June 1, 2010: some concluding Colorado weirdness (and more!)

Leaving Santa Fe this morning. We just stopped at a reservation gas station and filled up on cheap gas which will help us on the way to Phoenix. Santa Fe’s a funny little place, filled with adobe-style homes, shops, municipal buildings, tourists, and little plazas. Germans, Frenchmen, and lots of American tourists were swarming yesterday on the Memorial Day holiday, checking out the town’s endless art/jewelry/rug/chile shops. If you’re in the market for any of these items, Santa Fe will not disappoint. I saw a lovely pair of zebra striped man-sized busts that I suggested we pick up to decorate the Van, but that idea got nowhere. I struggled to see what’s going on in Sante Fe besides the tourism economy. It is a charming town to visit, regardless. We spent the night in a motel parking lot, hanging out and watching 30 Rock before bedtime.

On the way from Mesa Verde to Santa Fe we passed thru the Ute and Navajo reservations. Funny thing—as soon as you get to the reservation borders the land invariably becomes dry and barren. It’s almost as if the government gave the displaced natives the most inhospitable and unproductive land possible.(!) At a gas station on the Navajo res in NM, we met an older gentleman named Harry, a lifelong resident. He greeted us and asked us all about the trip, then welcomed us to the reservation and pointed out several times that this is the country’s largest. He genuinely wished us an enjoyable visit to the reservation and pointed out his pride in its self-governance. His friend inside the store had to come out and yell “Harry! Gas!” reminding him why they had stopped.

Funny thing happened in Durango, Co, where we spent an evening before heading to Mesa Verde. By the way, that evening we tried our first Walmart parking lot night, and sure enough, lots of campers and fellow vagabonds were passing the evening. Other than the overhead lighting and a noisy street-sweeper, we had a pleasant night beside a little tree and grass patch. But that’s not the weird thing that happened. You see, we had some recommendations of places to go in Durango for dinner/nightlife, and first stop was the Himalayan Café for dinner. This was a nice little place on the main drag with an extensive menu. We walked in and heard live music, and when the host seated us, I asked “what is that in that room? A private party?” He nodded and said “want to sit in there?” The band sounded pretty good (they were finishing a cover of “These Boots are Made for Walking”) so we said why not? and went in.

The room had tables in a U formation facing this band, which was comprised of a raggedy mix of people. The bassist looked like Shaggy, and there was a Dave Grohl-esque drummer hammering away while an older fellow with a partial Abe Lincoln beard plucked at an acoustic guitar and faced the band. Rounding the band out was a voluminous momma who played guitar and belted, and a similarly sized guy who could crank out a blistering guitar solo to any old song. The odd thing though was that as the evening progressed, it became apparent that all these people (the band and audience) knew each other. Sure enough we had ended up in a party of teachers who were celebrating the end of the school year. Celebrate they did, too! The strangest sight I’ve seen in a while happened when all the ladies got up to get down on the dance floor in front of us. An elderly African-American woman noodled in the corner while a crazed Japanese woman grabbed and spun around her dancing partner, who looked like a librarian. Meanwhile a lady who was nearing the geriatric threshold did the twist, while others made more unconventional/ indescribable dance movements. By this point the waiters had long forgotten the two of us, who were left to fend for ourselves and fight off the ladies who were trying to pull us into the Teacher Dance.