The majority of mankind consists of trusting sorts, people who believe in the reliability of institutions and the sanctity of schedules, poor fools who expect the railroads to run on time, the traffic lights to be sensibly coordinated, the IRS income tax returns to arrive promptly. I am not a charter member of the majority of mankind.
I expect flies in the ointments, critical material falling through the cracks, political chicanery, nearsighted inspectors showing up late to work. When I arrive at the airport, the first thing I do is check the flight schedule board to ascertain how late my plane will take off or arrive. To reduce the chances of tomfoolery, I usually take a very early flight, assuming the aircraft will merely have to stumble a few hundred yards from its comfy hangar and be ready on time. But of course there are no guarantees in the edgy field of aviation, a sad fact learned at an early age. The Sword of Damocles hangs over each and every takeoff and landing.
When Siobhan and I arrived at Orlando International Airport, code letters MCO---either for its former name, McCoy Air Force Base or Mickey’s Corporate Offloading---I was delighted to see all was in order. The flight to Albuquerque via Dallas was on time, and a good thing it was since the connecting flight left the Texas airport only 35 minutes after the first one landed. Around 7:15, however, I was disturbed to observe the aircraft had not as yet arrived at the gate for a 7:30 scheduled boarding.
“We won’t be leaving on time,” I told my companion, who is a member of the majority of mankind despite her otherwise cynical nature. “That means we miss our second flight.” Before she could issue a pish-tosh rebuke, an unduly cheerful Southwest Airlines announcement boomed through the waiting area: we would have a 30-minute delay. When the plane had not arrived fifteen minutes later, I walked up to the little desk at the departure gate and reminded the lady standing behind it that honesty is the best policy and that customers would prefer the hard truth to a long string of further delay announcements. Shortly thereafter, we were advised the plane would be ready in another hour. The problem? The aircraft had not been inspected the previous night, as scheduled.
Now, everybody understands the occasional slip-up in business circles. Some slow-witted secretary forgets to sharpen the pencils, a sluggish mechanic leaves an errant lug nut inside your hubcap, the bathroom manager lets the toilet paper run out. Fine, deficits we can live with. But how does one FORGET TO INSPECT THE AIRPLANE? Don’t they have…you know…a sort of checklist at the plane garage? (1) Vacuum floors, (2) Wash windows, (3) Make sure engine is in proper working order. Something like that. When the maid forgets to replace the towels at the hotel, the irked guest merely has to use a dampie. When the aircraft engine bursts into flames and crashes into the shopping mall, “HUNDREDS DIE IN CATACLYSMIC AIR DISASTER.” Fortunately, in our case Inspector Mindfog woke up at seven a.m., grabbed a quick coffee, realized the error of his ways and made a prompt call to headquarters. What’s the punishment for “failing to inspect,” anyway? Three months of wing deicing in Anchorage? A full Winter of snowplow duty in Nome? If only it were so. At any rate, I am happy to report that a mere two hours past schedule Siobhan and I finally arrived in lovely Albuquerque, where, it turns out, seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. No kidding.
(1) Albuquerque sky, (2-3) Old Town views, (3) Siobhan at Antiquity restaurant.
We Like It Here
Like most of you, neither of us had ever been to Albuquerque. I was headed there once, in the Summer of 1962, when a defective vehicle radiator forced me to take a left turn at Oklahoma City and wind up in Austin, a propitious moment. We found the people in Albuquerque to be mostly courteous, intelligent and happy to be there. The city is a comfortable mix of Anglos, Hispanics and Native Americans, about 560,000 of them, rummaging around the banks of the Rio Grande in New Mexico’s high desert in the north central part of the state. The Sandia Mountains run along the eastern side of Albuquerque, the river runs north to south. In recent years, Albuquerque has become famous as the home of the October International Balloon Festival, the world’s largest gathering of hot-air balloon enthusiasts from around the world. Since we know you’ve been wondering, the city was named in honor of Francisco Fernandez de la Cueva, 10th Duke of Albuquerque, the Viceroy of New Spain from 1702 to 1711. The name derives from the Latin albus quercus, meaning either “white oak” or “get your kicks on route 66,” which runs throught the town and waves on its merry way to Santa Monica. While in the city, we stayed at the venerable Albuquerque Hotel in the Old Town area, walking distance from a conglomeration of funky tourist shops peddling Indian wares like pottery, rugs and jewelry, and Mexican restaurants where you can get sopaipilla pastries if you dare. We dined instead at an intimate place called Antiquity, which we’d aver is the best eatery in town til someone shows us better. Get a reservation or despair.
(1-7) Tramway hijinks, (8) Siobhan surveys the other side of the mountain, (9) Albuquerque in the distance.
The Pair Went Over The Mountain (one of them grudgingly)
All first-time visitors to Albuquerque are required by law to experience the exciting Sandia Mountain Tramway, which extends from a depot on the northeast edge of the city waaay up to the crestline of the mountains and has the world’s third-longest single span. Scofflaws are arrested and taken to the nearby Tinkertown Museum, where they are forced to watch a miniature three-man band bang out Happy Days Are Here Again for ninety days, a particularly onerous plight if you are a Republican.
Siobhan, no lover of scary heights, took one look at the thing and said no dice. On the way in, I asked the toll-taker to give her a rosy report. “No one has ever fallen out and died,” he smiled, helpfully. “See?” I said. “What are the odds you’d be first?” She agreed to go if she was allowed to kneel down on the floor at critical moments and maybe close her eyes.
