Coming home was a bit of an ordeal. I spent three days in a row on buses, from Parral to Albuquerque, NM. It was like being in one of those adventure races. I can't count the number of times I loaded and unloaded my bicycle, shoving it and my luggage under buses, or taking it all apart to fit in the trunks of taxis in the large city of Chihuahua. I slept a night in a 100 peso/night ($9 US) shithole, sleeping on a lumpy spring mattress with a torn, threadbare sheet. I arrived at the border bedraggled (it always helps to look your best), having forgotten to convert my pesos back to dollars or to clean and check my bags for wayward fruits and vegetables and other food items. I spent two nights in Albequerque, and then took another 12 hour bus trip to Denver.

Leaving in such a hurry, I didn't have much time to mentally prepare for the end of my time in mexico or my return to the US. Within hours of having crossed the border, it was as if Mexico was a faint memory. I felt the same way coming back from Asia on my last trip. It's a vague sense of loss, of emptiness, as though the wonderful experiences I had just had had been ripped away, and replaced with a handful of photographs and snatches of narrative.

In the few spare moments I've had in the past several days, I've tried to reflect on the trip, and figure out what I've taken away from it. My spanish has certainly gotten better, to the point that I don't feel completely helpless when it comes to basic travelling tasks. I still have no clue about verb conjugation, or how to form past or future tenses, but I can ask directions, and barter, and order food, and plod my way through the basic chitchat about where I'm from and where I'm going.

One of the questions I like to ask about a trip, is "What have I learned, or how am I different after this trip?" For this trip, I think the answer is about biases and prejudices towards Mexicans. Not only did I come to realize how much subconcious prejudice I had towards Mexicans, but also how unfounded it was. And it wasn't only in myself I relaized prejudice towards Mexicans - it was American society in general.

There seems to be an unspoken, and sometimes spoken, attitude that Mexicans are lazy, dangerous, uneducated, or somehow unfriendly. I also realized how much I associate hearing spanish with minimum wage type service jobs, such as janitors and gardeners. Sitting in a hotel room in Gomez Farias, I heard some rapid spanish drifting in through the open window, and subconsciously assumed it must be one of the housekeepers, not even really thinking about it. When I looked up, I saw it was another of the guests at the hotel, and instantly realized how unfair my assumption was.

My first few days in Mexico were spent on high alert, my nerves on a hair trigger. I'd heard too many stories of highway robbery and corrupt federales to think anything else. Yet, every time a scary looking Mexican, dressed in the standard white cowboy hat, plaid shirt, jeans and boots stepped towards me in what my adrenline-ridden state thought was a menacing manner, they in fact turned out to be very friendly and welcoming, in that quiet, unassuming, reserved manner that seems unique to Mexicans.

Throughout the trip, I had nothing but warm welcomes and friendly, curious people, wanting to know where I was from, and where I was headed. It wasn't abnormal to pedal into a one street town, headed down the main strip, and have a low riding pickup with heavy bass throbbing from the open windows pul up along side me.

"Hey man, where you from?", a smiling man would yell over the chest rumbling music. "Denver? I worked in Silverton for three years." More often than not, if I wasn't pressed for time, they'd pull over, and we'd talk for a while, about my trip, about what working in the US was like for them, about immigration and papers. I'd hit them up for advice on where to stay, and what road conditions were like further down the road.

Children in Mexico were very well behaved, often a bit shy, and very polite. They were often curious about me and my bike, but just as often, were more interested in hunting for treasures along the side of the road, or heading to the local arcade on their bicycles. A few spoke decent english, and others were too shy to even speak Spanish with me. Every so often, I ran into a kid that was interested in helping me out, for a bit of pocket change, whether by showing me where the hotel was, or watching my bicycle for me, or, in the case of Habierto, playing tour guide and bicycle watchman.

My bicycle odometer shows 913 km, which is more or less accurate. Not anywhere near the 2000-2500 kim it would have taken to make it all the way to Mexico City, but still nothing to be scoffed at.

Some small things I learned along the way:

• At 35 mph in driving rain, gortex has more in common with a wetsuit than a rain jacket.
  
• The magic of internet and internet cafes has not reached everywhere (it was much scarcer in Mexico than I had thought)
  
• Never trust road conditions or mileage from anyone who isn't a cyclist, unless you have several independent corroborations.
  

I'll be following this up in a little while with a mileage log. Probably not of much interest to anyone else besides cyclists, but gives total daily mileage, and often mileage of important things, like food, water, hotels, internet access, and bicycle shops. All things I like to know about when I'm on the road.

