They didn’t seem to care that Corey and I stayed at the same hotel fifteen years ago. It was quite an oasis on the very hot and dusty Highway 2 or, as locals here like to call it, the Hi-Line. We ordered pizza, walked complementary drinks across the highway (big rigs slowed down and the star twinkled while we did so), and felt all bad ass in the way that only those under thirty can feel. Six weeks ago the teenage hotel clerk smiled when I told her all this, but honestly she did not seem that interested.
So the three of us ordered pizza here and hung out at the pool. Our trip, and summer, were almost completely in front of us and it felt good to be back somewhere where Corey and I began. Now the leaves are changing in Waterton and there ain’t much summer left to be had. Trying to do things a bit different this time we went out to dinner. Then saw a movie and even had a little time left over to hang out at the pool.
The restaurant, a funky looking Mexican diner, was recommended by the hotel. It was horrible. Henna’s vegetarian fajitas had non-Hispanic things in it like cauliflower that you knew came straight out of a frozen veggie bag. My chili relleno was like soup. Afterwards I asked almost every one I met if they would recommend the place. The hipster bartender at the casino next door said he loved the place for its authenticity. The teenage girl at the coffee shop next to the movie theater ate there the other day and would gladly do so again. This genuine affection for such a lousy place depressed us. The hotel clerk, the same one who recommended the place, later told me she used to work at the place but actually does not care for the food herself. She recommended it though because, “everyone just kind of has to work it out for themselves.” Travel is kind of the same way.