Half a day later we pulled into Taos, New Mexico around midnight on a Thursday. After unsuccessfully looking for a youth hostel for about an hour, tired, we pulled up to a wild-looking motel called The Laughing Horse Inn. What looked like an apparition wearing a long thin white cotton robe let us in. His name was Santos. He was a real frail, light-skinned, Spanish-looking black man about five-foot-four with the kindest face you’ve ever seen. With his real faint, whispery voice he asked us where we were from and offered us some tea.