Traveling by train across great distances in the
USA feels like a time travel. It’s the exact opposite of the meticulously timed and super punctual train journeys in
China and the futuristic self-driving cars roaming the streets of L.A.
The old diesel locomotives from the 70s emit the typical 'toot-toot' every time they pass one of the level crossings out in the open. The interior design and the seats, which offer generous legroom, seem to have not been replaced in at least forty years.
Seat reservations are not possible in advance. The conductor, dressed in a uniform that could easily belong to the costume department of a historical film, assigns you a seat upon boarding using an A4 sheet with the seating rows. You receive a paper ticket with the handwritten destination and seat number. Once found, you slot the ticket into a slot under the luggage shelf. The conductor puts in an effort for every announcement for the next station with melody in his voice and perfectly timed pauses, as if he were a radio host of a morning show: 'Goooood afternoon to a bunch of adventurous passengers on the Southwest Chief... coming up next is the world's most beautiful little postcard city, Mendoda, Illinois. Wanna thank you for traveling... here... with the Southwest train.'
Those who take the train have special reasons every time: Ed, who doesn’t want to deal with the strict airport checks. The Amish, who are not allowed to fly. The retiree in the panoramic car, who can peacefully take photos of the snow-white landscape with his professional camera. No one opts for a trip lasting days if they could easily take the often cheaper plane. I split the journey of the Southwest Chief from Los Angeles to Chicago. In one go, I would be traveling over 43 hours – if the train is on time. Lately, it most often isn’t. Even this time on my leg from Flagstaff to Albuquerque, it’s delayed. Doesn’t bother me. It allows for more time to sleep and write, and this route is free of robberies this time.
At the train station in Albuquerque, I don’t feel quite so safe anymore. It feels somewhat like in L.A., only denser. Men in self-talk stare into the void. The bus is free here in the city. But it’s only used by those who can’t afford a car or don’t have a roof over their heads at all. Or by tourists like me who prefer not to order a taxi in the extremely sprawling capital of New Mexico. After checking in, I’m on my local control walk and walk past a cemetery. The paths are so wide that cars can drive right up to the respective graves.
While searching for postcards, I step into an antique shop. The owner is a man in his mid-40s, who is practicing some riffs on an electric guitar. He has cleared out his house and couldn’t bring himself to dispose of his stuff. So he rented the shop space. Now he is trying to make room. Not an easy task in the barely 20 square meter room. Guitar amplifiers pile up in one corner, CDs and DVDs in another, with T-shirts, books, and decorations from the 70s to 2000s in between. A little Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul merch. The city is the setting for the famous Netflix series, and I am, I must confess, one of the tourists who primarily came to Albuquerque to see the filming locations.
He only has historical postcards, and they are not suitable for sending, says the shop owner. I point to the Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt hanging above the cash register and inquire about the price. ‘Oh, that’s too much, it’s never been worn.’ ‘How much?’ I still want to know. ‘290 dollars.’ Okay, that’s really too much. Instead, I buy a Tom Petty T-shirt that costs $21. It's a glitter shirt, but at least it’s from the original tour and unworn.
I cautiously bring up the drug and crime crisis here in Albuquerque. I don’t want to offend anyone regarding his hometown, but he starts complaining directly. He knows exactly: 'The system is broken man.' The people who take the bus to work because they don’t have a car are still on the road for hours because the three bus routes only cover a fraction of the city area. They have installed a 360-degree surveillance camera in the parking lot across from the shop four years ago. Only then did the murders at the street corner stop. In general, there's a system in the whole city that locates gunfire sounds, so the police can arrive at the crime scene faster.
If such technology has to be invented, isn’t that already a tipping point where one should take a look at reform?
All in all, I would rather be with my bears in
Japan now. A bell is enough to keep danger at bay there. Here I rely on my individual sense of security. In a tunnel, a few guys with their hoods drawn over their faces hang out in the passage. I take a detour. At the Martin Luther King Memorial, a black homeless man sits between two portraits of the pastor and takes a hit.
