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Kimberly Quinn Smith
The Front Desk Nazi, Sneaky Jim, and a Crater Park ( cross country trip, part 4 ) Well, we made it safely down from the Jemez natural hot springs and via a much easier route thanks to our naked friends. The trail was a bit wider and the terrain was more gradual which made it easier for our five-year-old. We sang on the way down, while the teenagers took off ahead to do some exploring. When the whole thing was said and done we unanimously agreed that the experience had been a good one, the hike up, the hike down, and everything in between, especially the lobster pot. We had about a two hour ride back to the hotel, as we were not returning the way we had come and we would go through Santa Fe. Love Santa Fe. It is so artsy. Our family embraces all aspects of art as well as our own inner artists. Even the highway dividers are cool in this city. They are full of southwestern murals with heavy emphasis on spiritual animals and native culture, much more exciting to look at than the usual gray cement. We arrived at the lovely Hotel Bernalillo and dragged our very tired from hiking bodies up to the third floor where our adjoining rooms were. We dropped our day packs, and reached for our keys. The little light didn’t turn green so I assumed that I had used one of the kids’ keys by mistake. I tried the other one. My oldest yelled over, “Mom, the key doesn’t seem to work. Maybe I should try yours.” We switched the keys around for a moment or two, until I realized what had happened. This was the work of the Front Desk Nazi. She really did possess some dark gifts. I now had to go and face the shame myself. Down the elevator I went, while anger molecules raced through my veins. Some manager somewhere was going to here about this. Then, at the very least, I should get a comp vacation wherever I choose and possibly a fruit basket. Oh yeah. That is exactly how it went. The Front Desk Nazi had called a manager who was on standby on speaker phone waiting for us to arrive. No sooner had I come around the corner and she pushed the button. “Ms. Quinn Smith is here to speak with you Mr. Sanchez . . .” This is just what I need after hiking with six kids all day in a foreign state miles from home. I was tired. I was hungry. I was very aggravated. What aggravated me the most was the fact that the Front Desk Nazi seemed to get some kind of sick fulfillment from watching me sweat. They are all like that. She reminded me of one of those keys people at the grocery store. The poor cashier making minimum wage would have a line of people with full carts and then make a mistake typing in a check code. She would then have to call over the loud speaker for a keys person to come to the register. Before long, you could hear the keys person coming up the aisle, keys jingling away in her pudgy little fist with a Diet Coke in the other. Keys people are almost always pudge-wudges, and they walk with a kind of I am better than a regular employee because I have keys walk. They kind of swing their shoulders from side to side as they look around. They like that the entire line of customers has to wait for their arrival at the cash register. To have keys is to have power. Upon her arrival at the register, the keys person would then check one key after the other for the right one to the money drawer, just to make people aware that she has lots of keys to choose from. She would then open the drawer, do her little code punching thing then scurry back to customer service, den of the keys people, grocery’s elite. At this point nearly everyone in the lobby, which was conveniently well stocked with couches, had shifted position in order to hear my highly embarrassing situation. I stiffly reached into my travel bag and pulled out my VISA card. My lawyer will hear about this, at least she would if I had one. I’ll get one. I am also calling the Better Business Bureau, Priceline, and possibly Congress. Maybe they can pass a law to prevent Front Desk Nazis from locking doors and storing luggage in back rooms. “I’m sorry Ms. Quinn Smith, but do you have another credit card we can put this on? This one seems to have been declined.” O.K., someone just point me toward the nearest boulder so I can crawl underneath. I’ll take my chances with the snakes. At this point the people in the lobby were not even hiding that they were listening anymore. All eyes were on me, almost as if it was last episode of Dallas and they were about to reveal who shot J.R. There isn’t a glass tall enough for the wine I will be pouring in roughly three minutes. In fact, I may need a straw. I reached into my travel bag for some more plastic and then kind of slapped the card onto the desk, making an angry noise. I waited reluctantly while she ran the card on her little machine. Mr. Sanchez was still on the speaker phone waiting to know if he would need to send his hotel posse in