Some of my favorite books are travel stories that cross regions, countries or territories of any size, meandering along by various transportation modes, noticing the landscape and people and noting the social, political and economic history when it seems pertinent. The author I’m thinking of right now is Ian Frazier and his books, Travels in Siberia and Great Plains.
For August I will be the Ian Frazier of a particular stretch of Albuquerque walkways. I’m talking about the routes I take three times a week, starting from my house at dawn, wending my way to the Rio Grande and then back an hour or so later. To be a great travel writer one must build their descriptive skills, mile by mile or, in my case, block by block.
TB #1 Eclectic: I have lived on this block for almost 14 years so I’m admittedly biased but it is surely one of the more interesting locations in the city. Just west of downtown, off Central Avenue, on the edge of Downtown Neighborhood Association (DNA) territory, there is this little street of modest homes (one converted to three rental units—extremely homey, attractive and well-cared for by the landlord who lives next door) and a couple of bonus attractions.
On the northwest corner of my pleasant street is the “storied” neighborhood eyesore—a virtually abandoned house, slowly fading, chipping, sagging. Its fifteen minutes of fame was as the location for an episode of Breaking Bad where some generic meth addict’s head is crushed by a falling ATM. Filming was quite a production. First of all they shabbied up the house even further by hanging old sheets in the windows, and junking up the front porch with a few wretched pieces of furniture. Giant trailers parked up and down the street, giant lights focused on the house, giant techie types ambled about and it’s safe to assume at some point a star or two showed up. It is unlikely most people on the block had ever seen the show so they expressed their disinterest by being all tucked in by nine or ten when the night shoot really got going. And all had vanished by morning except, unfortunately, the house, which stands forlorn only visited occasionally by—what do you call Breaking Bad super fans—Breakies? They come solo or in scraggly pairs, sometimes leaving sad little bunches of flowers on the front porch in honor of the crushed dude.
Other end of the block, a two-story house has been freshly painted for a family of lawyers. Every downtown neighborhood needs a few.
Right smack next door to me. I’m thrilled.
And across the street, the newest restaurant—that doesn’t want to be called a restaurant—in town. Bright-brown adobe home with glossy tile inserts and flowers in abundance converted to a place where the few can elegantly dine on Friday and Saturday nights. Charles Place is owner Charles’ retirement dream. The home’s original rooms have been magically transformed into mini-dining rooms, altogether seating about 20. The interior is scrumptious with the glowing colors of Mexico in tile, paint and artworks, all very handsome, friendly, and comfy. There is a set menu of the freshest of produce and meats that Charles has purchased for that weekend only. Tables are booked for the night so the talking and eating and sipping can last six hours should that be your desire. Dining at Charles Place is pricey by Albuquerque standards but given the unique ambiance and the potential for perfectly fresh, perfectly prepared food, it is likely well worth it. I’ll report back in a couple of weeks after my San Diego son, the connoisseur (he thinks!), and I try it out.
There’s a new bank one block from me. Really? We need more banks in this world? People needing more money for their work and families is not the same as adding new banks is it? But capitalism tends to confuse those two issues. And besides it is quite an ugly, or at the very least non-descript, bank. Couple blocks along and the roses are out in glorious bloom which lifts one’s spirits after contemplating the number of banks and bankers in the world.
Then a truck sped down Tingley and hit a duck as it crossed the road with its friends. Didn’t even stop to see whether it lived or not. A kindly man coming behind got the dying bird off the street and was trying to figure out if he could catch the driver of the truck but then what could he do. Truck drivers who carelessly kill things and don’t stop are likely as not have a gun tucked in here or there in the cab so a confrontation would not end well.
A woman was watering her blue flowers. I can’t remember what they’re called.
Back at my house my cactus is awake.