Departures: NM99: Part B

This penguin has nothing to do with Linux... In retrospect, going to the movies was a mistake...

Rio Grande

1999.03.26

The next morning, my camera broke. I liked this camera. It was a Badtz-Maru camera. I'd covered it with Badtz-Maru stickers. I'd even picked up more stickers for it for this trip. But its flash bulb burned out. The camera didn't permit ingres into this area. I made a note--I was going to have to get a camera that allowed for repairs and replacements.

Meanwhile, I picked up a $10 cheapie camera. It looked like the film rewinder would last a few months tops. It would have to do for now.

I decided that this would be a good time to walk to the Rio Grande. I followed a bicycling map I'd picked up at the Tourist Center. I almost didn't find the river. The map said that I wanted Don Gabal Street. I was heading towards where this street was supposed to be when I encountered a Dead End sign. A Gabaldon street branched off from this intersection, so I walked along it for a while--but it was obviously going the wrong way. Finally, I walked back to the intersection and walked down the street marked Dead End. At the the dead end was a little pedestrian gateway onto what was perhaps Don Gabal. I walked down a narrow walkway, surrounded by chainlink fence. Beyond the fence on either side was overgrown junkyard, rusting metal, crumbled cement.

It was almost as claustrophobic as the bike path I'd followed through the railyards of Seattle. I might have thought I was going the wrong way if I hadn't encountered some dog-walkers coming the other way. I must be on my way to something scenic.

Finally I emerged from the fenced-in path, encountering an open path which followed along a little ditch full of water. Surely this trickle couldn't be the Rio Grande?

Photo: "Surely this trickle couldn't be the Rio Grande?"

I was amazed. The Rio hadn't looked very Grande in El Paso, and it would make sense that it would be smaller here, upstream. Nevertheless, it seemed grossly misnamed.

There was a bridge over the ditch. I crossed it, and that's when I saw the wider ditch. This one was perhaps 4m across. Much more impressive. There was a bridge over this, too. I crossed it. On the other side, there was a road paralleling the ditch and a path into the trees. I tried following the path for a bit, but it twisted and turned and didn't seem to be going anyplace. So I gave up on it, backtracked, and followed the road North along the ditch. Was this the Rio Grande?

Photo: "Was this the Rio Grande?"

Some power lines crossed my path, supported by big power poles. The trees had been cleared out from under the lines. I looked down the line of clear-cut, saw the glint of water over a rise.

I walked over. Here was the Rio Grande. It really was a very big river. I suppose most of the fresh water got taken out before it made it under those bridges in El Paso.

I walked North along a path paralleling a river, a twisty path which made its way through trees, trees which were themselves twisty, perhaps shaped by occasional floods. I picked my way past something that might have been a storm drain. I wended my way along the twisty path.

Photo: "Rio Grande"

Photo: "...past something that might have been a storm drain"

I got tired of the twists and headed back to the road along the second ditch. It was straighter. I walked along enjoying the sun. I spotted motion down by the ditch's edge. A roadrunner was running along the bank, looking for all the world like Groucho Marx in feathers. Eventually, it ran away.

Something felt funny. I lifted up my right pants leg, looked at my right ankle. Strings of cotton were hanging out the back, there were bits of fuzz everywhere. It looked like an explosion captured in a photograph. Looking closer, I saw there was blood there. My shoe had rubbed through the back of my sock, and was starting to work on the skin underneath. I'd been planning on walking four miles along the river. Now I was thinking about heading back to my motel, where I had functioning socks.

I kept walking along, slower now, looking for a bridge to take me over these ditches and back to the mainland and civilization. I found one, and soon I was walking East on Candelara.

I stopped at a grocery store to buy some cold orange juice. As I was drinking, I looked at the store next door. It was called Family Dollar. Did they sell dollars? No, it was a thrift store.

I went inside. Sure enough, they sold socks. I bought a bag of sweatsocks, replaced my ruptured one. I took a few steps, and all systems were go.

I didn't especially want to go back to the river. I suspected that I'd pretty much seen everything that it had to offer. I decided to go to the movies.

To the Movies in a Handbasket

I walked along Candelara for a few miles. Warehouses started to give way to strip mall. I'd reached the intersection with San Mateo Street, which was basically mile after mile of strip mall. Somewhere in this mess, some cineplexes were hiding. I turned North, and started walking. I walked a few miles.

The first movie theater had been closed for a long time. It was turning into a gym.

The second movie theater was showing second-run films. I had my heart set on seeing a first-run popular movie. After all, there were theaters close to my motel that were showing artsy movies. I was about five miles away from my motel. The next movie theater would be just one mile further. Surely I could go one more mile.

The third movie was showing first-run movies. I stood outside in front of the ticket window, wondering which movie I wanted to see. Then raindrops started falling. I decided that I wanted to see the next movie showing, whatever it was. It was "True Crime." It was okay. The theater served Icees. Back in San Francisco, my high school chum Peter Tang had been singing the praises of the new movie theater in town: they served Icees. So now I got an Icee, and it really did restore the tissues most effectively.

When I emerged, it wasn't raining, and there were big puddles on the ground. I congratulated myself on having avoided the weather.

Whippersnappers

I walked South, into the gathering twilight. Cars roared by, their headlights turning on. Street on one side of the sidewalk, parking lots on the other. I was a pedestrian in a world of automobiles.

Though it was getting dark, it was warm. I sang "Summertime, and the living is easy." Thanks to all the traffic noise, I didn't have to confront the fact that I wasn't hitting any of the right notes. I was still hampered in that I didn't know any of the lyrics to the song beyond, "Summertime, and the living is easy," but I worked around this problem by singing that line over and over again.

And then there were some other pedestrians up ahead. Some teeny-bopper girls. They were walking slow. I soon overtook them, tried to figure out how to pass. One of them looked back, saw me. She did a fake-scream and ran ahead, laughing. Another one followed suit. Jeezis. The others were more sanguine, and didn't run screaming--but they were still walking slow. Finally, a driveway gave me room to make my way around--but a few meters later I was stopped at an intersection, waiting for the crossing light to turn green. The girls decided to walk fast across the intersection so that they could block me again.

Across the intersection, walking on the sidewalk, again stuck behind the youngsters, I reflected that Albuquerque's youth was starved for entertainment.

I waited for a break in traffic, stepped out into the street and walked past them. The original hysteric noticed this at the last minute, and when I stepped back up onto the sidewalk, she stepped up to keep pace with me, exaggerating her motion. She looked up at me. I looked down at her, smiled, nodded, and started walking fast. Soon they were far behind; they didn't catch up to me again.

I'd been worried about hostile locals in El Paso and Juarez, but I hadn't encountered any until Albuquerque. Still, I don't think the monkey wrench would have helped.

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