to evict us. Within a few seconds she strutted over with her printout and a pen. “This one went through,” she said a little louder then was necessary, and “You will need to sign here, here, and here. Check out is at 10:00 am. Oh, and here are some new keys. The other ones have been voided. Have a nice evening.” I envisioned a little doll looking just like the Front Desk Nazi that I could stick a few pins in when I got back up to our room. The more wine I had, the more she would be walking around with unexplained jerking motions accompanied by a dull pain. The next day we left the hotel. It felt as if we had just been released from prison. We were happy to be free yet ashamed of where we had been. I am not sure if there had been a day when I looked more forward to climbing into our rented Dodge Durango. As we pulled out of the Hotel Bernalillo, I envisioned big metal gates clad with barbed wire slowly opening. Family who had only seen us through double plated plexi-glass once a week on Sunday awaited our arrival. Within minutes, we were through the gates, reunited with our loved ones and on our way to the Grand Canyon, nature’s Disney World. We would drive through western New Mexico and then through Arizona. Shortly before we crossed the border, my husband started talking about some crater park that another tourist had mentioned while I was in the bathroom at Sandia Peak. “This guy told me not to miss it and that the kids would really love it,” he said. Oh Brother. I may have to pass on this one. It is funny how people can be so different yet so crazy in love with each other. I am the type that likes to stray from the mainstream path and have unique experiences. I like to try new food and really immerse myself in the culture of wherever it is we are. My darling, on the other hand, is a bit more of an indoor boy. He likes nature, but only as long as it doesn’t touch him. If he sees any kind of neon sign flashing that says Stop Here, he does. He just can’t help himself. The more mainstream tourist kind of place, the more he is drawn to it. Not only that, but he has to buy a t-shirt from all of these tourist spots, especially if it is a national park or presidential museum. He’s cute that way. Before we even entertained the idea of a crater park, I needed to remind my beloved that we first needed to experience the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest. I think that I may need to write a book on How To Maximize Valuable Life Space While Traveling With Six Children In A Rented Dodge Durango, or more simply put, How To Cram As Many National Parks Into One Day As Is Humanly Possible. Out came the map. I really wish he would pull over when he did this. The pinky on the steering wheel as the sole appendage in charge of our combined destinies made me a tad bit nervous. Not only that, but we were on the United States version of the Audubon. In most places the legal speed limit is 75 mph. Add that 10 mph that we all take with grace and we are all flying. People out west drive at least 85 mph, and that’s in the slow lane. Add map reading into the mix and it is not good, not good at all. Thankfully my husband agreed this time and pulled over into a visitor’s center. He likes visitor’s centers. This is probably why I was able to convince him to stop. As most of us are aware, asking for directions is a trait not carried on the Y chromosome. Good news. Both parks can be driven through and both are close together. It looks like the Painted Dessert is first and only a few minutes away. We arrived, and within minutes were digging for our sweat shirts as the temperature had dropped. We had been quite spoiled with the eighty degree weather so far, especially as we are used to the chilling temperatures of northern Vermont. It wasn’t so much the temperature as the wind, but either way it was time to bundle up. We walked in to the Painted Desert National Park Visitor’s Center and a very nice native American women working behind the desk. She pulled out a map and highlighted which way we were to go if we were going to do the lazy route which meant driving. Many people visit the Painted Desert each year and they walk. I am sure this must be enjoyable in May and when you are not on a schedule. We still had the Petrified Forest to see and possibly a crater. Not only this, but we had to locate the house that we had rented somewhere along the rim of the Grand Canyon and it may be best to attempt this before dark. There was no time to waste. We were on a speed dial system, no valuable seconds lost. The gift shop was nice. As we had actually made it prior to closing and we were going to truly experience the park even if it was through a car window, I felt that we had met the criteria for a t-shirt, barely, but we did it. My husband had gone back to the car to view his highlighted park map so I took a couple of quick seconds to buy him a t-shirt. This would make his whole day. I