Like I said, it wasn’t so thrilling. In fact, I wrote about it last night, then I lost interest, so I saved the post…or so I thought.

The only two moments I want to recreate are:

1) The super-intense (and very knowledgeable) woman at the tourist office in Las Vegas telling me that she’s a big supporter of the Jews, because, well, without the Jews, there wouldn’t be any Bible. Then she told us some anecdote involving a child saying something cheeky-but-oh-so-true about Jesus. This came up because we’d asked the whereabouts of a Jewish cemetery someone had mentioned to us earlier.

2) We stopped at a U-pick raspberry farm, and got some raspberries. They were good and all, but that’s not the point. More fascinating: I believe this is the first time I’ve ever been doing guidebook research and gotten somewhere during the correct season. I am forever peering in windows at dustcloth-covered furniture, taking photos where I hope the “closed” sign isn’t too obvious, and wrapping my sweater tighter around me as I look out at the lovely Caribbean Sea.

It’s an extension of a road trip I took with my friend Chris in college, where we drove all over the South and managed to hit every scenic spot after the sun had gone down. Oh, and we were in the botanical gardens in Birmingham way too early in the spring. If I’d known my life would continue to be like that, I think I might’ve not bothered to renew my passport, and maybe gotten a library job like I’d been considering.

On my next trip, I’ll actually be in Mexico for the Day of the Dead. Could this be the start of a new era?

Yesterday was only mildly more entertaining, but today–hoo-ee. Hold me back. Rrrowwr. Crrrraaaazy times. Yee-haw. Etc., etc.

I’m in the cow town of Clayton, NM, just a few miles from the Oklahoma panhandle, and although I sound catty, it’s only to disguise the fact that I’m crying inside.

I just went to the Luna Theater to see the forgettable Step Up, because that’s what was playing, and it was only $5. Junior Mints were $1.50. There were only about five other people in this giant theater with a beautiful velvet curtain from the 1930s, and groovy Deco-era wall sconces and gorgeous hardwood floors. It was easy to find the theater, because Clayton has about two streets, and one traffic light. No one was at the movie, it turns out, because they’re all at the high school football game. And when we came out into the damp, cool night, you could definitely smell the cows.

What must it be like to grow up here? I was pretty isolated as a kid, but nothing like this. We could at least drive to Albuquerque. From here, the big city is Las Vegas–Las Vegas, New Mexico, that is. And that’s where you’ve got to go if you want to see Jackass 2. Believe you me, Beverly and I were quite bitter to be driving out of Vegas today when we saw that new movie on the marquee at the other theater (the one that’s open, not the Serf).

Also, as we were driving out into the open prairie, we heard, ever more faintly on the AM station, about the great mariachi concert we were missing, and the fiesta and parade tomorrow, and so on and so on.

By the time we rolled into Clayton, it was just static, and we had to entertain ourselves by reminiscing about the last time we were in this part of the state, a good 14 years ago. It was a day drive that’s stuck with us only because it was so monumentally boring: all we did was maybe climb over a fence somewhere, not get let into a bar in Roy because we had my under-18 brother with us, and then, right before we turned around in despair, ran over a snake by accident. I still feel bad.

But here in the present, we’re in Clayton for the night, and we’re staying in hands-down the nicest hotel around. It’s almost ridiculous how much nicer it is than anything else. And they keep laying on the details–like, do they really need the scrolling sign that crows, “Our staff has 160 years of experience!” Dude, you have a light in your reception, and the doors aren’t falling off the hinges–you win, OK? Just chill.

I’m leaving out the other nice hotel, the Eklund, because I haven’t checked that out yet, but honestly, even if it does have historic charm, it is still getting its ass kicked by the Best Western in everything but the historic charm department.

I haven’t seen the Eklund’s rooms because I found myself in a weird ethical bind earlier. See, the Eklund is also about the only place to eat in town, so I didn’t want to march in and ask to see rooms, and then go eat dinner, because my cover would be blown, and they might be all fawning at dinner (or worse, they wouldn’t), and it would be awkward.

But then we had to send the trout back because it tasted like dirt (what is up with that? Is every fish in the world now farmed in a squalid box of muck?), which no one could really grasp. “Well, uh, if you order the fried fish, it doesn’t taste so fishy,” said one waitress with an apologetic shrug. “Not fishy,” Beverly said. “DIRTY.”

