I drove from Albuquerque to Roswell yesterday.  I’ve been doing it almost every week since I’ve been here, and I have to say that it is one of the more pleasant tasks that I have ever known.  A big part of this is the fact that I have been listening to A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin since I started driving between the two places.  A fantasy audiobook seems to have the power to make any facet of life more enjoyable.  The drive is also so easy.  I drive straight on the Forty, take a right on 285 and—after miles and miles of the same—I’m in Roswell.  There is rarely any traffic on the Forty, and 285 is like a giant empty runway.  It cuts straight as an arrow from north to south.  There are a few high spot on the road and from their subtle peaks you can not only see the last fifty miles that you drove in the rearview but the next fifty to come.  Since there is nary a gas station between Albuquerque and Roswell, I always get fuel for the car before I begin the journey as well as fuel for the soul: Combos, Powerade and Fat Man’s Beef Jerky.  There are no distractions, nothing else to do, just miles and miles of road.

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When I drove through Mexico with Tyler, there was a long stretch of highway through the Sonora Desert that is truly desolate.  There is no fuel, no food nor towns.  The road is not well maintained, but the elements and the traffic have done little to weather it.  It is dry, hot and dusty.  The asphalt seems to be self-leveling in the hot Mexican sun.  There are speedbumps, topes, scattered along the highway, but otherwise there isn’t a lot going on.

After miles and miles of the same, as magnificent as the Emerald City, there was suddenly a little restaurant on the horizon.  On a bright orange, outdoor cooker was written: Pollos.  Tyler slowed.  I climbed on the roof of his X-Terra as the vehicle came to a stop and took out my camera.  This little restaurant was a sight to behold.  We were something of a spectacle as well I suppose—at least as rare as this oasis was a couple of güeros climbing around on their car across the highway.  A storm was coming.  We went south, but on the way back up, nine or ten days later, Tyler stopped there to eat.  It was nighttime, they remembered us, and Tyler told me the food was terrible.