jumped in and off we went through the ranger station and into the park. It was a desert all right. Not much going on here. The rattle snakes are probably still asleep which is good as this is probably headquarters for them, another good reason to choose the driving option. Within a couple of seconds things got colorful. There were layers of different colors in soft hills. It was nature’s sand art. It reminded me of the sand art we did during summer camp where we would pour different layers of sand over each other until the bottle was full. The stripes of sand would look so pretty on my desk, until my little sister would knock it over. After she knocked it over it would look like plain, ordinary sand in a bottle, like you filled it up with sand from the sand box in the back yard, just a sort of blah color. It’s good that no one can tip the Painted Desert over. And you know what . . . my little sister really should have been punished for that. She always got away with everything. O.K. It is still pretty, but how much longer until we are out of the sand art zone . . . It seemed like miles. Pretty, but the same. It sort of reminded me of our trip to Niagara Falls. You get there and stare at the breath taking wonder. Then after five minutes, you look around to see if there is any one else who is bored and ready to move on. It’s a waterfall, a very big waterfall, a very beautiful, big waterfall . . . but now what do we do. It was the same thing with the Painted Desert. It was beautiful, but after five minutes or so you sort of get it. After a full digital memory card and what seemed like an endless trail of sand art, we landed back on the highway. The kids were hungry so we stopped at Sneaky Jim’s Shack in the middle of the desert, no cars, no stores, no anything. Let’s hope that Sneaky Jim is on the up and up. Sneaky Jim may be sneaky but he is no dummy. He had a tiny bag of pretzels selling for $3.49 and a can of soda for $1.89. Holy Toledo. And I thought Manhattan was pricey. Sneaky Jim had no competition and he was well aware of it. We were captives of Sneaky Jim in the middle of this barren, rattle snake infested desert, with six hungry children. I’ll bet he ran around with his little price clicker jacking up all of the prices when he saw us pull in. We were the only car in the parking lot. We were victims of Sneaky Jim. Out he came from where ever he was. He was probably in the back room watching us on video as we entered his retail trap. There were cans stacked on the counter that said Live Rattle Snakes and there were some more that said Live Rattle Snakes Eggs. I tried not to let my snake phobia get the best of me as I had a thought that even snakes need oxygen and I didn’t see any air holes in those cans. Then, from behind the counter, Sneaky Jim himself spoke, “Canned rattlers make great souvenirs, especially for city folk. This here is rattler country. We got rattler everything. Ever tried rattler stew?” Oh sure, canned rattlers make great souvenirs, especially for $14.99 a can, and no I haven’t tried rattler stew. They had it as a lunch special at that little bistro on West 68th street but I had the subway to catch. Sneaky Jim had a very large belly and an even larger head. His white, or nearly white t-shirt just about covered his belly but not quite. His t-shirt was a bit worn in some spots and it was obvious that Sneaky Jim was a hairy creature. To even think of Sneaky Jim lying in a lawn chair at the beach could create a visual picture that could quite possibly cause irreparable damage to my psyche. When the rattlers were a no-go, Sneaky decided to bring the attention of our children to the shiny rock display. Of course he had shiny rocks for sale and at prices higher than gold. Sneaky would probably leave work and go home to his twenty room estate and outdoor pool. He would have to charging these prices, unless of course Sneaky had a gambling problem. After all, there were casinos all over the place out here and Sneaky had that gambling look. Not roulette. No. He looked like more of a slot machine guy. I’ll bet he sits there for hours on end on his day off putting in one quarter after another, thinking about how much he will have to raise the price of pretzels if he loses again. Thankfully we escaped Sneaky Jim’s without our youngest son purchasing canned rattle snakes without our knowledge and without anything getting accidentally knocked over and broken, as Sneaky would have turned this into his own personal pay day. We were free of his grip and on our way to the Petrified Forest which was only a few short minutes away. And there it was, a big sign saying Petrified Forest National Park. We again pulled into the visitor’s center and received yet another highlighted drive-through map. We had this routine down by now. We jumped back in to the car as the afternoon was beginning to get passed us and we still had a crater to see and a rental house to find. There