Meanwhile, my steak, which had probably been part of a cow that contributed to the very manure I’m smelling now, was delicious. We ate our baked potatoes in foil, and drank our half-carafe of house red (we spent a little extra to get the next up from Inglenook), and reminisced about how this, plus fried zucchini, was the height of dining fashion in the 1970s. Then we tipped big and ran across the street to the movies.

But it was a minor scene. And seeing how there are eight people in this town, it’ll be a little weird to march in there tomorrow and ask to see some rooms. “Oh that’s why she thought our fish was dirty,” they’ll whisper. “She’s some big-city writer type. Mmm-hm.”

Oh well. Then we’ll blow on out of here, and they’ll stay right where we left them. I just hope some better movies come to town.

Sorry, I was just doing some research on Palancar Reef in Mexico, and came across one of those horrifically cliched-many-times-over bits of travel writing that make you wonder if it’s being done Mad Lib-style:

Cozumel is an island of contrasts. It is a quaint and timeless village, a charming mix of Mayan and Mexican cultures. It is a modern resort, assuring the services and amenities today’s sophisticated traveler appreciates. It is white-sand beaches and rocky coves fringing a vast uninhabited jungle. But most of all, Cozumel is turquoise, tepid waters and fabled reefs.

Really? “X is a Y of contrasts” is to travel writing as “The X was a revelation” is to food writing. Banned.

(But then I also read this and cringe a little, because I’ve certainly thought about places being full of contrasts. It’s hard not to when you see a donkey next to a Mercedes, for instance. So when you’re writing something like that, it at least seems true. And I also cringe because I have a feeling I’ve used the phrase “vast uninhabited jungle” at some point. Mental note: pencil in self-flagellation.)

Anyway, that’s not really what I came here to complain about today. In fact, my main complaint is that it’s Day 1 of my second New Mexico research trip, and already I’m gripped with paralyzing jadedness. Southwest NM, which I toured in April/May and only just recently finished writing up, was interesting at first, but eventually became a tortuous exercise in describing ghost towns–there are scads of them down there, all with the same “and then 1893 happened, and the place went bust” story (1893 was the silver devaluation). Now here I am in the opposite corner, the northeast, and I’m dreading the tales of dead railroading towns I’m going to encounter.

I’m in Las Vegas, NM, which is the polar opposite of “Vegas, baby” Vegas. There are no high rollers here, no players, no glittering lights. The movie theater is named the Serf. I’m not sure why. But it does seem like the least glamorous name you could choose. Also, alas, it looks like it was last open when In Her Shoes was playing. I have not seen any of the actors from Red Dawn prowling the streets (it was shot here), but I have seen lots of guys in with mustaches. In fact, they’re all downstairs in Bucky T’s Saloon, in the lobby of my hotel.

Early this afternoon, Beverly and I wound our way up Hwy. 14 (aka the Turquoise Trail) and through the town of Pecos, and then cruised Villanueva State Park. We didn’t want to backtrack, so I scouted out a little dirt road to get us back to I-25. We drove and drove, and eventually came to the village of El Cerrito, which was pretty hardcore, because when you think about it, there are very few communities in the U.S. today that cannot be accessed by at least one paved road–especially in regions where it snows heavily in the winter. The whole place was built of adobe bricks and tin roofs–in that respect, it looked like a village in the Pyrenees, where everything is made of the same material. A guy with a mustache in a pickup truck told us we couldn’t go on–never mind what the map said, there was no more road.

So we drove back and back and back, and then got back on I-25, and I have to say, that stretch between Santa Fe and Las Vegas is one of the dullest in the state. For about two minutes, you’re thinking, Wow, rolling plains! And look at that big sharp ridge way over there! And then you’re settled in, and nothing changes for the next 45 minutes.

It was around then that Beverly said, “OK, I think I’ve seen about enough of the rest of New Mexico. Can we go home now?”

I know this is not the boundless curiosity that people want in their guidebook authors, but we all have our bad days. Las Vegas is quite pretty, and I’m suprised it’s not more gallerified than it already is, given its proximity to Santa Fe. (Must be that dull, dull drive.) I won’t even mention dinner, because it was also quite dull.

Tomorrow will be a livelier day, I trust. Land of contrasts, don’t you know…