A few stories I wrote in my little notebook I carried in my pocket that I wrote while I was in the hospital, which never made it to the blog:

Everyone here seems to know everything about you - "Were you in Ascencion two days ago? I saw you there." or "My cousin talk to you in Zaragosa yesterday, and he said you were riding all the way to Mexico City." Sometimes it's a bit creepy, but it's also reassuring, as it would be hard to disappear without everyone knowing where you went and what happened to you.

---

It's a real mix of eras here. It's not uncommon to see a horse and rider riding down the main street, in front of pharmacies and stores sporting countless Coca-Cola signs, being passed by brand new pickup trucks and minivans.

Dogs are everywhere, and at least half are really into chasing bicycles. There's nothing like trying to outrun a 100 pound pitbull on a bike with panniers that way 60+ pounds, all while looking back over your should and yelling in your best alpha dog voice. I haven't had any really close calls yet (I managed to stop the most menacing looking pitbull dead in his tracks with a particularlly fierce yell), but I'm definitely beginning to understand why so many cyclists carry pepper spray and/or rocks. I'm also rethinking my decision to turn down the costly ($500 for 2 years) rabies vaccinations.

---

Sitting in a pan of vinegar and water propped on a toilet, naked, gown and IV bottle in one hand, head propped in the other - the model of dignity.

---

Thanks for reading, I hope it was as enjoyable to read as it was to write.

Until next time, safe travels.

Instead, yesterday was comprised of local native dances and songs, a 10km race, a bunch of short races for the kids (starting at age 2 on up), and lots and lots of eating and people watching.

Juarachis

Mark

We talked to several other racers in mixed spanish and english, and everyone seems most stressed about having adequate water. It seems most people are planning on carrying several liters, and Mark's friend apparently spent all of yesterday packing a burro loaded with water down into the canyon for all the racers.

The dances and songs yesterday were pretty interesting. Apparently there is a festival in November which is much more focused on dancing, and draws major tourist crowds. The dance troup consisted of mostly children, some of whoms participation Mark incitfully guessed took a fair amount of bribing. One boy in particular looked like he'd rather be just about anywhere else than there.

A mix of old and new?

All geared up and ready to go

The lead dancer getting a little help from the town drunk (who very clearly knew how to dance quite well)

I'm pretty sore this morning, though, and may have a bit of saddle soreness copming back, so I'm planning on taking it easy today, and maybe only going as far as Guachochic. I'm dying for a shower and clean laundry anyway, so it's all for the best.

It seems that everywhere there's a decent sized river or stream, there's also lots of houses and fences, which doesn't lend itself much to bathing and laundry. I was very tempted to camp in the pastures around Rocheachic - the reminded me a lot of Toulame meadows outside of Yosemite - but the politics involved with making sure I didn't offend anybody were simply too much to deal with at that point in the day.

I ended up in what I think is a logging area. There was a barbed wire fence, but I can't find any houses around, so I think it's ok.

I've camped two nights in a row, both at wonderful campsites with serious views out over deep valleys. And I've had the place to myself both nights. It doesn't seem very heavily inhabited here, and even the road traffic is minimal. I only see a vehicle every 15 minutes at most.

Cuscarare

I found the one shop in town, and picked up my standard staples - crackers, pasta, and sardines. Mmmm. They didn't have tortillas, but offered me "pan Bimbo" instead, which is quite literally "Bimbo bread", a cheaper version of Wonder Bread, with perhaps the best brand name ever. Every time I see it, it makes me giggle to myself. There's even Bimbo trucks.

After I left Cuscare, I saw a sign for casacare waterfall. I needed to take a food break anyway, so I thought what the heck. As I pulled onto the dirt road, two young boys popped up from under a tree, and, after the required greetings, began rattling off rapid spanish. After three or four times, I gradually understood it to be the spanish equivalent to "doyouwantmetotakeyoutothewaterfall?", as only an excited 10 year old boy can muster.

Habierto

The whole way there and back he balanced the time between peppering me with questions, and asking "racio?" before charging off on his bike over stones and water crossing and puddles. The scenery on the way there was spectacular - limestone cliffs and green grassy banks along a meadering river.

Taurumara woman weaving

A view from the road

Today looks to be more of the same, with the final bit of a climb over a pass, and then who knows from there.

