Fina's Diner

Easter Sunday, 31st March 2013

Map: Farmington to Raton, New Mexico, via US 64---299 miles

Jesus watched us leave Farmington without breakfast.  We drove east on US 64 through Bloomfield, which apparently anticipates a tremendous increase of traffic for their new six lane boulevard.  The highway quickly returns to its 1930s two lane self, gently climbing into the western foothills of the Rockies.  In the vicinity of Navajo Lake there is a very grand far vista of the San Juan Mountains to the north.

This is still oil country, the machinations of it all painted green to blend into the juniper forest.  Eventually we rise above the haze that has persisted over this part of the country, joining the deep blue sky and Maynard Dixon clouds almost close enough to touch.  Towards Dulce I recall wildflowers and meadows, but today only the sky is in springtime---the meadows were brown or covered in snow.

Chama was different, too.  It was still in hibernation, with the only activity crowding around the churches for Easter Sunday services.  The restaurant at the hotel was closed, so we backtracked to the US 64/New Mexico 17 crossroads, where we commented on a dive sort of diner, Fina's.  Might as well give it a try; it was 11:30 and we were hungry.

Upon entering, we practically ran over a tiny, ancient New Mexican grandma.

"Sit anywhere?" asked my husband as he scanned the six or eight tables.  Only one other couple was there, waiting for their order.

"Eh?"

"DO WE SIT ANYWHERE?"

"Oh---yeah, yeah."

We sat and a waitress eventually brought us some menus.  She had a bit of an attitude, although it was soon obvious that it wasn't about us but the fact that she rather watch the women's basketball game on the television.  She was of African American heritage, along with other pedigrees, judging by her mahogany skin.

The menu was unsurprisingly limited---typical diner fare plus a few Mexican dishes.  Instead of French toast for breakfast, there was Freedom Toast.  French fries were, of course, Freedom Fries.  The diner's decor reflected this attitude, although Coca-Cola nostalgia overruled all.

"Are you still serving breakfast?" asked my husband.

"No."

"Okay.  I guess I'll have the patty melt, then."

"Fries?"  I was pleased she didn't waste her breath on Freedom.

"Yes, please."

I decided on the beef taco platter, thinking it might be more of an experience.

A minute later she brought out two taco salads for the table behind us.  Hardly regional fare, but there was something about their appearance said authentic.  Instead of the chain restaurant grandiosity, the shells were smallish, golden and tight around a mess of a mixture.  My husband and I exchanged significant glances and lip smacks.

"Could we change our order to those taco salads?" he asked.

We were both surprised that instead of registering contempt our waitress seemed amused.  "Green or red chili?"

"Green," we chorused.

"Stop those orders," she shouted to the kitchen.  "They want salads instead."

She then settled into watching the television, where the game had yet to begin or had just finished.  They were interviewing a player---a light skinned African American.

"Come out here and look at her!" the waitress called to the kitchen.

"I can't," the cook shouted back.  "I'll ruin these shells if I leave them."

But soon the shells were finished, and the cook emerged and gazed at the screen.  I suspected she was Fina, a pretty middle aged New Mexican with a long, long braid.

"She's so pretty," the waitress said.  "Here brown eyes turn to green and back."

Her familiarity with the others suggested she was a family member, but I couldn't figure out if she was Fina's daughter or a granddaughter or more distant relation.  Later I could hear only snatches her conversation---about the daughter she'd have some day.

Our taco salads finally arrived---utter simplicity, being nothing but hand ground beef over iceberg over homemade chili.  At first I was annoyed by the lettuce being sandwiched by hot layers, but it worked---it stayed crisp enough, and it was fresh enough to exude a pleasing 'green' flavor.  The chili was the prize at the bottom of the bowl---beans just tender enough and mildly flavored, with a fairly clear heavenly liquor with a hint of heat at the back of the throat.  Towards the bottom the remains turned into a delicious tortilla soup.

"How were they?" asked the waitress as she picked up our empty plates.

"Absolutely delicious," we said.

She smiled and nodded.  "Good."

Business was picking up now.  Two middle-aged men came in and took a corner table.  The more handsome of the two kept eying me, and then got up and came over.

"You've probably guessed we're strangers," he began in a sing song Texas drawl.

"So are we," I smiled, but he didn't appear to hear me.  There was a certain affinity between us, and we weren't going to change our expectations.  He reminded me of some guy on Hee Haw---and God knows I never knew his name when I was some ten years old.

"So we need to know what's good here," he finished.