were a few more cars this time, though it wasn’t exactly a parade. This was a very definite bonus to traveling off season. There were no lines. In fact there were hardly any signs of life at all. The life that was there all seemed to be pulling over at the same spot so we did also. There was a trail that was marked with ropes keeping people from touching the loads and loads of petrified rocks laying on the ground. They look like shiny logs, some big and some small, different colors. O.K. I’m done now. It was the Niagara, Painted Desert feeling again, only it was later in the day so I had even less patience. I was beginning to think about the crater and if there would be another highlighted drive-through map. I thought about the rental house and if we would be there in time for me to cook or if we’d have to do the whole chicken nugget/fries/pizza thing again. I was really ready for a home-cooked meal and so were the kids. We would have to stop at a grocery store first. This was bound to make my husband crabby. I think I will take one thing at a time and focus on the crater for now. I looked at the clock on the dash board and noticed that it was 4:30. Here we go again. Hopefully this is a self guided tour. I don’t think I can take the stress of another forced entry. Not only that, but I am not sure my dear one could pull that off in a very large open hole in the ground as people would see them. Then we’d all be thrown in the pokey out here in the middle of no where. Maybe I should go with him. We pulled into the parking lot and my husband darted out of the car, ducklings in tow. I turned around and noticed that the five-year-old was out cold. She was snoring and drawling and nothing was going to make her budge. I thought of the 11th commandment which is thou shall not wake a sleeping baby and then accepted that I may indeed have to miss the whole crater experience. This could be a great chance to communicate with my people, that is, if there is reception this far away from civilization. I pulled my Barbie phone out of my travel bag. My new cell phone was instantly labeled the Barbie phone as it is pink, though a nice shade of pink. Looking for service. The little picture of a satellite came on the screen. Then, entering a Sprint service area. Yeah. I can talk with my girlfriends. I can tell them how I am out in the middle of no where, where it is very flat and red looking, and how I am presently sitting in a parking lot next to the world’s largest crater. They will be happy for me. True friends delight in your pleasure. The baby stirred. She was all pink in the cheeks. Gotta go. Time to hang up. I looked at the car clock once again. It was 4:50. The park was closing in ten minutes. The five-year-old and I could hustle inside and catch a quick glance. I can’t imagine they would charge us for ten minutes. Of course they would. By the time we actually made our way to the ticket counter, there were exactly six minutes left. “That will be fifteen dollars please,” the ticket guy said. He was at least eighty years old and seemed to take his job quite seriously. And, as I am not in the habit of arguing with older people, I slid the fifteen dollars under the little plastic window, got my ticket and headed up what seemed to be lots and lots of stairs to a lookout area. The five-year-old was still a bit out of it from waking out of such a sound sleep, but quite tolerant of being pulled up flight after flight of stairs. After the fun of the crater wore off, my five-year-old and I headed back down the gazillions of stairs into the building. They had a little fifteen minute movie playing which apparently was open longer than the viewing area, as I peeked in and saw my husband in the front row. He was the only one in the mini-theatre and happy to be so. The kids were waiting outside the entrance looking at the pieces of meteor in the glass case. There was of course a gift shop. It had post cards that I had to buy just so I could send them to our friends. After receiving my post card, they may hope to visit the World’s Largest Crater Park someday. They may cancel their trip to Disney World just to be able to see this spectacular sight. The gift shop had t-shirts. Since this visit did not meet the criteria for a t-shirt, I again asked the sales lady to point me in the direction of the magnets. In fact, this visit did not even meet the minimum criteria for a mug, so my darling would have to be happy with his magnet and maybe a postcard to put in our photo album once we got home. Dollar for dollar, this was the most expensive day trip on our travel itinerary. Fifteen dollars for an adult ticket, which was all but one of us, would come out to be approximately three dollars per minute per person. Only in America can people capitalize on a big hole in the ground.
Stay Tuned for Part V . . .
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Articles written by Kimberly Quinn Smith