I wrote this in New Year’s Eve and forgot to post it because I could never get online. Now I’m mooching off the motor lodge next door here in otherwise rustico Taos. Whatever works… So, the recap:

So it’s come to this: Last night I cruised my neighborhood very slowly with my computer on, clicking “Refresh wireless networks” in front of the nicer houses (i.e., _not_ the one gutted in the meth lab fire a couple years ago). No dice. I still have to drive all the way in to Albuquerque — half an hour — to get any kind of internet action.

Just further evidence of a phenomenon I confirmed a couple of days earlier: this is _so_ not the suburbs. I should know this, since I’m from here, but it’s easy to lose perspective about how much has actually changed. When I was a kid, people in Albuquerque asked if there were bears where I lived, and if we had running water. Yes and yes. Inevitably, there’s been development here on the east side of the Sandias, and it seems like every three years or so there’s a big “There goes the neighborhood!” scare. First I think was when the bar called Hillbilly Willy’s closed. That was when kids still asked about bears. Then of course they widened the road, then there was that ugly little strip mall, then there was the Pa’ako development with attendant golf course. You’d think this would have established the area as yuppie turf for sure, but aside from a couple of coffee places and one more small strip mall, the vibe up here is still very mountain-y. By which I mean big trucks, big dogs, lots of wild hair and talk about snowstorms.

The latest suburbanizing scare is the relocation of the Triangle Grocery from its original spot on the side of this giant traffic triangle (very close to my house–this was where I was excited to drive to on countless errands when I first got my license) to a huge new building on the main road.

(Incidentally, it’s right next to another dilapidated relic of Olde East Mountains: Bella Vista, the all-you-can-eat fried chicken and fish place where my ex-stepdad had the misfortune of working for a week, up to his ankles in grease in the kitchen. The little Italian bartender in his black polyester vest made a mean Shirley Temple, though, and life was good when my dad brought his own butter to put on the garlic rolls. But, as you can imagine, it got to be not so popular after a while. Now the enormous 12-room wood building is in total dilapidation, a great grease-coated firetrap. Hmmm. It’s been a couple decades since there was a good fire up here.)

Anyway, on my way home from some little errand (hey, driving is still novel to me!) I stopped in to check out the hip New Triangle. The outside looks pretty swank: big rustic cross beams, pitched roof, sexy lighting on the big sign. But the rough-n-ready mountain style was still in effect: a guy parked in his truck out front was tossing the empty beer cans out of his cab into the truck bed. He had long hair and gave me that chin-up nod. Right on.

So, in through the double doors, and indeed, no damn yuppie-izing had taken place: the most prominent display is for Little Debbie snack cakes, and the next-biggest endcap is all about beef jerky. I took a quick turn through the aisles — enormous — but the horrible mid-school-gym vapor lights killed my appetite. So did the crew of mullet-haired dudes in ski suits rustling through the frozen pizza bin. A few token “organic produce” signs graced the veg section, but Boar’s Head was the prominent offering in the deli case. A little display of Chianti bottles hung up by their little raffia wrapping things was charming in a retro way, but also chilling: I didn’t want a Whole Foods on my side of the mountain, but I do want a decent bottle of wine.

I grabbed some Q-tips and headed to the checkout counter. The final clue that this grocery store was not doing anything visionary or wholesome or extra-green: the register screens all scrolled the same thrilling motivational message: “Let’s sell groceries!”

Groceries, people. Not provisions. Not world-saving eco-fruits of the earth. Not holy granola. Whew. Good thing my neighbors are still the jerky-lovin’ rustics I used to know. I guess.