"The taco salad," I quickly replied.  "We just had one with green chili and it was absolutely delicious."

"Then taco salad it is," he smiled and nodded.  He thanked me and returned to his table.

We could overhear their order for taco salads, and the waitress was sure we did, too.  She breezed by us and murmured for our pleasure: "Well, this is turning out to be an easy day."

Oh, the guy from Hee Haw?  Google tells me the Texan was a more handsome version of Buck Owens...

Satiated, we continued on our road trip---passing the beautiful Palo Duro Canyon below Caprock Escarpment to the east.  New Mexico 512 goes right up to the head of the canyon, and we should have turned around and drove that short seven miles.  At least I knew US 64 climbed around Caprock and gave an excellent view of it from above.

Patsy commenced the climb to past 10,000 feet, slowing to a pedestrian 35 MPH growl on the steepest sections.  Extreme altitude is not her forte.  Fortunately the gradient isn't continuous and she had chances to recover.

Caprock Escarpment peeking over three feet of snow.

The vista point above Caprock was still snowed in.  We proceeded to cross the snow to get a clear view, but I promptly slipped up to my crotch in the snow.  After a third time in some thirty feet---and getting rather frightfully stuck the last time---I asked Roland to go on with the camera.  Since he weighs some sixty pounds less than me, he fared better---especially since he wasn't wearing cowboy boots that would hook three feet under the snow.  But he did have to crawl once or twice, so do enjoy his efforts...!

The radio station of the day was discovered here, just above the sea of static.  We enjoyed listening to Big Band Jump on 1490 KRSN out of Los Alamos all the way to Taos and a bit up Taos Canyon.

Looking west over New Mexico and Caprock Escarpment.

US 64 swings and sways through Carson National Forest and then Patsy flew down towards Tres Piedras.  Here the forest ends abruptly, as if crossing over into lazy neighbor's yard.  Sagebrush sweeps down to the crevice that contains the Rio Grande and back up to the snow covered Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Taos and its attendant suburbs dot the base of the range.

Before crossing the Rio Grande Gorge, we passed The Greater World Earthship Community---a Dr. Suess-esque development based on the sound science of local environment and recycling they call Biotecture.  Since my last passing of the locale, it seems they've grown from using bald tires to empty bottles.  Whimsical structures stood close to the highway, their walls a thousand glistening eyes facing southeast to southwest.  Rock-filled tires provide structure for the homes to burrow in the hillsides.

Taos is an interesting place.  I understand the spirit of it, its ancient history and the magic of different cultures and classes seeming to live in interactive harmony.  There really is no other place in America like it, and yet a stroll around the plaza reveals the typical dichotomy of catering to the rich and those who materially splurge.  Of course spirituality doesn't require austerity.  We all must make a living.  What pleases me the most is that time and commercialism hasn't buffed all the funky rough edges off the town.

Taos Canyon reminds me of the residential canyons of Southern California, and perhaps that is why I find it more interesting than the town.  This time of year the difference between living on the south facing or north facing side of the canyon is plainly evident, being that houses with a northern exposure were surrounded with snow and ones on the south are sunny and dry.

US 64 twists and turns over Palo Flechado Pass and drops into Moreno Valley adjacent to the Angel Fire Ski Resort.  It's a striking and unexpected alpine setting.  The highway continues to the north end of the valley and climbs around Eagle's Nest Lake before a long, gentle descent down riparian Cimarron Canyon to the town of Cimarron on the edge of the High Plains.

It is very dry here, and as we veer north northeast we come upon small herds of pronghorn antelope making a great effort to graze.  They hoove the dusty ground---digging for roots, I imagine.  At close range they have rather unbecoming faces, unlike most of their cousins.

We arrive at Raton early enough to scout out any vintage alternatives to Motel 6.  The Robin Hood seems the most viable, but also not very interesting.  Others, such as the El Kapp and the Oasis looked forlorn and deserted, so instead we drove around town to look at old houses and the interesting downtown.  It appears Raton was very prosperous in the first half of the 20th Century, and went into decline around the time Interstate 25 was built.  The plus side is that the commercial district wasn't made over much, so some 200 acres of it are now a National Historic District with almost a hundred buildings on the registrar.

We found Motel 6 to be very clean, but our non-smoking room smelled like a three pack a day smoker.

"Our room smells like tobacco," my husband reported.

"Smoking or chewing?" asked the desk clerk.

Having never been that close to a tobacco chewer, he didn't know how to answer---but he managed to get us another room anyway.