T A B L E_T A L K Is it safe for women to travel alone? Swap success and horror stories in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Orchid ice cream By Eric Hansen An aficionado journeys to Turkey to discover the birthplace of this aphrodisiac treat (11/17/98) Another Africa By Chinua Achebe Beyond the stereotypes and clichés, a photographer and writer journey into the heart of the continent (11/15/98) This week in travel Hostages at Club Med, strikes in Italy, a Paris renaissance, Mideast warnings and more news from the travel world (11/13/98) A fiume runs through it By Thom Elkjer An American on a fly-fishing pilgrimage learns that in Italy, it's who you know that counts (11/12/98) On the road with the Smokejumpers: Part Two By The King Teen Shotguns and dead bunnies, pizza and beer -- a San Francisco band explores America (11/11/98) Browse the Wanderlust Postmark archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner S A L O N E M P O R I U M FREE! 12-ounce bag of Salon Blend with a purchase of $30 or more. While supplies last.		-------------------[GET PARTS ONE AND TWO] ------------Sold out in San Diego, boffo in Bakersfield -- ------------the band's all-American odyssey ends on an up note. BY THE KING TEEN | After our Halloween show in San Antonio, we have two days to get to Albuquerque for a Monday night show that -- you're not going to believe this -- might be canceled. This allows us to lounge a bit in the apartment of Jamie and Traci, who let us stay with them, saving us from a guy who said he wanted to take us home and give us peyote. We'd been booked into a new place called Sprockets by a guy named Sparky. But Sparky must not have written it down, because when I called back Sparky went "Uh-oh" and told me that there was now a poetry and beer night scheduled. He offered to have us play afterward, or to try to get us a show at a different place. I opted for the latter, and now I've spent our time in Texas calling him repeatedly to try to find out if the show is really happening. He keeps assuring me that it absolutely is -- uh, probably. We're in Tucson on Tuesday, so as we head west on I-10 from San Antonio, we have about five hours to decide whether to drive north to Albuquerque or just stay on this highway and go straight to Tucson, saving a couple hundred miles' worth of gas money. We decide -- what the hell -- to head north at Fort Stockton on U.S. 285, toward Albuquerque. Sparky's assurances aren't filling us with confidence, but we know that even if our show doesn't come through, we can go see our friends Luckie Strike, who are playing an all-ages show at Fred's Breads and Bagels. Luckie Strike is a punk band from Sacramento, and of all the bands we've ever played shows with, they're probably our best friends. (I realize I refer to almost every band we play with as a punk band. This has less to do with any similarities between them and more to do with my not being very good at describing variations in musical styles.) It's about 10 p.m. Sunday when we stop at Loving, N.M., for gas. There are two gas station/convenience stores across the road from each other. Big Stick Mick uses the lone pay phone at the Allsup's, where we've gassed up, to call home. His wife, Rachel Harmony, is having a tough time of it alone with their 4-month-old son, Hank, also known as Little Stick. Mick talks to her for about 20 minutes. I go across the street to use the phone at the other place, and a few minutes later Butta Fingers comes across, attracted by the sign that says "pizza." He walks into and then back out of the store, then asks the two employees, who are outside smoking, how long it takes for pizza. "Pizza's closed," says one. "Kitchen's closed. They close at 8 and 9." Butta shrugs and goes back across the street. Mick finally finishes his call, everyone pees one last time and we hit the highway. We've gone about a mile, with Double D driving, when we get pulled over. "I wasn't speeding!" he says. The officer's voice crackles over the loudspeaker: "Driver, step out of the vehicle and keep your hands where I can see them." This isn't about speeding. Double D talks to the officer, who's now been joined by two others, and then comes back and tells us they want us all out of the van with driver's licenses ready. We get out and stand in their searchlight for a while as they check for warrants. They quickly determine that we're not much of a threat ("What kind of music?" "Country"), and the arresting officer tells us that both gas stations had called the police on us for "suspicious behavior." "We're a pretty small community here, and when we get strangers in here, sometimes people get a little nervous," he says. I want to point out that this small community is a wide spot on a freakin' U.S. highway, and maybe they should get used to strangers coming by, but I restrain myself. The cops apologize and send us on our way. Back in the van, Butta, who'd been asleep when we crossed the state line, finally finds out that we're in New Mexico, not Texas. This is significant because Butta figures there's a warrant out for his arrest in Texas stemming from a speeding ticket he got and ignored five years ago. "Why didn't you tell me?" he yells. "Oh my God, the whole time we were out there I was picturing my cellmate." For the rest of the trip, "Pizza's closed, kitchen's closed" becomes our favorite catch phrase. We spend the night in Roswell, home of all sorts of goofy alien stuff. In the morning we visit the UFO Museum and several trinket shops, including one that has a crashed model flying saucer with an alien standing in front of it. We convince the store owners to let us take our picture in front of it. We're supposed to record "Flying Saucer Rock and Roll" for a Sun Records compilation and maybe we can use the photo then. In Albuquerque Monday, we quickly determine that the club where we're supposed to play the replacement show is locked up tight. We hook up with Luckie Strike -- and their show's been canceled too! But Fred's Breads and Bagels has given them a bag of bagels and some hummus, which we help them eat. We go out to dinner at a place called Route 66, since we are in fact on that fabled road, and then the 10 of us -- the two quartets and two local friends of Luckie Strike -- decide to go to Sprockets, for the poetry and beer. We're planning to get up and recite our lyrics as poetry: "The devil came down," I will intone, "and he brought some barbecue ..." Unfortunately, it's not an open mike poetry night, so we don't get the chance. Sparky is at Sprockets, which is a pretty nice place on a strip across the street from the University of New Mexico, and he apologizes for the mix-up. The bartender gives us some free beer. We're again offered a chance to play after the poetry, but that would cost us our place to stay, with the Luckie Strike friends, by making it too late a night for them, so we decline. The free beer doesn't seem to be an all-night offer, so we head, literally, for the hills, where one of the friends -- who's only 16 -- lives with her dad, who doesn't seem to mind eight strangers crashing on his floor. I should mention the Luckie Strike van: They've rigged up a TV and VCR. Mick and I ride in it for a while, and we watch part of "Enter the Dragon." The Big Orange Van doesn't even have a radio. N E X T+P A G E | Another day in the desert, and then the Golden State