So that night I was writing the last post, and it got really late…I very nearly screwed myself. I went out to the restaurant that’s in my guidebook that’s known for staying open late. But they were just closing. They sent me to a newer bar on the south side of town. I raced down there, and as I was walking in, I passed a couple of people leaving. “Wow–we just closed Taos down,” one said to the other.

At the bar, there were two stragglers and some guy who was maybe in charge. No. No food, he said. When I asked where I might eat something this time of night, he laughed and said, “Wennn-deee’s!”

I didn’t want to resort to fast food yet. I consulted my own guidebook once again, and called the Alley Cantina, which recommend for a burger during the day. Lo! They were still serving food after 10pm!

Let me just say, every time I type in a phone number for a Moon guide, I grumble. “Rough Guides doesn’t require the phone number for every damn bar!” I think. But then I consider, well, suppose someone left their credit card behind or something…I suppose it would be handy to have the number to call.

And now it turns out it’s very handy for saving the actual author’s starving ass on a too-late Tuesday night. I raced over to the Alley Cantina (back on the other side of town), and entered with trepidation. This is the place that is traditionally the last stop on the Taos bar crawl, with the chaos you’d expect. Fortunately on a Tuesday, there wasn’t much crawling, though there was some very effed-up French hippie dude with a bad goatee who seemed to have to become that night’s mascot. Phillippe/Felipe was weaving around doing things like sticking a paper napkin to the guitar player’s forehead while he continued to strum and sing his country covers.

I sat alone at a table and ate my green-chile cheeseburger (first on the trip!) and drank a microbrew. Can I just give a shoutout to the waitress who, when I asked whether I should get the burger or the meatball sandwich, said, “Hamburger, definitely. The meatball sandwich doesn’t sell much, so it’s not fresh.” Now that wasn’t so hard! Why do namby-pamby waitstaff say, “Ohh, they’re both just delicious! I don’t know which to call my favorite!” I tipped the ass off that girl.

Near the end of my meal, some guy came up to my table and said, “Can I just ask you–were you at Joseph’s Table last night?” Turns out he’s the bartender there. In that way that only fellow restaurant people do, he asked me what I’d eaten. Like my waiter, he was delighted over the liver choice. Then he asked what I was doing eating at the Alley Cantina, of all places, and I explained how I’d fucked up–and that I’d even been thinking of going back to Joseph’s Table again, just for the trout.

“Oh, the trout! That’s an amazing dish!” he said. Shit! What I wanted to hear, in that case, was “Meh–trout’s fine, but whatever…” Suddenly my green-chile cheeseburger wasn’t so satisfying.

So next day, I left Taos, having eaten nearly everywhere I wanted to, and when I got close to Santa Fe, I was really surprised at the size of the place. I’d been in Taos only three nights, but had already gotten into the holed-up-in-the-mountains vibe. Mike, the Joseph’s Table bartender, had scoffed when I mentioned I had to go back to Albuquerque–what could I possibly want from that urban hellhole?

Then I was in the midst of cramped, bustling, so-craaazy-huge Santa Fe, waiting at a light in all that traffic, and who should I see walking down the sidewalk but a woman I’d seen at the Japanese bathhouse the week before. Hilarious. I wanted to shout, “I’ve seen you naked!” out the car window, but then the light changed. Santa Fe seemed pretty cozy and intimate–too intimate–right then.

Now I am in that giant metropolis they call Burque. I spent the morning out in Los Ranchos and Corrales, though–that’s “the ranches” and “corrals” in English, and it’s just as rural as it sounds. Horses, sheep, goats. Irrigation ditches running from the Rio Grande. I toured a beautiful farm/historic inn and soaked up new urbanism and architecture talk. Then I had a kick-ass plate of enchiladas, and I bought a bike.

Yes! Not on the research schedule at all, but Stevie’s Happy Bikes (4583 Corrales Rd.–tell ’em I sent you!) was right there across from Perea’s Tijuana Bar where I ate lunch, and I wandered over to ask if he rented bikes. While there, I couldn’t help notice a Raleigh mixte–I didn’t even know Raleigh made such a thing, and it’s the first time I’ve seen a mixte that wasn’t French, complete with annoying French threading, etc., which Peter refuses to work on. So my chic rust Raleigh “Rapide” is getting popped in a box and shipped to NYC. My invoice from the store is stamped with a goofy bike-riding cartoon–a happy biker indeed.

And very happy to be in the big city!