The sign
in front of the Zuni pueblo said, NO PHOTOGRAPHY OF RELIGIOUS OF
CUTURAL ACTIVITES. I put my iTouch away out of respect as we we drove
through. The sky
was full of fat, fluffy, flat-bottomed clouds. Then it started
raining. Suddenly, it hailed. It cleared up as we left the pueblo.
Clouds
swirled all over the sky as we hit the El Morro National Monument.
They got thicker as we climbed up to the ruins of the Atsinna
pueblo. A raven warned us that we could be struck my lightning. There
was thunder. And lightning in the distance, getting closer. We took
the raven's advice, and left.
We saw
ravens all over on this trip, big ones, strutting around like they
owned the place. Don't know if any were brujos in disguise.
We
passed the El Morro Ranches Subdivision, and a USE EXTREME
CAUTION sign on the way to Grants, “The City of the Spirit,”
where we checked into the Super 8, and had another dinner at El
Cafecito. The spices on the tacos were subtle at first letting you
taste the meat, then they got the inner ears tingling, and the nose
running, and made a proper mess.
Back
at the motel, TV news of the apocalyptic: a killer earthquake in
Italy, tornados in the Midwest, Trump accusing Hillary of being a
bigot, and then there's something called the Alt-Right . . . Whither
goest thou, America?
Something
to ponder in Grants, New Mexico, an old uranium mining town that
after the Cold War became a place to stay to see wonders like El
Morro and El Malpais. It's Postapocalyptic and Postmodern, but
doesn't realize it, which give it a unique 21st century
American charm.
How
did that large white rabbit (definitely not a native cottontail)
become roadkill? Could it be an escapee from a local mad scientist's
lab? I wondered as we passed a store with strange metal chairs with
lots of electronics attached – like props from a vintage sci-fi
flick.
In
a drug store I found Alien Amber Ale, and bought a six-pack. It
seemed fitting.
After
cruising the magnificent desolation of the lava-fields of El Malpais,
Em and I explored Grants' Main Street/Santa Fe Avenue/Route 66, with
its murals, quaint motorcycle shops, bars, eateries, motels, and
strange vehicles. Some are still in business, others dead and
abandoned, and often it's hard to tell which is which. Not a ghost
town. Maybe a zombie town, but if you say so, it comes to life and
objects.
We
had dinner at El Ranchero Cafe, in Milan, a little further down Route
66. The walls were decorated with a picture of Zapata in his skinny
jeans, and a Villa Wanted poster that offered a $5000 reward for the
general. The food was “Mexican Mexican” enough for my
mother-in-law, though a poster advertised TACOBURGERS FRIES & COKE X-HOT for $7.99. The tacoburgers looked like Navajo tacos,
or Indian tacos as they call them in New Mexico.
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