TV got to Albuquerque before I did.
Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul shone a bright but mostly unflattering light on this place. Strip malls and desert heat and drug thugs. Whether they got any of it right, I genuinely couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t there long enough to know. Seemed nice enough to me, especially from the rooftop view of the Apothecary Lounge.
Yeah, that’s right. Rooftop view. You’re jealous. I get it.
The Hotel Parq Central is on Central Avenue, Route 66. It was built in 1926 as a hospital. A century later it’s a boutique hotel, and the team running it took good care of me even though I paid the 2026 equivalent of Groupon prices for the room. A smallish room with a bed like heaven and an enthusiastic array of floor lamps.
It is much classier than I am, and it knows it.
I had two books left. One for the Southwest Chief, and one for Albuquerque itself.
Hi! I’m Heisenberg.
I propped him on the TV stand with a note that said please enjoy the gift. I put on my hat and walked out.
Nobody expects Heisenberg.
My honest expectation: housekeeping finds it. Straight to the trash, with the used soap and whoever’s forgotten charger. I know that. I left him behind anyway, because, you know, maybe. That’s been the guiding principle and promise of this whole goofy enterprise.
Also, it’s Heisenberg. No telling where he’ll end up.
I boarded Amtrak’s Southwest Chief for my return trip and was joined by a seatmate, fake name Netta. She was riding as far as Lamy, the very next stop. She was cashing in expiring Amtrak loyalty points before she lost them. She would disembark at Lamy to meet her husband and make their way up to Santa Fe, or maybe stay in Lamy, or some combination. The details weren’t the point. The points were the point.
She dug through her colossal purse, and then dug deeper. And then the concerted archeological energy of a full purse excavation. “I cannot believe I didn’t bring my book.”
I didn’t say a word. I swear.
More digging. “Honestly,” she said, exasperated. “I left my book. I don’t have my book.”
“Well, you brought this on yourself,” I said. “I can hardly be blamed for what happens next.”
Then the spiel. She received it like a champ. If she wasn’t delighted, she did a damn good job of acting delighted. The genre probably wasn’t her thing, but the spirit of it was on target, and that was enough. She thanked me and tucked the book into her purse, where her book was supposed to be. It didn’t come up again.
We talked music instead. Turns out the book she’d left behind was Lucinda Williams’ autobiography Don’t Tell Anybody the Secrets I Told You, her 2023 memoir. I told her I’d once interviewed Lucinda’s father, Miller Williams, and that he’d read me a poem from Lucinda’s first-ever book, which she wrote in second grade. It was conversational one-upmanship, and I noticed. Note to self: shut up once in a while.
She showed me her cat, a spectacular calico. To clarify, it was a photograph. She did not have her cat in her purse, although it was a really big purse.
She told me her story. She doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs. But she has always been the one holding the wheel while everyone else loses their minds. She’s always the designated driver. Keeper of shit together. She has a memory box jammed full of decades of carting around her friends, watching the chaos from the sober side of the story. A genuine merry prankster, now well into retirement, she was having fun pulling those stories back out. I was happy to be there for it.
She gave me her fake name Netta without a fight. No story behind it, or none she offered. Sometimes a fake name is just a fake name.
She disembarked at Lamy carrying the last copy of Turn Left. She didn’t scan the QR code. I didn’t push for it. I’m sure she knows a teenager.
I watched her through the window and thought about the Lamy station. You’ve gotta love this place.
When Amtrak cut its full-time agents at Lamy station, the community stepped up. Volunteers now greet passengers with luggage carts, help with the Santa Fe shuttle, and keep a waiting room stocked with snacks, a lending library, and a station cat named Harvey, after legendary Santa Fe Railway hotelier Fred Harvey. The whole place, population about 210, has organized itself around the idea of being a good stop for passengers of the Southwest Chief.
Disproportionate civic energy notwithstanding, the physical depot has a forgotten look. Scruffy gets you about halfway there. Old adobe, spare. Out at the far end of the property there’s a little park featuring picnic tables many styles and sizes and states of disrepair. I think someone just said, “Put the picnic tables over there” and that was that.
But we missed the key detail back there. The Lamy station has a lending library. Take one, leave one.
I did not think to leave one. Never crossed my mind until far too late.
Sigh.
JJ texted somewhere around Raton: Amtrak says the train is on time.
Me: Wait a few hours. It’s Amtrak. Anything can happen.
Okay. Here’s what I’ve learned. Or, in some cases, remembered. Or, in some cases, am having difficulty learning.
Once you leave, stay gone.
Tip the bartender before you give the bartender a book. Not after.
Also, in that scenario, tip well.
You don’t have to say everything you know.
Always have one more book.
It really sucks to meet the perfect person minutes after you hand out your last copy.
Read the room, asshole.
Once you leave, stay gone.
Yes, again.
Wear comfortable shoes.
Ubers get expensive fast.
Shut up once in a while.
The best stuff happens when you aren’t expecting it.
It doesn’t always work.
But mostly it works.
They may not want to be in your movie.
That’s fair. Be in theirs. Steal a scene and get out fast.
Hydrate.
Once you leave, stay gone.
Seriously. Learn this.
We pulled in to the Newton station at 1:49 AM. Three minutes early. My suitcase was fifteen books lighter than when I left. JJ was waiting, and I was happy to see her.
Time to get home. The streetlights have been on a long time.
