Route 66

66

On Thursday, Stevie drove me down Route 66. Now, once upon a time, a boyfriend and I drove from the beginning of end of Route 66, in our beat-up Westfalia. We visited the ghost towns, and walked around the abandoned motels, sometimes literally with tumbleweed blowing around them. Last Picture Show all the way. History everywhere. But ancient history (in American terms, that is.) Christopher Hitchens wrote a wonderful long-form essay for Vanity Fair about Route 66, its history, and he also drove across the whole damn thing. (Elvis drove it, too, from Memphis to Vegas, from Vegas to LA, from Vegas to Memphis. There are stories up and down Route 66 of the mythical weekend when Elvis and his pals pulled up.) While Route 66 has its desolate out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere moments, it does, of course, pass through towns, and Albuquerque has a big chunk of it. (I bought Route 66 in New Mexico (Images of America) in Old Town, when my mother and I went there to walk around, have lunch, visit the mission church.) Those famous old signs remain all up and down the strip. I’ve written before about my love of old signs (mainly because New York can’t get rid of them fast enough), and I’ve always wanted to visit the Neon Sign Graveyard in Vegas. Some douchebag I dated for a hot second lived in Vegas and sent me some PHENOMENAL photos of his visit to the graveyard. (I’m pretty sure you have to make an appointment to see it.) So it’s all these famous signs that you’ve seen in photos from the Rat Pack days, lying all up against each other. Route 66 in Albuquerque has that feel. I was taking pictures out the window of signs I liked, AS we drove by them, so there were quite a few blurry snafus.

I have to say, I’m pretty pleased with this one.

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