Las Vegas, New Mexico. Late August, elevation 6345 feet above sea level. It's cool, almost chilly and wet with puddles full bore and mud on the trucks far above the wheel well. I check another Motel 6. No ground floor, no smoking. So I leave and try the Super 8 across the street. No vacancy.
I drive a few hundred feet south and lock on to the Imperial. The lot is half low rider, half SUV. Smoking is allowed in room. Price is 50 bucks. The Motel 6 was nearly 80. And the dude behind the counter is cool. Pizza is a call away. A bathroom sink full of Bud on ice is quickly arranged. There's free coffee in the office until 10:00 AM every morning, even Sundays. I bring the iPod inside and tune up with the Sennheisers. Old Gang Of Four.
The pizza ain't bad but the name of the place is Buba's, not Bubba's. Still pronounced Bubba's though. A skinny, juvenile Latino brings the feast and explains that the cool temps and rain are not typical. I guess my luck is improving.
Anyway, like usual, the sun comes up the next day and I'm back on the road headed towards Sante Fe, Albuquerque and Flagstaff. My plan is rage full on across I-40 and down I-17 into Phoenix that day. Just north of Santa Fe I stop for gas and buy four red pork tamales from a roadside (or parking lot) vendor. I will be lucky if I make it to Holcombe. Easy come, easy go, these tamales were like wild animals - dangerous when cornered.
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