Overheard in a Cerrillos Saloon
Overheard in a Saloon in Cerrillos On tourism, colonialism, and the Simple Life Recently, I rode my bike through deep canyons in the broiling New Mexico desert but gave up when I realized that being over 30 means you can’t just play around in the heat and sun and not expect Mother Nature to give you a spanking. I was out there trying to approximate a better life - one where I did things on the weekends instead of hiding in my home, sucked dry by the commute, the 9-5, the middle management of it all. In the past couple years, old age began to introduce herself by creaking my knees, tiredness, back pain. I thought riding through New Mexico’s beautiful deserts would help me feel alive and like I was living my life and not just watching it pass by. Toasted, parched, and slightly faint, I rolled back into Los Cerrillos, the old mining town from which I started my ride. It was quiet, and the sun continued to beat down on the weathered wooden buildings. The train horn hooted ...