The Blue Swallow

It could be anywhere, any small forgotten town on a small forgotten road, but this one happens to be in northeastern New Mexico, in a town of barely five thousand people and falling year-by-year, its bright neon sign flickering against the evening clouds, with a soaring blue swallow taking flight above the red “vacancy” notice announcing that at least a couple of its dozen rooms are empty still tonight, and a promise of “100% refrigerated air” available as well for those traveling in summer months.

This was once the mother road, the fastest, smoothest drive from Chicago to Santa Monica, and dozens of towns such as this grew up and thrived along it for the better part of thirty years until the interstates came and the two lane roads were left to fade from the maps and the westward desert towns, the wind slowly scrubbing away the lane markings and even the road itself for stretches at a time, the always-available Interstate 40 near at hand whenever the old road gave out.

The little motel is well kept and preserves almost all of its once-proud history, with as much of the original building, beds, and signage as possible still in use, the rooms comfortable, the ever-present aging road tripper or two stopped for the night in well-loved cars from the 50s or 60s, their chrome and polished paint reflecting back the neon, a diner of a similar era still in business across the street, a mom and pop barbecue joint the next building over.

This was once a destination, when it took far longer to go from Amarillo to Albuquerque than it does today, but these days it’s easy to miss it if you’re not paying attention, or sometimes even if you are as you slalom and weave amongst the semis and the lead-footed on I-40.

In the morning you’ll turn westward after breakfast from Tucumcari to Santa Rosa, and Moriarty on the way toward Flagstaff. Then Thoreau and Holbrook, Winslow, and Ash Fork heading toward the western deserts. Finally Kingman, then Needles, then Barstow taking you down and across the scorching, barren eastern California plains, until you finally turn south and west on the outskirts of the sprawl that is Los Angeles and make your way toward the ocean, its blue a deeper hue, its birds white and grey and unmoored to ride the thermals along the shore.