Albuquerque

After leaving Santa Fe, I checked into the Imperial and met my current colleague Veronica and her husband, Carl. Dinner was at Los Poblanos, 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 parts of Albuquerque I passed through was more complicated. Some streets 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, in the same store, a knife-sharpening stone sold to me by a friendly local man.

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.