There’s that old saying that the grass looks greener on the other side. I knew the grass was not greener in New Mexico, but I came out here to look. 

Not at the grass, mind you, but at the opportunities. I didn’t find what I was looking for.

If you’ve spent a few decades on this planet and you haven’t made a mistake, please fasten your seat belt because it’s bound to happen one way or another.

I drove about 1,500 miles across the country and I can tell you where gas is cheaper. But I had a few disappointments along the way. 

I had gotten information on rental properties and not a one of them looked like the online picture. I went to see a house and it looked like the home of Fred and WIlma Flintstone. It had a sliding gate and fence with razor wire on top. Razor wire is a sign that you are not looking in the neighborhood where Ward and June Cleaver lived. 

I also thought the area would be on the way to spring.

Wrong.

I went to church on both Sundays. I came outside and the wind was blowing at a steady 75 mph. I’m a big boy, but I had a hard time remaining upright. When I got to my truck, the wind made me feel like someone was shoving me up against it.

The chile, a spicy hot pepper, is offered on everything. If you go for breakfast and order eggs, they ask if you want chile on it. They put it on hamburgers and just about anything else.

I had a plain old taco and it was spicier than anything I’ve had east of the Mississippi. By the way, Albuquerque is on the Rio Grande, which wanders its way through town.

Having said all of that, you still ought to plan a visit out here.

Wait until it gets a little closer to summer.

Tomorrow, I’m loading the truck and, unlike the Clampetts, I’m heading east. I’m going to make my way through Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Tennessee and Alabama.

I have no desire upon my departure to look lovingly at the sights in my rear view mirror. However, I may well find myself stopping along Interstate 20 just before I reach the Chattahoochee and just take it all in.

Lewis Grizzard, the scribe of a generation ago, wrote a book about moving home from Chicago. “If I Ever Get Back to Georgia, I’m Gonna Nail My Feet to the Ground,” was the title of the book and the corresponding column.

I don’t know if I’ll nail my feet to the ground, but I know where I can get a fine hammer.

Harris Blackwood is a Gainesville resident whose columns publish weekly.