S.B. asks: So where does a couple who lives in the woods go when they go on vacation?
Even deeper into the woods!
But to get there, we had to begin our trip with a stop at a bona fide city. Well, city by Land of Enchantment standards. Our fair state's skies are wide and our mountains as imposing as any skyscraper. But our cities, not so much.
This one, Silver City, population 10,000 people and a couple hundred house pets, is a charmer. Everything I require in a town: a fascinating Wild West history (outlaws! rebel Apaches! determined settlers!), a rockin' revamped downtown (art galleries! funky coffee houses! relocated NYC chefs who serve pate!), and the crafty use of color whenever possible:
Talk about feeling like you're in another era:
And, of course, every Western Town needs one of these:
A bona fide 1800's-era hotel, complete with a lobby that would have made Lily Langtry proud and rooms that push the envelope of quaint right on over the edge into marginal. In a quaint kind of way.
The Baby was oh so glad she got to spend the night outside. Because that's when searing daytime desert temperatures thankfully plunge into the much more manageable mid-fifties.
But did either Moi or S.B. really grok the full implications of the front desk manager's warning to "fill the swamp cooler up with water from the sink and let it run."? Oh no. We were too elated with the prospect of scouting out some local art and dressing up in Big People clothes for our first fancy Dinner Out in a coon's age to really worry about the temperature in our room.
So we filled said swamp cooler, dressed ourselves up, and went merrily tripping down the street to Shevek & Mi where we had a fabulous, romantic-type dinner, complete with a bazillion courses (pate! lobster bisque! Tourenado of beef!) and wine to match. We were, in fact, having such a good time staring into each others wine-soaked eyeballs that Moi didn't even go tearing around outside when a big ol' cow-spotted pit bull and his owner came bustling along the sidewalk. Because it would have looked utterly ridiculous, Moi in my Big Girl dress and heels mooking all over a fat-faced pit bull in front of one of the toniest restaurants in southern New Mexico. So if I could pull my mind from the pit bull, I certainly wasn't thinking about the temperature back at the room.
But as soon as we opened the door, it hit us. A wave of 86 degree heat that turned our charming 19th century bordello-esque abode into the sauna from hell. Thank God S.B. had the good idea to soak some bath towels in water, drape them over our bodies, and crank up the fans. 'Cause Moi, well, I was about to high tail it for the nearest Holiday Inn Express, never mind the atmosphere.
So, that was how we spent night one: somewhere in between hypothermia and heat stroke. We sure do know how to travel . . .
Stay tuned for more chronicles of our adventures, including: why Moi spent the rest of the trip channeling Eric Cartman and how she nearly took home an aged, stinky, cranky ass cattle dog named Ivy.