I enjoyed the trip much more this time, finally feeling better, and having much nicer weather. I took lots and lots of pictures, which, after culling through them, were mostly rubbish, but a few good ones mixed in, which I've posted (see the photos link on the sidebar).

Tomorrow I'm planning on giving the bicycle another shot, being day 7 of the doctor's roders of not riding for a week. Close enough, right? We'll see how I go. Plans haven't solidified yet, but I'll either do a day ride around here, ride out to Divisidero for the night, or head on towards Hidalgo del Parral. The latter would be the prudent option, if I were still under the impression I was going to make it to Mexico City under my own power, which is pretty laughable at this point, given how much time I've lost. I think it might have been stretching it to begin with, anyway.

It took several hours at least to clear the landslide, and get underway again, only to stop again some hours later for a while, on what looked like a bridge.

Sometime in the middle of a night, a frightening looking barrel chested Mexican sat down next to me, scaring the crap out of me. But, given my experiences so far, I'm sure he was a charming individual.

Woman cooking at one of the train stops

I spent the rest of the afternoon in an internet cafe, working on some various client issues. What a luxury, having one's own computer, instead of having to use crappy internet cafe computers. I still haven't mastered the mexican keyboard layout, and can't for the life of me figure out how to make an @ sign, without resorting to typing alt-64 on the number pad.

Yesterday I went with an older American I met on the bus to look for the man who he gave his burro to. It's a long story, and we never ended up finding the Felicano the burro. I was going to take the train today to Los Mochis, and then back tomorrow, but I've heard the train is broken down, so I'll stick around here and head out tomorrow.

More stories and substance later.

One of two severely bent structs in my rear rack - the longer bar should be straight and vertical

I did purchase one of those fancy split seats in town, so maybe that will help.

Hat shop in Cuauhtemoc

This, all right next to electronics shops, and Pizza Hut, and new land rovers. I have to say, if cowboy boots and bicycles didn't clash so much, I might be tempted...

I had expected some saddle soreness, and had some the first few days, but had figured it was done with. Little did I know.

Local boys that stopped to check me out while I tried to fix my speedometer. They were embarrased, and so there are two hiding behind the one in the Ninja Turtles t-shirt.

I didn't have to look far. It seems every other male over the age of twenty has crossed, or tried to cross, at some point in their life. People often greet me and ask "Donde Vienes?" - "Where are you from?" When they hear that I'm from Colorado, a not uncommon response is, "Oh, really? I worked in Aurora." Or Golden. Or Denver. Or Phoneix. Or Kansas City. Most, if not all, were relatively open about the fact that they did so without papers.

It's also interesting to hear where people worked. Burger King, Old Chicago Pizza, and at one of the large casinos in Colorado. I somehow had this image that most would be working in typical under the table manual labor sorts of positions to avoid the necessity of papers, such as landscaping, construction, and such. Nope. It seems that a lack of papers isn't a big deal as far as big corporations are concerned.

I've been meaning to ask how much people are being paid. I'm curious to see if it's comparable to those with papers, or even if it's above minimum wage.

Trough

They said that they were carrying some food and a gallon of water apiece, for what amounted to a 36 mile, 2 day walk across the desert. They said they slept during the day, and walked at night, presumably both to beat the heat, and the border patrol.

Most of the way there, a border patrol caught them. People say, when you get caught, they throw you in a jail cell for a day or two, until they can get a big enough group together, and then they put them all on a bus, and ship them back to their home town. One person I talked to said that if you wanted to try again and were smart, you just said you were from Chihuahua, which is one of the border states. This way, it was a shorter trip back to the border. Other than the cost of another bus ride, and the time, food, and water involved, there seems to be little penalty in trying as many times as is necessary to cross.

I spoke with a hotel owner who said that it's not common for people from all over the world, but particularly Central and South America, to come to Chihuahua to try and cross the border. It's possible to arrange a "package deal" for entry to the US from as far down as the Guatamala border. Your transport, food, accomodations, guides, and the necessary bribes will all be arranged for you. The cost is steep, however - somewhere in the range of $3000-5000 per person if you want passage from the Guatamala border.

It is not uncommon for people to sell their homes, their farms, and their vehicles, all for money to pay the fee. If they are caught at the border and sent back, they come back home with absolutely nothing - nowhere to live, no way to get food or earn money.

