The lost time incident in Roswell

and the subsequent sprint towards Santa Fe meant we got there mid afternoon, so we found a motel (a singularly unimpressive Travelodge - 0.5 x Super 8. Mediocre 4) and walked into town.

Santa Fe didn't look promising, I have to say. It seemed to be a sleepy, desert-bound St Andrews-style tourist trap for the rich, and the only busy places were upmarket restaurants with correspondingly upmarket prices and waiting times for a table. Eventually we found a reasonable one serving standard (New) Mexican food and then moved onto the one vaguely interesting bar, with giant pool tables at the back.

We played some pool. Dave mainly defeated himself, Josh won (although not until after an embarrassingly long time against me :) and I thoroughly sucked. Trying to get some extra players, we ended up invited to a club by a group of girls called Elena, Nina and Molly (hi, guys!) and so off we trooped.

We were frisked on the way in, paid our $7 cover and had a seat in the opulent back room of the club. We blethered for a while and then went through to the main room (kicking and screaming in my case) where the crowd was rather predictably grinding away to R 'n B and hip hop.

I'm getting a little bored of R 'n B and hip hop. This, plus the fact that my stomach was acting up a bit in a Texas-rebelling-against-the Mexicans way (I suffered something of an Alamo in digestive terms) was enough to convince me to head home, so I left the guys to it and after being pointed in the right direction, wandered off. (I'm getting steadily less tolerant of music I don't like the older I get. I'm going to make an excellent grumpy old man. "What's this crap? I remember when Britpop etc., etc.")

On the way back I was asked for directions by another couple on holiday in Santa Fe and talked to them for half an hour or so, exchanging email addresses and promising to get in touch. The people so far in New Mexico, more so than any other state we've encountered, have been incredibly friendly. Possibly this is because we've been here longer than in any other state, but being approached on the street at 1.30 am in an unfamiliar city would feel threatening anywhere else, but here it was entirely fine.

Instead of staying in Santa Fe for another night, we drove to Albuquerque the next day, having had it recommended to us in both Roswell and Santa Fe. If the Falkirk* and St Andrews of New Mexico both liked it, it was good enough for us.

Our motel this time was on Route 66 (ROCK!) and gets at least a 2 x Super 8 star rating. A walk down Central Avenue, the continuation of R66 through the centre of the city, was unsurprisingly hot and we found a diner, Milton's, just down the road from the motel to cool down in.

Milton's was as near to the canonical American diner as we've seen yet. It looked like it had been built in the '60s, and was staffed by a grizzled old chef, a mustachioed manager and a young waitress doing all of the actual work. We must have been there for an hour and a half, talking to the manager and occasionally the waitress as she explained to us that the town was going to be dead that night:

"All the kids are going to a 12-kegger out near Tijeras. There's gonna be four local bands there and they have jungle juice."
"Oh, right. What kind of music?"
"Some grindcore, or maybe some death metal."
"Right."

We'd already promised to meet up with Molly, who lived in Albuquerque, later that night, so we politely declined the 12-kegger and said goodbye to Milton's. We met Molly and a couple of her friends - Heather and uh, Erin/Arran (sorry man, should have asked you how to spell it!) - and had a few jars in a pleasantly cool beer garden. It was a relief to not have to shout over the din of a club; the chat was excellent and the tequila was smooth. The bar closed a little early at 1.30 am, but still the evening rounded off New Mexico really well.

* There's a Falkirk Triangle, where most of Scotland's UFO sightings are made. Just so you know.