Old Mexico
Old Mexico
Rain + five hours to spare until my flight leaves = wandering around downtown again. Figured I could clock in some valuable shopping time, maybe replace my busted heels, even though the conference is over. (My husband wouldn’t know when I bought them, and it’s hard to let slide this valid excuse to spend money.)
Except nearly every store was closed.
I had to check my agenda. Yep, it was Saturday. At 2 p.m. But here I was, in the heart of this rather large city, meeting only locked doors.
Except for Hale’s Shoes. A man who I took to be Hale greeted me behind the counter –smoking a long, unfiltered cigarette. The shop had that dim, wood-panel dungeon atmosphere about it that made me want to once again check my agenda, this time for the decade.
Settled for hot chocolate at a diner with booths stickier than Johnson’s Corner cinnamon rolls. As I sat in silence and gazed at the black and white checkered floors, I concluded the “New” in New Mexico is meant sarcastically.
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