How are we to know our past, and discover our future if we sprint through landscape, I wonder. Is there something different about driving Route 66 slowly, alongside the interstate where ten tons of metal jostle for a lane? Is the desert any less hot at 60 than at 80? Are we happier arriving a half-hour sooner, if it means a death grip on the steering wheel to avoid running into our neighbor? At what point does speed cease to be worth the cost--in gas, road anxiety, possible collisions? Maybe driving 66, instead of the fast-paced interstate, is the healthy choice, like a low-fat diet or pesticide-free food. One can savor each region, each nuance in landscape, accent, shame and pride.

Along this journey, I’ve been searching out the spirit of each states’ Route 66. The chain of towns that connects Illinois to Missouri to Kansas to Oklahoma to Texas ends at New Mexico. This state’s character is its vast sky and earth. Beyond a crossroads at San Jon, and the small cities of Tucumcari and Santa Rosa are its heart, the lion-colored plains and tile-blue sky.

Perhaps this is the reason Europeans are so fascinated by western Route 66. Their countries are densely settled, town after town. Here, only the wind drives the roads. New Mexico has the greatest stretches of untenanted Route 66. Staring out the window I realize that this land is occupied, though no structure is in sight. This is pagan country, unbuilt and untouched by human hands, looking much as it did after glaciers withdrew and then the warm seas receded. New Mexico’s Route 66 has a starkness and unoccupied beauty.

I drive the Camino Real to Garcia’s Kitchen--now a set of four restaurants distributed throughout the city. I have arranged to spend the night in downtown, a block off Central, rather than at my home, to keep the trip to 66. Garcia’s is crowded with the last wave of people headed for jobs downtown. Coffee cups clink in porcelain saucers. Half the people are speaking Spanish. For the first time on 66, signs are in Spanish and in English, and the waitress--who has Indian blood, judging by her coal-black hair and high cheek bones--alternates between Spanish and English with me. I order eggs and carne adovada, the uniquely New Mexican dish of pork stewed in red chile. It is succulent, the meat flaking beneath the fork. Even the coffee tastes different, a sharper, darker flavor than the transparent fluid of the Midwest.