-and-shrinking-every-day:

It has been said that living well is the best revenge, and […] has all the ingredients to make that dream a reality.

I wish them all the best. I really do. It’s just that I can’t help. I’m sorry. (Turning away. No eye contact. Stepping on the gas…)

It was shaping up to be a really less-than-action-packed trip, but then, on the last day, the snake thing happened.

I’d actually gotten done with my planned itinerary early. This absolutely never happens, which makes me wonder if I totally overlooked a page in the atlas. Beverly and I were a full day ahead of schedule when we rolled into Chama.

I had thought Chama was kind of a big deal, tourism-wise, because the cool old Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railroad starts there. Well, there’s that–but only that, and it turns out that railfan tourism isn’t really the bonanza I thought it was. Just because I like trains doesn’t mean lots of other people do too. Odd. Anyway, we visited all the motels and lodges and I took some pictures of the train, and we had pretty much done Chama in about three hours.

In the process, I happened to encounter my first real live case of meth mouth. Like Republicans, tweakers are a phenomenon you hear spine-tingling tales of terror about in New York City—usually via public radio—but you never see them in real life. But unlike Peter’s kindly Republican friends in Baltimore, this chick who was the caretaker at a Lodge That Shall Not Be Named (But Has Very Big Trees Out Front and Is Named for Them) did not make me feel as though there was hope for all humanity to live as one. I checked my wallet, and backed away when she coughed her hacking cough.

So that was Chama. The antidote to the speed-freak encounter was a very pleasant dinner in a place called Marion’s, where the waitress squeezed us on the shoulder a lot and the view was lovely. And then we split, and drove back home that very night.

What I’m getting around to saying is that this left me with a whole two extra days of unscheduled fun. I spent one day tooling around Albuquerque and checking up on things, and the next we bundled in the car and went down to the Salinas mission ruins around Mountainair.

To get off track again, let me just add that I was exceedingly grumpy about being accompanied. I can’t ever decide whether it’s better to have people along on a research trip (staves off total boredom) or go it alone (much faster, and sometimes cheaper, but you can’t drive and take notes at the same time). Invariably, whichever way it is, I’m always wishing it was the other. So on this last day of work, I was looking forward to just zipping out and doing it quick, and maybe listening to the radio really loud in the car.

But if Casey and Beverly hadn’t come, they wouldn’t have been there in the Shaffer Hotel dining room in Mountainair with me, ogling the beautifully carved and painted ceiling. The Shaffer is this great old Pueblo Deco building that was just renovated and opened in December ’05. About 10 minutes after I’d finishing writing in my notebook, “carved wood ceiling crawling with turtles, lizards, birds and snakes,” we heard this light smacking noise and looked over. A snake—an actual live one—had fallen out of the ceiling and was sitting there, stunned, on the table.

Sure, it was a very, very small snake, as big as my hand. And just a garter snake, not anything venomous. And it didn’t fall on our table—it fell on a table over by the window, where no one was sitting.

Casey nipped over and picked it up and then he went to show the kitchen staff. That wouldn’t have been my first move, because not everyone in the world has been raised not to fear snakes. But fortunately no one in the kitchen got too hysterical, and our waitress said, “Yup. At least it wasn’t a rattler.”

Oh, fair New Mexico. We love, we love you so.

I take it all back. Any snippiness about cowtowns and slow Friday nights–forget I ever said it.

Now I’m in Raton, NM, and it’s a Saturday night, and there’s not even a movie like Step Up to go see. Because the goddamn movie theater is closed.

Beverly and I were barely able to get dinner. Options included the steak-and-chops family place, and the steak-and-chops more-adulty place, and the Pizza Hut. Finally some extremely nice guys reopened their restaurant (La Casita on 1st St.) to feed us. Fortunately, it was extremely fantastic, or I would’ve had a breakdown right there. My carne adovada was deliciously porky and endorphin-fueling spicy, and we got two sopaipillas each. Amen.