After two lap dogs in the neighboring room have barked non-stop until 2 a.m. when the owner finally returned, I stand in the lobby the next morning, bleary-eyed. At the breakfast buffet, I can choose between toast, cornflakes, and waffles. I can fill my coffee in a plastic cup and eat the eggs and potatoes from a paper plate with plastic cutlery. The old shared apartment rule applies: throwing away is easier than washing up.
At the bus stop, a man in his 50s with a green wool cap sits on the bench next to me: 'Are you waiting long?' 'No, should be coming in about 5 minutes. Has a bit of a delay.' 'Oh, you’re seeing this on your..?', he gestures to my phone. He doesn’t have one. A confusing story follows about how 'the AIs' follow him across different laptops although he isn’t personally logged into them. On the bus, he asks me: 'Do you believe in the father?' When I hesitate to answer, he clarifies: 'No man, religion and faith are two different things man.' Okay, all I’m doing is nodding and occasionally saying: 'I see.' But his flow of speech is like a waterfall, and I only understand a fraction of his story about how he found faith. Something about his first and second wife, how they were politically engaged in a democratic way, and he eventually turned away from the bipartisan system. I only grasp that he has a bone to pick with anything seemingly politically intellectual: '..those people', he crosses his legs over each other. 'I can’t even sit like that... Or my second wife, she was one of those.' He quickly bobs his right leg and laughs. 'That's my stop,' I apologize just in time at my stop. His tirade could go on uninterrupted if I were to ride all the way to the last stop. 'Well, thanks for listening to that,' he calls as I get off. Anytime.
The Old Town of Albuquerque is nice to look at. Pueblo artisans sell jewelry on the sidewalks. In the souvenir shops, there is sometimes a note under certain small artworks indicating which Native American tribes created them, often with the names and portraits of the artists. In a gallery filled with pottery and modern art, I browse through a few postcards. The older gentleman behind the desk tells me that he designed the pottery and that they alternate in running the cash register as part of an artists' collective. 'What makes you come from
Germany all the way to Albuquerque?' When I confess to him that I’m primarily here because of the Breaking Bad series, he waves it off. 'Yeah I’m one of those people,' I apologize. 'It’s alright, we get a lot of those.' But I would also like to hike in the mountains tomorrow. I should be careful, he warns me. 'A lot of tourists have to be taken out by helicopter.' I should take enough water and dress warmly.
'Are you Maxamillion, what a cool name!' is the enthusiastic greeting from the tour organizer. I am the only participant. 'We moved everyone else to the morning tour.' So Pete drives me in the van from filming location to filming location, and I start to remember the individual episodes again. The last time I watched the series was at least five years ago, but with every new original location, it clicks. 'Jesse and Jane's house,' 'The Car Wash,' 'Los Pollos Hermanos.' Albuquerque has been a popular production site for the U.S. film industry for decades. If a certain percentage of the crew consists of New Mexicans, the companies receive large amounts of tax refunds. At a film-worthy dilapidated industrial hall, Pete names a series of movies that were shot there, including Terminator.
We pass the house that serves as the residence of Walter White, the antagonist and main character of Breaking Bad. Pete explains to me that we are not allowed to stop here. The woman has too many reservations against the Breaking Bad tourists. Not without reason. In one episode of the series, Walter throws a pizza into the air, which lands on the roof and sticks there. A scene that wasn’t actually planned that way. However, the director liked the bullseye landing on the roof so much that the script was rewritten. The pizza on the Whites' roof became iconic. Unfortunately, this also led to a number of idiots regularly throwing pizzas onto the roof of the actual homeowners. An average of up to five times a day.
Hank, Walt’s brother-in-law in Breaking Bad, has his house in the suburb of Albuquerque near the Sandia Mountains. Conveniently located for the residents of the house since fewer crazy fans of the series venture there. Convenient for me, because I can start a hike into the mountains from there. It’s not easy to climb on the icy rocks, but at least the rattlesnakes are hibernating. Among snow-covered cacti, I have a spectacular view of Albuquerque and the Chihuahua desert.
