Durango is my kind of town!
The New Rochester Hotel Durango – what a great name for a town in the Wild West! We’re on our way to see our son, Daniel, who works nearby and hangs in Durango in his 2000 Chevy Van when he’s not working. He’s not really a cowboy but close enough. More about Dan later.
Our li’l CRJ 90 regional jet descends from Salt Lake City over the folded foothills of the San Juan range.
“Cute airport,” says Rena. “Only two gates.”
Marge and Roy unload our bags onto the airport’s only baggage carousel while I pick up my chariot of choice.
“Holy ostentatious,” blurts Rena. “A black Cadillac! What kind of a snow cruiser is that?”
“Hey, it may not be much in snow,” I enthusiastically reply. “But get a load of this heated steering wheel. And the trunk alone is as big as your Suzuki!”
Rena settles dubiously into the luxurious tan leather upholstery. The car is so hi-tech that I can’t figure out how to start it – there’s no key, just a key-ring with nothing on it! The National car rental guy shows me the right button to push and we’re on our way.
After a while we find the cigarette lighter and plug in Rena’s GPS which is named Marvin after the quirky, depressed robot in “A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” Mad Marvin, the GPS, is in a snit and doesn’t talk to us for many miles. Using dead reckoning, Rena’s sense of direction and whatever grudging advice Marvin is willing to part with, we arrive at our “pied-a-terre” – the New Rochester Hotel in Durango. I think the last time I was in Durango, some forty years ago, it was a flophouse and brothel. But that, as they say, is another story.
The New Rochester is now an old-West style bed-and-breakfast with wagon wheel chandeliers, saddles on the stair railings and mosaic bathroom floors made of tiny black and white hexagonal tiles. There are ten rooms, each one named after a movie that was filmed in the environs of Durango. Movies like “The Naked Spur”, “Support Your Local Gunfighter”, “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon”, and “City Slickers.” For some reason we are assigned to the “National Lampoon Vacation” room! This means we brush our teeth while a poster of Chevy Chase leers at us from over the toilet. Well, that’s our room – we call it the NLV for short.
The NLV is on the second floor and there’s no elevator. Rena eyes her suitcase dubiously.
“ Maybe we should ask for help with the luggage,” she advises.
But this is not Boston. This is the old West, where men are men (and so are women).
“Nope,” I reply. “If this luggage is yourn, Ma’am, then I’m yore luggee.”
I’m beginning to feel more like a Westerner already. I spit on my hands and rub them together before grabbing the bags. Spurs jingle faintly in my imagination.
By the time I get to the NLV, I’m sucking in great lungfuls of Durango’s thin atmosphere. We’re at 6512 feet above sea level – enough to give pause to Jack Palance even.
Rena is standing just inside the door and sniffing suspiciously.
“Do you think this room smells funny?” she asks.
“No, Ma’am. I surely don’t,” I wheeze.
“Well, I do!” she says. “You didn’t pee on the rug, did you?”
“Not yet,” I reply. “Better make way!”
I rush to Chevy Chase’s toilet and return greatly relieved. Breath and color are returning to my body. We open the window to air out the room and head down to the lobby for tea and homemade cookies – yumm! While there I peruse the police blotter of the Durango Herald. There’s nothing like the local police blotter to give a visitor insight into the ebb and flow of community life:
8:24 AM – a woman with a brain injury leaves home to hitchhike.
11:33 AM – a bale of hay is found in the northbound lane of Camino del Rio.
11:56 AM – guests at a local motel try to leave without paying.
2:24 PM - a caller is concerned that a big dog on a short chain might be suffering from the cold.
5:55 PM - a four year old girl mistakenly dials 911. Her mother says there is no emergency.
7:43 PM – four or five men, all dressed in black, are hanging around a business parking lot. They are gone when an officer arrives on the scene.
1:43 AM - a drunken woman is being “over-dramatic” in the 700 block of Main Avenue.
Apparently, not much ebbed and even less flowed in Durango yesterday. “Better luck tomorrow,” I muse.
