"Remember the Alamo" - Southern States  DAY 3 - Mon., 11 March 2002

Well, as noted, the people at the motel are very nice, helpful, and all of that.  There isn't even any charge for the calls to post this stuff (local dialing, but still... the Hilton wanted $1.00 for 30 minutes, and 10¢ for each minute over 30 minutes).  On the flip side, the trains pull through about four times an hour and the toilet runs at random intervals. But, it was $27 with tax and the use of the phone, so I still feel up on the deal.  If you want to see just how close we were to the train yard (eight tracks across), here's the relative view from the driveway of the motel).

Of course, that was something we were both able to sleep through.  It was the two, loud (and drunk?) women that checked in at 3am that woke us up as they yelled through the four-inch night window glass, then clomped to their room in those ugly, big, wooden-healed shoes.  And just when that noise died down, the clomped back, slapping the window to ask some stupid question about a wake-up call.  Yo, this ain't the Ritz-Carlton, here... it's $27 a night.  So, the clomped back again, except the taller one drove down to the room (it was a whopping 60 feet, after all).  "Hey, what room again?"  "145."  So, when we left, I made the boy drive by, and in front of 145 was a little two-door red Honda Civic.  From California.  Didn't see that one coming, did you?  Based on the license plate holder, they're from Southern California, but I guess if we wanted to know for sure, and you know someone that works for DMV, the plate number is 3KCR183.  That'll learn people to wake be up.

So, we pass by the city's welcome sign and I couldn't help but wonder about this hotel.  According to the sign, it's "Clean Quiet 95".  Given both sides say that exactly, you can't tell me the numbers on both sides fell off.  And they've got to be high on something potent if they think someone would pay $95 for that dive.  But not one to get caught up in the details, we topped off the Green Spam Can with affordably priced gas ($1.179 a gallon) and were on our way.

We actually set foot in Albuquerque, but the one thing I was interested in looked pretty heavily guarded (the National Atomic Museum), which apparently sits inside of Sandia National Laboratory's perimeter.  And unlike the labs in the Livermore Valley, the security here was nothing short of Checkpoint Charlie a la Berlin wall.  I suggested to the boy we try returning on our return trip, and made like atoms, and split back to the freeway.

Unfortunately for New Mexico, but good for us making excellent time, we found nothing else worth mentioning, photographically.  While we did stop for gas and snacks in Santa Rosa, NM, the winds gusting upwards of 40 MPH was impressive to be sure, but darn difficult to photograph.  The tubby twit suggested I sit in the parking lot, and he snap pictures as I got blown across to the far end of the lot.  I pointed out that his idea, the wind, and he, blows.  We left without further mention of that absurd notion.

We arrived at the New Mexico / Texas state line at high noon.  Although technically 1 p.m., since Texas is in the Central Time Zone.  After 77 cautions miles (just something unnerving about the possibility of encountering the Texas state troopers for some reason), we arrived in Amarillo.  I thought I'd see a second sign for it, but we didn't... but the name of the guy running for office, Bert Bytheway, just amused me.  (Yes, I know it's childish, but I just turned 15 last month, so gimme a break.)  And not that I have anything against Jackie Chan, but is this really going to be a successful marketing promotion?

The boy also made me stop at the Route 66 Motor Raceway, but it was closed.  So, here's my confusion.  Route 66.  Is it a place, a road, an American nod to the independent spirit, a theme for songs and folklore, or all of the above?  Half of the southwest is tagged with Route 66, the other half stares with vacant eyes at the mere mention of it.  Okay, that's the end of my mini-rant.  So, we're back on the road, and passing through Groom, Texas.  They are proud to be the home for the world's largest cross in the western hemisphere.  I don't know if I captured its true size well enough, so how about this picture (stolen from the web, courtesy Greg Brown) with some scaled items?

 At about 4 p.m. CST, we cross into Oklahoma.  If nothing else, it's at least the correct state as to where we'll be stopping for the day... eventually.  The driving factor of the afternoon was to get to the Oklahoma City National Memorial before it got too dark to look around or take pictures.  We arrived at the memorial about 6:30pm, and were greeting with this inscription above the entry arch (at least from the side we came in).  After crossing through the arch, the memorial has a granite walkway around the outer edges; this shows where the building stood, and the granite was taken from the rubble of the building itself.  To the south of the large reflecting pond stood 168 chairs, arranged in a pattern to show the location each of the victims worked or were stationed (by floor) for the 149 adult victims, or in the case of the 19 children, approximate to the location of the day care area. 

On the east end of the pond stood the opposite entry wall, with the time of 9:01 a.m. in it; in the wall we entered, 9:03 a.m. (which didn't turn out that well, unfortunately).  The explosion occurred at 9:02 a.m., which is represented by the pond's placement, and the water cascading a few inches to create a very soothing sound and reflective surface (had it not been for the 30-40 MPH winds).  On the north end was a tree that is still standing despite everything that took place, and around it was designed an overlook of the memorial.  Opposite the tree on the neighboring building (both today and at the time of the blast) is one of the search teams ad-hoc inscription.

As the winds died down as our visit was approaching the hour mark (and that's with the museum area already being closed upon our arrival), the boy was able to get one picture of the 9:01 a.m. wall from across the pond.  Outside the wall we entered is a chain-link fence that has become a shrine of sorts, containing cards, poems, and other reminders of those who were lost on April 19, 1995 in that building, and tributes to those that helped in the aftermath.  One that caught me eye was that of two events captured in one painting.

With that, we were off to locate a place to stay (which turned out to be a over-priced Super 8 Motel, given the similar settings of last night, but at $45 vs. $27), and with the added bonus of noisy neighbors who appear to be smoking something that isn't tobacco-based (but reminiscent of being at a concert), who should very soon want to quiet down lest they incur my wrath.  They forget I'm willing to disclose details in my diary (and they are from the state whose name I shall not utter).