Raton won’t even have a chance to redeem itself tomorrow, because it’s Sunday, and it looks like absolutely everything is shut. Well, really, it looks like everything is shut right now, and it’s Saturday night. There aren’t even lights on in people’s houses, and zero traffic on the streets. It’s creepy. Either the rapture came, or they went to Colorado to go to the movies.

Anyway, I’m a little worried about breakfast tomorrow, but at least we’ve got a little safety net in our dinner leftovers. Monday: Taos, and I know that place has a multiscreen movie theater. Jackass 2, I will see you yet.

Like I said, it wasn’t so thrilling. In fact, I wrote about it last night, then I lost interest, so I saved the post…or so I thought.

The only two moments I want to recreate are:

1) The super-intense (and very knowledgeable) woman at the tourist office in Las Vegas telling me that she’s a big supporter of the Jews, because, well, without the Jews, there wouldn’t be any Bible. Then she told us some anecdote involving a child saying something cheeky-but-oh-so-true about Jesus. This came up because we’d asked the whereabouts of a Jewish cemetery someone had mentioned to us earlier.

2) We stopped at a U-pick raspberry farm, and got some raspberries. They were good and all, but that’s not the point. More fascinating: I believe this is the first time I’ve ever been doing guidebook research and gotten somewhere during the correct season. I am forever peering in windows at dustcloth-covered furniture, taking photos where I hope the “closed” sign isn’t too obvious, and wrapping my sweater tighter around me as I look out at the lovely Caribbean Sea.

It’s an extension of a road trip I took with my friend Chris in college, where we drove all over the South and managed to hit every scenic spot after the sun had gone down. Oh, and we were in the botanical gardens in Birmingham way too early in the spring. If I’d known my life would continue to be like that, I think I might’ve not bothered to renew my passport, and maybe gotten a library job like I’d been considering.

On my next trip, I’ll actually be in Mexico for the Day of the Dead. Could this be the start of a new era?

Yesterday was only mildly more entertaining, but today–hoo-ee. Hold me back. Rrrowwr. Crrrraaaazy times. Yee-haw. Etc., etc.

I’m in the cow town of Clayton, NM, just a few miles from the Oklahoma panhandle, and although I sound catty, it’s only to disguise the fact that I’m crying inside.

I just went to the Luna Theater to see the forgettable Step Up, because that’s what was playing, and it was only $5. Junior Mints were $1.50. There were only about five other people in this giant theater with a beautiful velvet curtain from the 1930s, and groovy Deco-era wall sconces and gorgeous hardwood floors. It was easy to find the theater, because Clayton has about two streets, and one traffic light. No one was at the movie, it turns out, because they’re all at the high school football game. And when we came out into the damp, cool night, you could definitely smell the cows.

What must it be like to grow up here? I was pretty isolated as a kid, but nothing like this. We could at least drive to Albuquerque. From here, the big city is Las Vegas–Las Vegas, New Mexico, that is. And that’s where you’ve got to go if you want to see Jackass 2. Believe you me, Beverly and I were quite bitter to be driving out of Vegas today when we saw that new movie on the marquee at the other theater (the one that’s open, not the Serf).

Also, as we were driving out into the open prairie, we heard, ever more faintly on the AM station, about the great mariachi concert we were missing, and the fiesta and parade tomorrow, and so on and so on.

By the time we rolled into Clayton, it was just static, and we had to entertain ourselves by reminiscing about the last time we were in this part of the state, a good 14 years ago. It was a day drive that’s stuck with us only because it was so monumentally boring: all we did was maybe climb over a fence somewhere, not get let into a bar in Roy because we had my under-18 brother with us, and then, right before we turned around in despair, ran over a snake by accident. I still feel bad.

But here in the present, we’re in Clayton for the night, and we’re staying in hands-down the nicest hotel around. It’s almost ridiculous how much nicer it is than anything else. And they keep laying on the details–like, do they really need the scrolling sign that crows, “Our staff has 160 years of experience!” Dude, you have a light in your reception, and the doors aren’t falling off the hinges–you win, OK? Just chill.

