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By chris Date: 2006 May 06 Comment on this Work [[2006.05.06.14.06.17010]] |
| OK, Cinco de Mayo rocked. And rolled. Like a hurricane? I guess you could say that. I won't stop you. Numero Uno: dinner at Fiesta's, a pretty decent New Mexican Mexican place - one of the first restaurants I ever tried here in Albuquerque. They use something like brisket for their shredded beef, and their red has a nice tomato base with a delightfully warm finish. Wait. I'm doing a restaurant review. Oops. Anyway, I had a draft Dos Equis Amber with a slice of lime - one beer! - which affected me the way three or four used to. It's been that long since I've drank anything. I was starting to act goofy, so we - ahem, I - staggered over to the adjoining cantina for some pool and people-watching. Belinda just walked, as classy and composed as ever. Dim, smoky places like that just don't do it for me anymore, though. It was cool in a way being there with Belinda, however. Fiesta's was where I went with my ex-wife for our last "get-together" (I don't know what else to call it) after we were divorced. We sat there and both chain-smoked and I was happy because I was dating someone new and peppered her with questions about astrological compatibility. I like to think I've grown up since then. I also like to think I'm actually closer to 6'1". They have karaoke there, and we were hoping to catch some drunk dude belt out "Friends In Low Places" - but it was not to be. The action was somewhere in town, but it wasn't there. So we headed uptown to the Heights where, unbelievably, hail was coming down (Albuquerque has that much elevation change within city limits). Needing something (maybe three or four somethings) impossibly sweet, we opted for where most of the upwardly-mobile-Anglos-with-1.5-kids seemed to be celebrating their Cinco de Mayo - Flying Star Cafe. Best pastries and carb-nightmares this side of Pluto. Would give the good Dr. Atkins fits - if, that is, he were alive and hadn't fallen off his front steps and happened to be wandering the Wild West. Yeah, a lot of "ifs" there, I know. But I like their vibe: They hire people with piercings and tattoos and have a generally funky ambience. The woman behind the counter looked at my driver's license and said, "You look like Ben Affleck. Anyone ever tell you that?" Then she bit her lower lip and looked wistfully...OK, I'm embellishing at this point. But the first part is true. So from there, we headed cross-town just in time for the downpour: flooded streets, lightning on all corners of the horizon, the ominous crashing of thunder. We've had .48 inches of rain since November 1st, so this was a bit different. So that's what those windshield wiper thingies are for! Finally we reached our destination: Central Avenue. Route 66. We were there because Belinda wanted to go cruising, like she used to do back in the day (how cool is that, by the way - being married to a chick who used to cruise Route 66?). Central Avenue is definitely an experience. It's really the first big "Western" main street one gets to when traveling cross-country from the east. The neon was legion - still is, in places. But now it's broken up into several distinct stretches. At its beginning it's a bleak, dark wasteland of RV dealerships and mobile home lots. But soon it changes again into what I affectionately call the Sex Tourism District: crack whores, meth addicts, transgender folks, tweakers, APD officers in disguise hoping to nail horny college students with severely bad judgement. The War Zone. Don't hang out here after dark. Or even in broad daylight. But this seediness eventually morphs into Nob Hill, a trendy couple of blocks of upscale eateries and boutiques selling Tibetan weavings and other assorted goodies that no one really needs but they'll spent a shitload of money on all the same. Then you go past the University, and that's a whole different world, and eventually down the hill into the Rio Grande Valley and downtown. Finally we'd found Where the Action Was - and the snarled traffic, too. Our little inner-city grid was a phantasmagoria of light and action and people and public drunkenness. Across the street was the Atomic Cantina and Burt's Tiki Lounge, two sublime little dives that I cannot really recommend. But they are, hands down, the best places to cheat on your husband at. Don't ask how I know. Stopped for several changes of the light at Gold Street, we watched a lowrider cruise past on three wheels, the vato in the passenger seat (standard Chicano uniform - shaved head, goatee, wifebeater tee) grinning insanely out the window at the passersby. La vita loca. Probably high on life. Not likely, though. From there we beat it back up through the haunted cottonwoods of the Bosque - La Llorona's wailings ringing in our ears - and home. And that was our Cinco de Mayo. Seemed fitting for holiday commemorating the time Napoleon's army got their asses kicked by a bunch of Mexicans. I've left out a few details - some deep kissing at other red lights, other things. Always aim for family-friendly reading - that's my motto. Of course, my aim can be like Dick Cheney's on a Texas hunting trip. But this is our town and we like it. London may be calling but the ringer's turned off. |