It starts like this:
Desiring to see small town America, I take a backroad from Santa Fe to Las Vegas.
No, not the Las Vegas.
I’m talking about the original Las Vegas in New Mexico, established 70 years before better known Sin City.
The first sign of decline and decay in any town always arrives with the last picture show.
Closed.
Thus follows restaurants, appliance stores and empty retail premises completely erased of all past identity.
They must have been abandoned because… well, who would want them?
For a start, aside from me there are no tourists. And not many locals either. And the few I see not only have no disposable income, they look as if they’ve been disposed of themselves.
The Historic Plaza Hotel, once “The Belle of the Southwest,” stands forlorn, barely open, a weak pulse.
Their website boasts film crews.
Yeah, right: Horror movies?
Moving on (quickly), I’m excited about seeing an old stretch of Historic Route 66 in Tucumcari.
Until I get there.
It should be renamed Route 666.
All the once-charming motels, restaurants and gas stations along this stretch of what was once “America’s Main Street” are derelict and in shambles.
Needless to add, all closed.
The only place open is a cannabis dispensary.
What has happened to the land of the free and the home of the brave?
Further down I-40, smack in the middle of the Texas panhandle, greetings from Amarillo!
After five hours on the road, and picking up an hour crossing into The Lone Star State, there is nowhere else to go unless you’re willing to drive another five hours.
If you like armpits or darker crevices, you will feel right at home.
The Mexican cartels apparently do.
They regard this wheezing, sighing city—symbolic of America’s decline and decay—as a crossroads for the trafficking of lethal drugs and teenage sex slaves—a convenient midway playground between our (non) border and the cartels’ two prime destinations: Santa Fe and Denver.
We bunked at The Barfield, a Marriott Bonvoy hotel I’ve nicknamed Barf for short. It’s the kind of hotel (like so many these days) where the windows don’t open and you must rely on canned air to breathe.
When I consult the thermostat, I discover tonight’s special.
The Barf is on S. Polk, a downtown stretch of bars that get shutdown on a regular basis due to weekend gun violence, presumably wrought by rival cartel gangs.
The locals appear to take it all in stride. This is normal America for them.
But, hey, at least I can order a Guinness for six bucks at nearby Crush. (It does not, however, ease the pain.)
After checking into The Barf, we immediately began plotting our escape.
Best option:
Awaken as early as possible (it is 6:33 a.m. as I write this) and skedaddle before the storm that’s been dogging us since our departure from Montecito six days ago closes roads and allows Armageddon, uh, Amarillo, to keep us… stuck.
Hit Starbucks, then the gas pedal—and never ever look back.