I have to confess that, as someone who was born in New York and raised on the East Coast and in Ohio, the idea of visiting or living in New Mexico had never even crossed my mind until recently. It was, literally, a “flyover” state for me, although I hasten to note that I don’t believe in the concept of flyover states nor do I approve of the popular coastal mentality that belittles ninety percent of America while yearning for a Europe that it doesn’t truly understand.

How odd, therefore, to be sitting on the edge of a mountain, one thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-eight miles away, and to wish I’d lived here my entire life. Sing it with me: “He was born in the summer / of his forty-second year…”

Two views of the same place: the Kiwanis Cabin at Sandia Crest. 10,698 feet above sea level and reachable by a 1.5-mile trail from the top of the tram station. I took this shot from one tram to the other:

They’re on the same cable, which I found more than a little disturbing. If one of them is set free by a broken cable, the other will be as well. Still, they’ve been running since 1968 with no trouble.

Later on in the day, an exceptionally patient young lady took me on a tour of Breaking-Bad-related sites (the car wash! Walter White’s house! the place where Jesse’s goth girl died! the egg farm! the place where Combo got capped, yo!) and fielded all of my stupid questions with grace. I finished the evening on the outdoor patio of The Apothecary, where I am fairly certain I accidentally interrupted a handjob being given to a successful-looking older gentleman by a professional-looking brunette.

There are all sorts of things I like about Albuquerque. I like the fact that they have seasons but that none of them are too brutal. I like the fact that cars don’t seem to rust there; I saw more than a few round-headlamp Toyota and Datsun pickups still on the road. I like the relative lack of traffic and drama and hassle. But most of all I like the quiet neighborhoods, a skirt of low one-story adobe homes to the city’s south, a place where a young boy (or girl) could ride his dirt bike for hours, a sleepy assemblage of the poor and not-so-poor, down the trash-truck road from the main freeway and the expected but still alarming neon-lit Indian casino. The mountains hover in the not-so-distant distance. It feels like a place where there’s plenty of time. A place you could hide, if necessary.

Then you’re back on the road, with the night having fallen, the big moon above. “There’s a song,” my guide said, “I’ll play it for you.”

But the lights of Albuquerque, will soon be shining bright,
Like a diamond in the desert, like a beacon in the night.
And I wonder if she’ll take me back, will she understand?
Will the lights of Albuquerque, shine for me again?

I’m fairly certain they will.