The car, with perhaps two dozen people aboard, swung in the breeze a bit as it ascended but Siobhan only took a knee once. The 2.7 mile trip to the 10,000-foot peak affords an 11,000 square-mile panoramic view of the Rio Grande Valley and takes about 15 minutes. In the course of the climb, the temperature drops precipitously. Once on the top, you have the option of hiking back down a variety of trails or shooting a few pictures and catching a later car back. We chose the latter. As a reward for her good behavior, Siobhan was allowed to spend 90 minutes in the largest rock shop in town. Fortunately for Bill, he was excused and allowed to go back to the hotel before being dispatched by utter boredom. A good time was had by all.
Mariachi mania at the be-all, end-all spectacular.
Play ‘Misty’ For Me. Okay Then, ‘Cielito Lindo.’
Fortunately for us, we arrived smack in the middle of the four-day Mariachi Spectacular De Albuquerque, a celebration of the art form held annually in downtown A-ville. On the penultimate night, a Friday, mariachi groups gather in the city’s outdoor plaza to vie for the right to take the last position in the next day’s grand finale performance. The plaza is dotted with mariachis of all ages, many to play in the preliminary two-hundred member supergroup. Even without chugging a few beers, there’s nothing like hearing a couple hundred mariachis blasting out ‘El Rancho Grande’ through powerful amps. Siobhan was less impressed but we quieted her with a couple of home-made chicken enchiladas, sold on scene.
Mexican mariachi music is made to move the listener, being direct, driving and designed to instill emotion. Happy, sad, proud, angry, desolate, romantic and rebellious are some of the moods inspired by its extroverted singers. “Mariachi” means a certain repertoire of music, a special grouping of instruments and a distinctive style of singing that can create an unmistakable sound unique in the world. It has a special meaning for many Mexican Americans as an emblem of their cultural heritage and a source of pride and community connection. Mariachi music has origins deep in Mexican history. The sound of its string instruments and its oldest rythms are rooted in Mexico’s colonial times (1519-1810). People from Spain and African slaves and their descendants mingled with hundreds of American Indian cultures to create a new Mexican culture marked by many regions, each with its own musical tradition. The music that was called “mariachi” as early as the 1850s emerged from the ranches and small towns of western Mexico, particularly the states of Jalisco, Michoacan, Nayarit, Colima and Aguascalientes. It’s addictive and irresistable.
I first experienced the music live while in Guadalajara during a number of buying trips to Mexico in the 1970s. The city was famous for its Plaza of the Mariachis, where roving bands surrounded the tables of diners and drinkers and played their favorite songs for a dollar. Well, they did if they happened to know them. Otherwise, the played ‘Cielito Lindo,’ a famous Mexican paean known in the United States as ‘Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay!’ After a few beers, nobody cared. It was a dollar eloquently spent. When I went back to Gainesville, the music stayed with me. I even went out and bought a couple of albums and played them in the Subterranean Circus. There’s nothing like the reaction of a head-shop crowd when ‘Sympathy For The Devil’ goes off and ‘El Rancho Grande’ comes barreling out of the speakers at full volume. They don’t call them head shops for nothing.
(1) Bill with his oxygen can, (2) Near the tramway entrance, (3) View from the top, (4) Tinkertown miniatures, (5) The largest rock store extant. Disa and Data Despite Walt and the Breaking Bad loonies, Albuquerque is a quiet town, a mellow non-touristy retreat where nobody is in a big hurry. The people are welcoming and conversational and largely content with their lot. The city is attractive and well run, the hotel rates are more than reasonable and the place is well located, being equidistant from Los Angeles to Kansas City, from Phoenix to Denver and from Salt Lake City to Dallas. Lucy Ricardo’s pal Ethel Mertz lived in Albuquerque in her secret identity as Vivian Vance. Ethel was a founding member of the Albuquerque Little Theater. The Albuquerque Isotopes, a minor league baseball team, got their mascot name from an episode of The Simpsons, in which Springfield’s baseball team plans to move to Albuquerque. The name won a 2003 fan vote competition in a landslide. While Microsoft is mainly associated with Seattle, Bill Gates and Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen started the company in Albuquerque, where it was located between 1975 and 1979. Route 66, which used to include Albuquerque’s Central Avenue, was originally used to test the feasibility of riding camels in the American Southwest. The Best Friends Forever pet cemetery in Albuquerque accomodates people who wish to be buried alongside their pets. Albuquerque is one of the most highly educated large cities in the country, frequently landing in the top ten when it comes to PhDs per capita. None of them work at the Best Friends Forever pet cemetery. University of New Mexico professor Kent Kiehl’s research involving the scanning of the brains of criminals has allowed him to establish the world’s largest database of brain data from incarcerated populations. The car wash featured as Walt White’s money front in Breaking Bad is a real Albuquerque business, part of the Octopus Car Wash mini-chain, which has seven locations in the greater Albuquerque area. Albuquerque is the home of the first-ever bitcoin machine, which debuted in February in a cigar store called Imbibe. The median age of Albuquerque’s population is 35 years. In Albuquerque it is illegal to sell decidedly shrunken pecans. Decidedly shrunken. What more could a body ask for? Grab your coat and get your hat, leave your worries on the doorstep, just direct your feet to the sunny side of the street. If Albuquerque was good enough for Ethel Mertz, it’s good enough for you. And where the hell else can you ride camels on Route 66? That’s all, folks…. Next Week: On to Santa Fe
