Romancing New Mexico

The hazards of anniversaries, road trips, and wayward jewelry

By Anthonette Klinkerman

Come on, everyone; you know the words: “Well, it winds from Chicago to L.A., more than 2,000 miles all the way…” Since Depeche Mode covered the song back in the late ’80s, I’ve wanted to see Route 66. I’ve also wanted to see New Mexico. My husband’s and my ten-year anniversary was approaching, so we decided to head down to New Mexico to spend it at the Hyatt Tamaya Resort in Bernalillo.

Getting the minivan in road-trip condition cost a small fortune, but as I pointed out to my husband, “The cost of NOT breaking down in the middle of nowhere with your daughter, mother, and wife on the actual date of your ten-year anniversary?” “Priceless,” he responded, on cue.

So off we went, with a five-year-old and no DVD player in the car, but a grandmother. Same difference, right? My daughter has never been a good traveler unless it’s on a plane, but I thought having Grandma along would be entertainment enough for her. I think a mere hour went by before I started hearing, “This is taking too long.”

We finally arrived at the resort by 3 p.m. It is a gorgeous golf resort and spa hidden far from the main road. The complex has a Native American theme, including dancers, storytellers, and clay ovens where guests can bake bread. After check-in, we hit the pool for a little while before our anniversary dinner at one of the hotel’s restaurants. We indulged in the chef’s specialty dinner, and then went to the nearby casino to try our luck. It was good enough to put us ahead about $140, and we probably would have pushed it further had the cigarette smoke not been overwhelming. (My kudos to Colorado casinos for going smoke-free.)

The next day, the Fourth of July, my little one spent the morning at Camp Tamaya making bread and doing kid-friendly activities, while my husband, my mother-in-law and I went to Albuquerque. I’m really not all that into folk art and silver, so my wallet remained closed, although we did have one jeweler try to convince me that I ‘needed’ a $5,000 diamond tennis bracelet. I don’t play tennis.

Earlier that day as we were cruising down part of Route 66, we discovered a restaurant recommended by another relative. It’s called The Range, and seriously needs to be on the Food Network’s show “Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives.” I had outstanding fresh spinach enchiladas, my husband had delicious ribs and mashed potatoes. My daughter and my mother-in-law had the most sumptuous spaghetti and meatballs I’ve ever tasted. Hands down, they had the freshest, most authentic tasting Key lime pie I’ve ever had. To say we were stuffed when we left is an understatement, but that didn’t stop us from making plans to try to return for breakfast the next day.

The fireworks that night were few and far between as we craned our necks from our balcony to see them. We did not have the energy to attend a show, but no one seemed to mind.

The excitement of the evening was my diamond earring going down the drain in the sink, and having to have a plumber come and retrieve it.

An explosion knocked us from slumber the next morning around 6:15. I was outraged anyone would be setting off firecrackers that early in the morning, and I was certain it was some of the wild kids I had seen down at the fire pit the night before. I later discovered it was a soda can that had frozen and blown up in our mini-fridge

The trip back on Sunday was more of the same as we had on the way down, although this time we hit pounding rainstorms that I have not seen the likes of since driving in Ohio a few summers back. Storm after storm washed over us on the way home, and we had an urgent potty stop that failed due to the height of the weeds, but we finally arrived back home by 6:30.

I got my kicks from this summer trip. I can now say I’ve seen New Mexico, I don’t really feel an urgent need to go back, and my husband is no longer laughing at my motor home idea.

Stopping in Las Vegas, New Mexico, we officially found the world’s slowest, and quite possibly the dirtiest, McDonald’s. My daughter wanted a cheeseburger, but since it was only 10:30-ish in the morning, they had not yet switched over the menu. And they were in no hurry to do so.

We stopped again in Santa Fe shortly afterwards for more grown-up lunch fare at La Fonda, which was outstanding. As we were driving through the central plaza, I was on the lookout for a church that more than one person had told me to visit, insisting, “You have to see the staircase at the Loretto Chapel.” I was absently looking out the right side of the van, when I turned to the left and there it was.

If only parking would have been so easy. I jumped out and left the rest of the crew to do that, forgetting my camera in the process. There was no way I was going to ask my husband to go back and get my camera once he joined us, so my mother-in-law purchased a disposable for me.

The story has it that the nuns needed a safer way to get up to the choir loft where the organ was located. They had been using only a ladder, since the church was too small to accommodate a staircase. They prayed on it and a mysterious carpenter arrived, single-handedly built a wooden spiral staircase without any supports whatsoever, and then disappeared. Some say scientists have tested the wood from which it was constructed and cannot identify it. It really is breathtaking.