I’m leaving out the other nice hotel, the Eklund, because I haven’t checked that out yet, but honestly, even if it does have historic charm, it is still getting its ass kicked by the Best Western in everything but the historic charm department.

I haven’t seen the Eklund’s rooms because I found myself in a weird ethical bind earlier. See, the Eklund is also about the only place to eat in town, so I didn’t want to march in and ask to see rooms, and then go eat dinner, because my cover would be blown, and they might be all fawning at dinner (or worse, they wouldn’t), and it would be awkward.

But then we had to send the trout back because it tasted like dirt (what is up with that? Is every fish in the world now farmed in a squalid box of muck?), which no one could really grasp. “Well, uh, if you order the fried fish, it doesn’t taste so fishy,” said one waitress with an apologetic shrug. “Not fishy,” Beverly said. “DIRTY.”

Meanwhile, my steak, which had probably been part of a cow that contributed to the very manure I’m smelling now, was delicious. We ate our baked potatoes in foil, and drank our half-carafe of house red (we spent a little extra to get the next up from Inglenook), and reminisced about how this, plus fried zucchini, was the height of dining fashion in the 1970s. Then we tipped big and ran across the street to the movies.

But it was a minor scene. And seeing how there are eight people in this town, it’ll be a little weird to march in there tomorrow and ask to see some rooms. “Oh that’s why she thought our fish was dirty,” they’ll whisper. “She’s some big-city writer type. Mmm-hm.”

Oh well. Then we’ll blow on out of here, and they’ll stay right where we left them. I just hope some better movies come to town.

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…

I know, as a travel writer, I should love the open road–it’s practically a requirement for the job, that you rhapsodize about lost highways and such. And New Mexico has plenty of open road – or, as Beverly put it, “there are lots of middle-of-nowheres in New Mexico.”

The trouble is that the open road in New Mexico is punctuated by these crappy ass-of-nowhere towns that block the incredible views: Truth or Consequences, a settlement that’s 90 percent mobile homes; Deming, where people die in dust storms; or Lordsburg, where the freight trains rumble right down Main Street and the chain-link-fence salesman made his first million. (OK, fine, there are some very cool urban-dropout types and awesome coffee in T or C; El Mirador in Deming is a classic heartwarming diner where the Border Patrol agents eat next to recent Mexican immigrants; and I did have an excellent lunch in Lordsburg, at the Triple J Cafe. But in the last case, the padded toilet seat in the bathroom was almost too poignant, one tiny bit of comfort in this horribly bleak expanse.)

I really hit the wall on the last day of my trip, after 2,000 miles of driving, when I made the mistake of cruising through Belen and Los Lunas on the business loop. Just how many cheap plastic signs, junkyards, and cinderblock big-box stores can one person take? Not to besmirch Belen and Los Lunas – these are perfectly functional towns, and they’ll even be getting commuter rail service shortly, and they have some history and nice big trees. But it was a relief to get onto Isleta Pueblo land, and not see any buildings anymore.

Now, I live in Astoria, Queens, and I am the first to admit the neighborhood is just not that pretty, but to make up for the plastic signs, the (small) junkyards, and the vinyl siding, it has people, plenty of lively, interesting people from all over the place, who are selling me things and providing services, and generally making life delightful for one another. And I think that’s all humans are out to do, is delight one another.

So it seems creepy and sad when people live in isolation. They start doing obnoxious things like putting framed prints of the Muhammad-with-a-bomb-in-his-turban cartoon above their cash registers and carrying guns and looking at people funny.

But I’m being a grump. I did see some beautiful, beautiful vistas:

The de rigueur fence-to-the-horizon shot

View from Rockhound State Park (an otherwise boring place)

And on my last morning, I had a big slab of pie, at the Daily Pie Café, in Pietown, New Mexico. That sounds like a total tourist trap, but it’s not. In a wholesome approximation of a strip club, about four men in trucker caps were lined up at the diner counter, while the waitress strolled up and down and sassed at them, and dished up the pie and the coffee.