It seems the guides that arrange these "packages" are the ones who make out the best in the whole operation. The hotel owner said it wasn't uncommon for two men to show up and rent rooms for one hundred people at a time, and going out and buying food for the same number. He said more than once, the mexican immigration police have showed up at the hotel, and demanded to see everyone's papers. They would gather them all out in the courtyard behind the hotel. Once they'd established the size of the group, they'd demand a bribe - usually on the order of $100 per immigrant. He said the money, despite being an enormous sum, especially by Mexican standards, would quickly appear from nowhere, and the immigration police would be sent on their way.

In all the conversation I've had, the biggest thing that stuck out to me, is that many of the people that have gone to the US to work illegally, are not outcasts from their community. Rather, they are upstanding, well respected citizens, often land owners. And they come to the US to work washing dishes at Old Chicago Pizza, or flip burgers at Burger King. What a crazy world we live in.

When I was preparing for my trip, I have to say, I definitely had some preconceived notions about what it was going to be like, particularly, what sort of people I might meet. These preconceived notions weren't necessarily concious, or intentional. But I definitely was expecting people to be pretty rough and tough, and have to really watch my back and my things, and be prepared for trouble. I think I had somehow thought that people would be mean, or aggressive towards me.

So far, I've seen nothing but the exact opposite. Everywhere I go, people are extremely friendly and welcoming. Even the gruffest of the gruff looking men in town will give me a wave, or a "good afternoon" when I pass by. Many people are curious as to where I'm from, and where I'm going. As my Spanish is still pretty horrific, I'm not big on the conversation front, but those who do speak some english are quick to strike up an easy conversation.

It's interesting though. People here are very reserved. I haven't experienced much of the unabashed, forward curiosity that I had when I was in Asia. People might go as far as to smile or wave, but unless I engage them, they're just as happy to let me go about my business.

I went to a roadside grill that was serving tacos and quesedillas and hamburguesas for dinner tonight, and sat at the counter next to a man, and what I guessed was his daughter. We talked for a bit in Spanish, and then they started asking me questions in English. We must have talked for at least a half an hour. It seems to be that way wherever I go.

This all leads to the big question though - why do Americans have such negative stereotypes about Mexicans? Where do these stereotypes come from? Some Mexicans I have talked to here have said they think it might be because only the nasty element of Mexico tries to cross the border to the US, and these are the mexicans that Americans are exposed to.

I'm not sure that's the answer, but I don't have a better one.

A short day today to Nuevo Cases Grandes. I camped last night halfway between Janos and Cases Grandes. I was a bit nervous to camp at first, particularly so close to such a busy thoroughfare, but it turned out to be pretty much idea, other than a bit on the dusty side. I found a particularlly inviting patch of tall mesquite where I thought I would be well hidden from the rode, unhooked the bottom barbed wire from a fence post, and slid my bike under. My mad barbed wire skillz I picked up on the station in Australia have finally come in handy.

Camp

The kitchen

Dinner

I walked out a ways from the road until I found a nice open spot, and set up camp, cooking a dinner of pasta, fresh tomatoes and onions, and a can of tuna, under a beautiful sunset. During the night, I was woken several times by what sounded like rather large packs of coyotes, but never had any trouble. As far as people goes, I don't think anyone even knew I was there, nor have I felt threatened int he slightest since I've been here (excluding the border town, which are always dodgy, everywhere you go).

This morning, I woke up to a breakfast of corn tortillas (all my fruit had gone sour in a single day), and hit the road. The semis were in full force going both directions, with no shoulder, and a raised road, which was intense. A couple times I full out failed out down the embankment when two semis passed me at the same time, horns blaring. Definitely enough to shake you up at times.

Along the way I stopped for more tortillas, and had a big man in a cowboy hat and boots driving a few head of cattle come up to me, curious to find out where I was from and where I was going. Sometimes it seems as if every man over the age of 15 is wearing a cowboy hat, a checkered shirt, jeans, and boots. I definitely stand out in my bike helmet and shorts.

Cases Grandes is bigger than I expected. I rode into town, looking for a hotel, and immediately ruled out the few along the main street as far out of my price range. I was just starting to home in on one that looked more reasonable, when a guy on a bicycle made a beeline across a busy street, flagging me down in english. He was also very into bicycle touring and travelling, and was eager to see my bike, and show me his. His english was quite good, and he seemed pretty trustworthy, so I asked if he knew where a good hotel that was cheap was. We ended up at the one I was headed for.

