Morning on the land was brief, Raul was ready to roll once he popped out the door. And so we were of to Silver City for breakfast at the Kountry Kitchen, a local eatery. A hearty Spanish omelet with a local twist, green chiles, framed with potatoes and beans, and drizzled with two cheeses and a ladle of a red-chile based sauce. Yes, this is the shit I came down here for.
After breakfast we futzed around for a bit with a little drive up the hill, a visit to the bakery and the co-op, and a stroll around the Big Ditch, a flowing creek behind the shops on Main Street, which had carved a small canyon into the earth over a century ago. The original main street was situated here down this natural drainage and so poor planning and a flash flood obliterated that civic project. The citizens of Silver City then took the one remaining side of the street's businesses that had survived and switched entrances from back to front. And so over the years the Ditch has become a city park.
We settled down at the Buffalo Bar for pint bottles of Bud. The chica behind the bar was a vibrant, scary force of nature. Samantha, our self-described “big titty, foul mouthed bartender”, regaled us with stories of her up-and-down life, including a definition of current bruises, good, bad, and naaasty. She and her compadres would have been an excellent addition to the crew of the old Mexican bar, the Copper Inn, once situated one block over to the west but now a fading memory.
We dropped a few more pint bottles and while Raul ran an errand I got a freebie from the owner with whom Samantha was on the phone with trying to figure out how to spell 'rhythm' and 'mystic.' I was of help and took the opportunity to score an aqua con limΓ³n and a bottle of Guinness Extra Stout. After quaffing my drinks Raul and I wandered down the street to check out the brew pub, but found it to be closed. I had learned later on that it had gone bust.
We ended up back at the Buffalo for a few more, then made our goodbyes to score a couple of six-packs and retire back to the room to watch the Rays/Sox playoff game and scarf some delivery pizza. Sated, we retired early.
Sitting up in my bed at the Palace Hotel in Silver City. I've got the room's portable water cooler on, in fan mode only. The roar of the unit is most comforting, but to only my ears. I've got the door closed to my room, but am wondering if what little Raul may hear is still a distraction to a guy used to the deafening sound of silence for his bedtime lullaby.
Later Raul and I went our separate ways. The night before when I talked to Las Cruces Shuttle Service I was told to be ready by 7:10 but waited another fifteen minutes before the shuttle arrived to pick me up. He was running late as it was, with two passengers already strapped in when I compounded things by not having cash for the fare. I had thought I had given my card information when I made the reservation, but apparently had not.
I had talked him into taking me over to the Wells Fargo ATM. He left me behind to wait in line behind a pick-up truck while he went off to grab another passenger. Once I got my dough, I lamented my decision to leave all my stuff, tickets, passport, computer, cell phone and such in the van while he went off to snag the next passenger. I really didn't have anything to worry about, but still it was a stupid move.
While waiting the urge to pee grew and in desperation took a whiz behind the Snappy Mart. Ten minutes later the van returned and I hopped up front for the ride over to Arenas Valley and our final pickup before the short ride to Deming. At Deming we had a brief pit stop at the local hospital, picked up another passenger and drove over to Las Cruces to fill the tank before setting off for El Paso.
More bad news, I found out that getting deposited downtown in El Paso was no longer an option offered and I would have to take the ride all the way over to the airport, and figure out the way to my hotel from there. Fortune smiled on me when we pulled up to the van drop-off point and I spied a stop sign for Sun Metro, the local bus service. A quick call and I knew the way and the fare needed. A good thing indeed, since the minimum taxi fare out of the airport was ten bucks and word on the street indicated the total fare would have been anywhere from twenty to thirty depending on the driver and whether they thought I could be fleeced.
One hour, one transfer and $1.50 later I was downtown and checking in to the Gardner Hotel. The elevator was temporarily out of commission so I had to haul my stuff up two floors. Winded I got to my door and was disappointed to find it was not the corner room I have gotten in the past. With one less window to peer out of I unpacked and gathered my dirty laundry. The coinage needed was steep, two dollars for a wash, and $1.25 to dry. One pass was not enough to dry so I ended up paying $4.50 to wash and dry one load.
One good thing developed. The hotel was just installing a wireless router so I took advantage and took the time to update the blogs, photo gallery, work email, and finally upload the videos taken along the way. After sunset I went out into the blustery night and settled on down to my favorite spot in the Southwest, The Tap on San Antonio Ave.