And then the bell on the door jingled, and in came the hunchiest, funkiest, oldest man in a red-check shirt and boots and an impossibly sweat-stained and frayed straw cowboy hat, and the waitress said, “Howdy, Floyd.” And Floyd shuffled slowly toward the counter, so I could see the bowie knife on one hip, the pistol on the other, and the shells stuck in his belt. I was in yet another middle-of-nowhere, but I had my pie, and I was delighted.

After five days of driving around the back of beyond in the Land of Enchantment, I sensed my perspective was shifting when I visited the Farm & Ranch Heritage Museum in Las Cruces and found myself saying it was the coolest thing I’d seen in a long time.

After watching a mustachioed blacksmith make a nail, fondling different kinds of wool, and making my own stamped-leather souvenir, I was all softened up for admiring a row of attractively dilapidated old tractors. Just as I was composing a photo on my digital camera screen…

…up rolled a cheery guy on a bike. He was a museum volunteer, and he was already on his way home (he had his helmet on and his pants tucked into his socks), but he just couldn’t leave when he thought he saw a fellow tractor enthusiast.

“So, you’re into vintage tractors, are ya?”

I’ve never heard that sentence, and I probably never will again.

In truth, I was taking a picture of the tractors because I wanted to send it to Peter, as a bit of a joke. Years ago, Peter and I and a couple of other friends were in Hama, I think it was, in Syria, walking around at night in the downtown area, which was a pretty modest affair. But the John Deere showroom was huge and shiny, and there was a giant green super-deluxe tractor sitting there all spotlit on an otherwise dark, empty floor. We walked toward the tractor, and when we reached the giant plate glass, we saw we weren’t the first to be transfixed: the glass, at nose height, was smeared with greasy spots, left from the others who had (probably much more seriously) stood and wistfully imagined a day of the poshest tractor-riding money could buy.

I told the volunteer a truncated version of this story, leaving out the fact that it was in Syria, because that was just too confusing. (In most parts of New Mexico, I don’t even say I live in New York, because people usually say, “Why’d you wanna go and do a thing like that for?”) But then my story made no sense at all, and exposed me as not actually caring about tractors in the least.

The volunteer tractor fan was undaunted, though, and told me all about the clever John Deere folks, who introduced the short-lived Model GM during World War II (uh, apparently everyone knows that John Deere ordinarily only sells the Model G), so they could charge more for its innovative and sleek engine housing. The “M” was for “modern,” he wagered. And then he biked off, foaming a little at the mouth.

This might be the year I get fat. I have eaten my weight in butter every year of my life, but three months of convalescence (read: no bike riding and many sweets from friends) followed by a packed schedule of travel-guide research and a long summer vacation to tasty destinations could well do me in. I’m only a few days into a short trip around southwestern New Mexico, and already I’m feeling the pinch. Ordinarily, the jeans I’m wearing would be all stretched out and unattractively saggy by Day 4, but now they’re just getting comfortable.

But I do it for you, of course. I eat ginormous chorizo-and-egg breakfast burritos at El Mirador in Deming, just so on your next visit to Deming (I know you’re booking it right this second), you’ll know somewhere tasty to eat. And I eat two desserts at the Barbershop Café in Hillsboro because I want to make sure they’re as good as people say they are. The carrot cake is pretty good, it’s true. And that scone from White Coyote (via Coffee Tea or C) in Truth or Consequences—totally gratuitous, considered I’d already eaten a giant slab of ham-and-egg casserole, but now I know recommendations of White Coyote do have a basis in fact.

Oh, I’m such a martyr. Anyway, the only point of this post is just to notify people that I am in fact in New Mexico, and to remind you that the travel writer’s life is not nearly as glamorous as you imagine. I’m looking forward to riding my bike when I get home at the end of the week.