Albuquerque

After leaving Santa Fe, I checked into the Imperial and met my former colleague Veronica and her husband, Carl. Dinner was at a beautiful farm-to-table restaurant set in an old hacienda-like property—lush, quiet, and completely unexpected. The food was excellent, but the conversation was the real reason for being there.

My first impression of the rest of Albuquerque was more complicated. Parts of the city felt deserted, and I noticed considerable homelessness. I returned to the hotel early, searched for a yoga class for the next morning, and fell asleep before I had properly prepared for bed.

The class was close to the hotel, in a neighborhood that felt a little uncertain. The instructor was a kind Navajo woman who gave remarkably precise guidance. It was hot yoga—very, very hot—and by the end, I had sweated through any remaining sleepiness.

I found coffee in one of the city’s more pleasant neighborhoods, returned to the Imperial to shower and check out, then debated whether to rush toward Acoma Pueblo before it closed. I decided against it. The morning had begun slowly, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Downtown, I found a local restaurant and ordered huevos rancheros with red and green chile—Christmas style—followed by complimentary sopapillas. I bought New Mexico chile for friends in Austin and somehow left another shop with a knife-sharpening stone sold to me by a friendly local rancher.

After one more coffee, I pointed the Jeep west. Route 66 had become more than a historical line on a map. It was now the rhythm underneath the trip.