At the Eagle Cafe in Gallup

At the Eagle Cafe In Gallup

I was in the Eagle Cafe, in Gallup, downtown on old Route 66, a place where locals hang out. I mentioned it in my last blog. They have terrific lamb stew. An old man, an Indian, came in and sat in the booth next to mine. As it turned out, we sat facing each other. His face was deeply creased, his eyes sunken. I put him to be well into his eighties. It was clear he had had too much to drink.

He also ordered the lamb stew. I thought his selection reinforced my own decision, you know, eat what the locals eat. I dug into my serving with relish. The lamb was falling-off-the-bone tender, the hominy savory and delicious, the onions and carrots a perfect accent. It was wonderful.
Suddenly the old man gave a shout. I think he could have been heard clear out on the street.
I was shocked, both by the volume and the occurrence. It turned out the old man felt his stew not edible. He complained that he didn't have any teeth and couldn't eat the stew without them. Shoving the plate away, in a show of disgust, he told the young woman serving us to just bring him some soup.

He then sat for awhile, toying with the food on his plate, eating some of the bread and slurping coffee. Then he sampled the mashed potatoes that came with the plate of stewed meat and vegetables, but with his fingers rather than his fork. I looked away in disgust and tried returning to my own tasty meal.

After a few minutes he again shouted out, this time demanding more coffee. The waitress told him she was helping other customers and he would have to wait. When she finished the other table, she brought his coffee, but not before he shouted his demands another time or two.
As she poured his coffee, she caught me watching. She rolled her eyes slightly and smiled. I smiled back and signaled for my check. When I paid her, I added a generous tip, in part to reward her patience with the old man in spite of his obnoxious behavior.
When I later thought about the whole event, I had quite a range of reactions, and my thoughts keep coming to mind, ergo this blog.

Clearly, the old man was rude and obnoxious. On the one hand, there was no excuse for his behavior. I've seen drunks thrown out of places before for behaving like that, and I was glad to see them go. On the other hand, the waitress handled the situation rather well, I thought. I don't know if she excused his behavior, but I think she understood him. I tried doing the same.
An old man should not be obnoxious, but shouldn't an old man be allowed to come into town once in awhile, even to get a little drunk? Who am I to judge? He was very old. He was Indian. Perhaps he carried memories of receiving worse consideration from others than he displayed. Perhaps it was that he harboured memories of injuries beyond his own personal experiences. Maybe he just felt resentment beyond his caring about others, and anger beyond his concerns for what they might do to him in return.

I could not respect his behavior. I'm not even sure I should respect the man. He may be a thorn in the lives of those around him all the time, and may have been that way all his life. In any case, I'm sure he'll inspire a character in my writing somewhere down the line, and I can’t wait to see that.

But I had respect for the waitress and the way she handled him. And for a little while, I thought I gained some perspective and a bit of understanding. I hope to hang onto that. In spite of his behavior, I did feel some respect for the old man, and a little more tolerance as well. And I did like the lamb stew at the Eagle Cafe in Gallup.

After Kingman

After Kingman

Kingman, Arizons was my farthest point west for this trip. I still had additional signings in Albuquerque and Amarillo as I started my return trip, but first, a bit of down time in Gallup, New Mexico.
I used to go to an intertribal pow wow in Gallup. I wondered how much might have changed. Of course, the pawn shops selling Indian jewelry and curio stores selling souvenirs still lined the strip, and native Americans still appeared in numbers for a day or two in town. Not much had changed that I could see. Not like some of the places on Highway 40 that had gone from half-deserted mining towns to boomtowns once again as McMansions and new shopping centers blossomed overnight.
I discovered a restaurant in the old section I hadn't been to before, the Eagle Cafe. The sign said it offered lamb stew. Are you familiar with that? It's pretty common in the southwest, but varies a lot from group to group. The Hopi have a version called "nuc qui vi" that has a clear broth. The Navajo use a tomato base broth. Both seem to use hominy corn, which gives the stew a distinctive taste and combines with lamb extremely well. What a treat. I love it.
The tough part about my stay in Gallup centered on New York. Tropical storm Lee was dumping inches of water on ground already saturated by Irene and a generally wet summer. Lesley was reporting the rise of the creek into our backyard and the state of emergency in the area. It was frightening. Much more so for her.
So many people have been devastated by bad weather this year. Everyone seems to be commenting the same way, first it was a hundred year storm, then a five hundred year storm. Is this the new norm? Or, will it be worse next year? Some talk about end times, and others about global warming. I wonder how many of us who write will be including a flood in our next novel?
I once heard that the adventures you talk about most are the ones that scared the hell out of you at the time. My trip was an expected adventure, but not anticipated to be especially frightening. Old places, new faces. Fresh experiences along a route traveled before. A different reason for being on the road, and a set of goals I hadn't any familiarity with, but not terrifying. Sometimes the greater "adventure" can occur at home, watching the creek come up, and rising to meet the challenge. How did all of you fare with this year's storms? Will you be talking about them for years to come? I hope you fared well.