Tony showing off his trick riding

The hotel owner spoke english quite well also, and said that a lot of foreign bicyclists pass through this way, and stay at his hotel. So I must be in the right place:) We talked with him for a while, hearing several hysterical stories of japanese motorcyclists who had stayed at the hotel, and then Tony, my new friend and self-appointed tour guide of Cases Grandes, and I went off to grab some lunch, as I was starved. He took me to an awesome chicken place, and I had a gigantic plate of roasted chicken with mole sauc, for a bit under $2.50. I can't remember the last time I've had chicken that juicy. Then it was off to his relative's bike shop to get a spoke replaced my rear wheel trued (I had a pannier wing into it on my first day and a spoke was bent and my field truing wasn't perfect). His extended family owns two bicycle shops in town, and everyone in the family either rides or works at one of the shops.

Making bee food

Then it was off to his fathers house, to meet the family. His mom made me a homemade burrito and a glass of mango juice, and we sat and talked with his father and brother for a while, with Tony translating. Later, I met another brother that keeps bees, who was in the process of making food for his hives. He showed me his honey extractor, and I told him about my grandfather and his amateur beekeeping. He laughed really hard when I told him the story about my grandmother's firned, who, on seeing their honey extractor on the kitchen table (it's about the size of a chopped down 55-gallon drum), said "My Alice, what do you need all that coffee for?"

Hector and his lab

Then it was off to where he works, to meet his boss, and see the soil analysis lab where he works. Hector, his boss, spoke perfect English, with almost no accent, and gave me lots of advice on where to go and what to watch out for. He showed me his two computers, an ancient orginal IBM PC with a monochrome 9 pin monitor, and a brand new athlon, with a nice flatscreen monitor. When he heard I was a programmer, he tried to enlist my help in transferring a program from one computer to the other, but alas, we couldn't get the old computer to boot.

We also talked a bit about philosphy and religion. Both Tony and Hector are Mormons, as is a lot of the area. Cases grandes is one of the first areas in Mexico that the Mormons colonized. Hector said he's 4 generations Mormon. When were done, Hector admitted it was hard to preach in english.

We made a bunch more stops all over town, saying hello to various friends of Tony, and checking out the nice new homes in the rich part of town, before I finally begged off at my hotel, so I could take a nap, do laundry, and catch up on email.

A quick note, as I need to hit the road. Last night was my first night in Mexico. The ride has been hot, long, and very boring thus far. I did a total of about 107 km yesterday, from Columbus to Ascencion. The sun is really intense, and I'm struggling to stay hydrated and not get sunburned. My body isn't yet used to the amount of water I need to drink (about a liter an hour when I'm riding), and it's hard to force it down.

On the bright side, the people have been remarkably friendly and welcoming so far, and while being occaisonally intimated by the newness of everything, I haven't felt at all unsafe so far. Last night I stayed in a nice hotel in Ascencion for a very reasonable price.

Riding into Ascencion was pretty wild, as the highway goes right down the main street of town, which is quite long and exteremely busy. It seems everyone in town was slowly cruising the main street, and I drew far more attention, yells, waves, and wistles than I perhaps might have liked. It all seemed to be friendly and because they probably don't see many foreigners come through on bikes, but jstill a bit unnerving and overwhelming, particularlly given my meager grasp on Spanish at the moment.

Today I ride for either Janos(30km), or Nuevo Casas Grandes(90+km), depending on how things go. I'm getting a really late start, and am pretty tired and sunburned, so that might factor into things.

It was good to have the extra day though, as it was spent hurridly running last minute errands, re-engineering my panniers, customizing foam for the inside of the pelican case I'm carrying my laptop in, and fabricating water bottles out of duct tape, webbing, and cheap keychain caribiners.

My kilo of water

Only after I was putting the finishing touches on the water bottles did I realize that they look suspiciously like stereotypical bales of marijuana wrapped in duct tape. Ah well. Crossing the border tomorrow morning will prove interesting.

Yesterday involved a 15 hour greyhound bus trip from Denver, CO to Las Cruces, NM. I have always held that any trip on Greyhound is in and of itself an adventure, and this trip wasn't any exception. The adventures started at the Denver station, where the ticket agent insisted that I box my bicycle. With a half hour to go before the bus left, I tore out my tools, removing pedals, wheels, lowering my seat, and turning my headset sideways, and barely managing to fit it all in the box. In the end, the box was probably all for the best, as it got removed and shifted around more than I had anticipated. And after all, it's probably best to at least start the trip with a fully working bicycle.

