Battle Mountain, Nevada: six and a half years ago I crashed my car here and failed to charm the cop by joking about the armpit of America. For red-blooded Americans the best place to eat in Battle Mountain would be the steakhouse; for liberal arugula wusses like me it must be the Aguila Real (pronounced aggilla reel?), who turn out to do okay veggie enchiladas and refried beans that taste better than my custom because they obviously partake of the pig. People eat early in Battle Mountain—when I stepped in at 5:30 the place was packed, and everyone turned to look at me as in the classic saloon scene—”walkin’ in with Sir Thomas Wyatt under his arm—you’re not from around here....”
Now back at the Super 8 the whole building smells like fried chicken. There are pockets of snow between the sagebrush, the sky was very clear, J. sent me an m4a by the Walkabouts.