We hit the sack early. Being it’s Tuesday, no cowpokes are emptying six shooters on Main Avenue. Tomorrow we take the narrow gauge to Cascade Canyon and meet up with Dan.
Our li’l CRJ 90 regional jet descends from Salt Lake City over the folded foothills of the San Juan range.
“Cute airport,” says Rena. “Only two gates.”
Marge and Roy unload our bags onto the airport’s only baggage carousel while I pick up my chariot of choice.
“Holy ostentatious,” blurts Rena. “A black Cadillac! What kind of a snow cruiser is that?”
“Hey, it may not be much in snow,” I enthusiastically reply. “But get a load of this heated steering wheel. And the trunk alone is as big as your Suzuki!”
Rena settles dubiously into the luxurious tan leather upholstery. The car is so hi-tech that I can’t figure out how to start it – there’s no key, just a key-ring with nothing on it! The National car rental guy shows me the right button to push and we’re on our way.
After a while we find the cigarette lighter and plug in Rena’s GPS which is named Marvin after the quirky, depressed robot in “A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” Mad Marvin, the GPS, is in a snit and doesn’t talk to us for many miles. Using dead reckoning, Rena’s sense of direction and whatever grudging advice Marvin is willing to part with, we arrive at our “pied-a-terre” – the New Rochester Hotel in Durango. I think the last time I was in Durango, some forty years ago, it was a flophouse and brothel. But that, as they say, is another story.
The New Rochester is now an old-West style bed-and-breakfast with wagon wheel chandeliers, saddles on the stair railings and mosaic bathroom floors made of tiny black and white hexagonal tiles. There are ten rooms, each one named after a movie that was filmed in the environs of Durango. Movies like “The Naked Spur”, “Support Your Local Gunfighter”, “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon”, and “City Slickers.” For some reason we are assigned to the “National Lampoon Vacation” room! This means we brush our teeth while a poster of Chevy Chase leers at us from over the toilet. Well, that’s our room – we call it the NLV for short.
The NLV is on the second floor and there’s no elevator. Rena eyes her suitcase dubiously.
“ Maybe we should ask for help with the luggage,” she advises.
But this is not Boston. This is the old West, where men are men (and so are women).
“Nope,” I reply. “If this luggage is yourn, Ma’am, then I’m yore luggee.”
I’m beginning to feel more like a Westerner already. I spit on my hands and rub them together before grabbing the bags. Spurs jingle faintly in my imagination.
By the time I get to the NLV, I’m sucking in great lungfuls of Durango’s thin atmosphere. We’re at 6512 feet above sea level – enough to give pause to Jack Palance even.
Rena is standing just inside the door and sniffing suspiciously.
“Do you think this room smells funny?” she asks.
“No, Ma’am. I surely don’t,” I wheeze.
“Well, I do!” she says. “You didn’t pee on the rug, did you?”
“Not yet,” I reply. “Better make way!”
I rush to Chevy Chase’s toilet and return greatly relieved. Breath and color are returning to my body. We open the window to air out the room and head down to the lobby for tea and homemade cookies – yumm! While there I peruse the police blotter of the Durango Herald. There’s nothing like the local police blotter to give a visitor insight into the ebb and flow of community life:
8:24 AM – a woman with a brain injury leaves home to hitchhike.
11:33 AM – a bale of hay is found in the northbound lane of Camino del Rio.
11:56 AM – guests at a local motel try to leave without paying.
2:24 PM - a caller is concerned that a big dog on a short chain might be suffering from the cold.
5:55 PM - a four year old girl mistakenly dials 911. Her mother says there is no emergency.
7:43 PM – four or five men, all dressed in black, are hanging around a business parking lot. They are gone when an officer arrives on the scene.
1:43 AM - a drunken woman is being “over-dramatic” in the 700 block of Main Avenue.
Apparently, not much ebbed and even less flowed in Durango yesterday. “Better luck tomorrow,” I muse.
We hit the sack early. Being it’s Tuesday, no cowpokes are emptying six shooters on Main Avenue. Tomorrow we take the narrow gauge to Cascade Canyon and meet up with Dan.
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