Kingman Arizona

KINGMAN, AZ

Between Williams and Kingman there's a northern loop of Route 66. You pick it up at Ash Fork, heading toward Seligman to Peach Springs then dropping south to Valentine and then Kingman, with several smaller stops along the way. Typical of the old Route 66 competition for passing motorists, curio shops and eateries along the way try to attract attention with paintings of scenes from earlier days, Route 66 signs, and cutouts of celebraties such as James Dean and Marilyn Monroe. It's garish, but feels authentic and vintage and fun. Tee shirts available everywhere and for two dollars you can get a bottle of rootbeer and sip it standing next to a fifty seven corvette while exchanging notes with a couple from England. Love it.
Some of the ride was windy, and reminded me of my first bike ride crossing the Texas panhandle. When you get a side wind, a motorcycle leans into the wind. This meant leaning to the side for miles and miles. When I got to Albuquerque after that panhandle crossing I had to buy new tires. They had worn smooth on the left side. This time I was luckier. I checked.
When I got to Kingman, I got a motel, a nice one that had been there quite awhile. Imagine my surprise when I saw a plaque on my door announcing the room had been used by Martin Melner, one of the co-stars of the Route 66 television series. I felt like a celebrity myself. Well, almost.
The thrill was dampened a little when I tried to call the place I was supposed to do a signing at the next day. Phone number no longer in service.
Undaunted, I got on my bike and headed for the address. Turned out to be a consignment shop with a for sale sign. Now, I was starting to get worried. Actually, I was thinking of Willy Lowman, from Death of a Salesman. Speaking of Willy Lowman days, I'd love to hear what other we writers have encountered on tour.
I went back to the motel, checked the plaque to make sure I was still the favored one, and started digging though my notes. I found another address, and headed there. Voila! There was Don's Bookshop, in a new location, and Shannon, who I learned is taking over. Long story short, had the signing, enjoyed getting to know Shannon, and did a second signing at the Power House Visitor Center the next day.
The Power House is a terrific structure, now standing for a hundred years. It was used to supply electricity for the construction of Hoover Dam. Had a great time. The magic of the Quality Inn, Martin Melner, and Route 66 didn't let me down.
The high point of my stay in Kingman was having lunch with Clark Isaacs, (Clark's Eye on Books), and his wife, Loreen, at a diner across the street from the Visitor Center. They had reviewed my book, and this was a chance to meet them. The diner was a nineteen-sixties haven with fabulous burgers and malted milk shakes served sixties style, with the metal cup used for the mixer.

Back on the Road

After Deming, I worked my way toward Show Low, thinking I might head toward Payson and sneak up on Flagstaff the back way. The route was gorgeous, with a few twisty turns every now and then to keep one alert. Like a lot of bikers, I find curves a bit fun. On one set, as I leaned through the curve, a sandstone bluff exploded into view a short distance ahead. It was so startlingly beautiful that I almost forgot I was driving.
Later on, the weather became threatening, so I decided it was time to suit up. A corrugated metal building that looked like a garage and claimed to offer food as well offered an alternative. Lunch. As I pulled up, a young man offered the use of a covered picnic area to keep the bike dry. So often, I find people are like that, friendly, thoughtful, caring.
Inside, I ate a microwaved cheeseburger that tasted a lot better than I expected and drank a cup of hot tea that tasted as good as I hoped it would. An older man was entertaining two women with tales of downed planes found to have rich, and sometimes illegal, cargoes. It reminded me the hills can hold a lot of secrets.
One of the women was working at her laptop and I gave her my website address. They were excited at the discovery of a chance encounter with a mystery writer. One of them bought a copy of my book, and I signed it.
After awhile the rain lifted and we all went outside to assess the weather with local experience. The verdict favored an optimistic outlook, so I paid my tab and got back on the road. The line of storms was breaking up, although I was glad I had put on rain gear for the determined few that remained.
I rarely have those kind of encounters in cities. More people, fewer exchanges that prove memorable. Underneath the protective armor there must be as many stories, but not as readily discovered or shared. Maybe that's why I avoid cities when I ride, at least one reason anyway. I always think these chance encounters are a treasure trove of images and ideas for my writing. Maybe they're simply a glimpse back to my childhood growing up in the hills and discovering the world through stories told by others or absorbed through the books I read. Where do you find your connections to the world as you most like it to be, your chance treasured moments?