I've decided there are two things that make even the shortest Greyhound trip into an adventure of epic proportions. The first is practiced air of slight incompetance given off by nearly every greyhound employee, which, to the untrained eye, makes it appear that it is each employee's first day on the job. I used to think that greyhound just made a habit of hiring really dumb people, but have since changed my opinion. Instead, it is a mixture of extreme indifference, poor procedures, and inadequate training.

When I got my ticket in Denver, I had to pay for the ticket, the box, and the shipping fee. No worries, out came the credit card. If only it was that simple. 15 minutes and three seperate transactions later, some of which _had_ to be cash, I stood at the counter in front of line of people which was quickly increasing in length and level of frustration, while the ticket agent (who was very nice I might add), went in the back to make a photocopy, so that I had some sort of proof I'd just paid $10 for the cardboard box. Apparently, it is beyond the Greyhound computer system's ability to print customer recipets for boxes. It completely boggles the mind...

The second thing that makes Greyhound journeys so unique, is the people one encounters along the way. Greyhound seems to attract all sorts of people that I'd never get a chance to meet any other way - an anthropolical slice of American society. On the way to Colorado Springs I talked with Joe, a 19 year-old motorcross racer from Venice Beach touring with the kawasaki race team. He "had all his shit stolen in Minessota", and with a lack of cash or credit cards, was relegated to riding Greyhound instead of flying to Colorado Springs for his next race, that afternoon. We talked most of the way from Denver to Colorado Springs, with the conversation ranging from smoking to fireworks, but mostly centered around motorbikes and trucks.

On the way to Albaquerque, I eavesdropped on a converstation between a 30-year-old trucker, and a contruction worker who couldn't have been more than 20, and desperately tried to ignore the mexican in front of me who was desperate to pick a fight with whoever would listen to him long enough to get mad, from me, to the Indians wearing turbans a few rows up, and finally, to the bus driver, who, fortunately for my friend, couldn't hear him.

Today, I shared the brief hour on the bus from Las Cruces with a mexican-american boy name Junior, who was 16, and couldn't wait to graduate high school so he could join the Air Force. We talked a lot about the military, his special operations aspirations, and the apparent love of his life, his 89 Honda CRX, which he'd modified to drag race himself.

Partway between Las Cruces and Deming, we had to stop at a border patrol checkpoint, and a border patrolman came onboard to check identification. I had been warned this would happen by the guy at the front desk of the hotel last night. When I expressed amazement, he said "Man, we're only like, an hour from the border". Apparently, there are checkpoints in nearly every direction from Las Cruces.

The bus pulled up in Deming in a dusty parking lot, outside a tiny one room bus station. I dumped my enormous mound of gear uncerimoniously in the dust near two decript coke machines, and began the process of assembling my bike, as the bus pulled away. It was only then, with the sun beating down on me, that I realized how hot it was. But hey, it's a dry heat, so it's ok, right? Breathing was like sucking on a hair dryer.

I finally go the bike together, and my various water containers filled, and as I started loading gear on the bike, I promptly realized that the kickstand I'd bought is going to be nearly entirely useless. With all of my gear loaded, there's enough weight on the back of the bicycle, that it does a backflip as soon as you let go. Bugger.

I bid goodbye to the lone stationmaster (it somehow seems vaguely inappropriate to call any greyhound employee a "stationmaster"), as well as the two vagrants loitering inside and their overgrown chiuahua. I hit the road for the mecca of southwest life, the pinnacle of new mexican life and society, and sacred keeper of all things useful - Walmart.

Given my extreme distaste for large corporations, specifically Walmart, it's been a long while since I'm stepped foot into one of the friendly supercenters. I was amazed. The Walmarts here are amazing! You can get anything. As the guy at the hotel front desk last night put it, where else can you do your grocery shopping and browse for clothes while you wait for your car to be lubed, all without leaving airconditioning?

This morning I came to the front desk with a burning problem (he got to know me quite well despite my short stay). I had left the keys to my bike lock in Denver, and didn't want to buy a new cable. So I asked the Robert at the front desk if he knew of a hardware store within walking distance. Nope, no dice. "What about a Kmart or something?" "Oh yeah, there's a walmart supercenter next door" Smack! Sure enough, literally next door was a walmart, with just about everything one could dream of, and more. I got someone in hardware to get the maintenance guy to cut my lock off, and bought a new lock, a pair of shorts, and groceries, all in one go. Everyone working there was friendly, knowledgable, and the sotre was in immaculate shape.

As Robert explained, when the Walmart came to town, all the small stores had to close, so for instance, all the guys that were working at the local hardware stores now work at Walmart. So they have a lot of experienced people.