Aside from a city smoking ban, nothing had changed in the warm, friendly confines of The Tap. Black vinyl upholstery, the glow of red neon, Amber Bock on tap, the spartan confines of the john, all accentuated with the sounds of contemporary Mexican music off the CD jukebox. The prevailing tongue inside The Tap is EspaΓ±ol Mexicano, but the atmosphere is quintessentially universal: a workingmans' tavern with elan and panache. A place for joyous interaction, a celebration of life. Feed the belly and fuel the soul.
And feed I did, ordering a small pitcher and a couple of chile relleno burritos: New Mexican chiles stemmed and stuffed with cheese, breaded, fried, wrapped up in a tortilla with refritos and served with the house salsa picante, a rustic red chile puree. So good and spicy going down, so purgative and unforgiving upon exit.
After watching the Bays score their tenth run in the playoff against the Sox, I took a walk around downtown looking for a bag of cacahuates JaponΓ©s, a common bar snack of roasted peanuts with a crunchy corn meal or flour shell seasoned with soy sauce and MSG. I perused the snack bar at the Greyhound station to no avail, but eventually found some small bags at the Chevron station on the other side of the freeway. I spent the evening with my peanuts, a Mounds bar, and a big bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper, watching Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern until sleep compelled me to turn off the TV and doze off to the whir of my little travel fan.
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If I were home I'd be poring through old correspondence, looking for a tale about Belle. Alas, I'm not at home and my powers of recall don't appear to be focusing on any particular anecdote. Our worlds parted a while back, but I still think of her fondly. I've lost a few other friends these past years of the new millennium: Jenny, Seta, Popocatapetl. But Belle, the alpha bitch that she is, rises above all.
If I believed in an afterlife she'll be waiting there to play ball incessantly, or to snuggle up with in bed, another security blanket against the never ending struggle to sleep in peace.
And so the world gets a little smaller, a little colder, and not as fun as it was when all we wanted out of life was to find a hole in the fence and run around the neighborhood for a few glorious moments of freedom.
At lot of water under the bridge of a river that has since gone dry. I will miss Belle. Now, she becomes a memory.
Train in the distance rumbling by. The main line of the old Southern Pacific runs through El Paso and like the UP track in Reno it has been relocated down in a big ditch. I don't know if this has a amplifying effect of not, but it is a welcome sound.
Time for a shower, and breakfast at the Tejas Cafe. My plan today was to make a day trip to JuΓ‘rez to look for a place where I can enjoy both Cuban rum and tobacco and perhaps pick up some prescription topical lotion and/or a bottle of tequila, but I'm now more interested in the promise of cheap hi-tops at the Converse outlet store way the hell out of town, north of Mesa. It figures that the lure of cheap shoes outweighs snagging a bottle of Chamucos or Corralejo.
When I said the outlet store was way the hell out of town I wasn't kidding. I caught the #15 bus downtown around 9:45am and I didn't get out to the mall until 11:55. I had a long, long layover at the corner of Mesa & Doniphan and so I went browsing at Western Beverages. Everything spoke to me from the Tequila Corralejo to the Texas-fifths of Tito's Vodka and St. Brendan's Irish Cream. But I kept my wallet in my pocket until I spied Jack Daniel's Green Label on the shelf and just had to buy a bottle for Terrible Tom Suk in San Antonio.
According to the Jack Daniel's website, Green Label is a lighter, less mature whiskey with a lighter color and character. The barrels selected for Green Label tend to be on the lower floors and more toward the center of the warehouse where the whiskey matures more slowly. Suk said Green Label was difficult to find and I believe that to be the case in Iowa. As for Texas, I don't know. Suk indicated an interest and so I obliged.
Once I got to the outlet mall I spotted the Converse store right away and pored through their selection, looking for size 11 on sale. I snagged four different pairs and left 75 dollars poorer. The Dow may have plummeted today due to weak retail sales, but not because of me. You hear that, terrorists! I spend freely!
Left the mall at 1:05pm and got a break when I transferred on to an express that got me back downtown by 2. Coming up on three o'clock now and I think it would be good time to stroll around downtown for a bit and catch a bite to eat at The Tap. Last night in El Paso so I might as well do something nice.
| Photos from the Picasa Web Album: El Paso |
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