Tucumcari Tonight
I first heard of Tucumcari in 1989. Rain Man was on TV, and Tom Cruise — even high school boys back then had a thing for him — made a phone call and said the unforgettable words, “I’m in Tucumcari.” For reasons I still can’t explain, that single line lodged itself permanently in my teenage brain.
Growing up in India before the economic reforms, I knew of New York, LA, DC, Chicago, Boston — but Tucumcari? What was this place? Where on earth was it? Google Maps wouldn’t arrive for another two decades, so I opened my world atlas (yes, those things) and tried to track it down. Predictably, I failed. I’m not even sure I looked in the right hemisphere. With the confidence only teenagers possess, I concluded it must be a fictional Hollywood town — until many years later, living in the United States, I discovered it was very real, and still hanging on. As Mark Twain supposedly quipped (or should have): “It’s not what you don’t know that gets you into trouble; it’s what you’re sure isn’t on the map.”
A few months ago, I finally drove through Tucumcari and even spent a night there. There isn’t much to “do” in the conventional sense, but it’s absolutely worth a stop along I-40. Once, Route 66 was America’s great artery — the mother road that carried dreamers, soldiers, families, and truckers west. Tucumcari was one of its brightest jewels, famous for its slogan “Tucumcari Tonight!” which beckoned travelers with neon-lit motels, hearty diner meals, and beds that didn’t rattle on wheels. The town boasted nearly 2,000 motel rooms, each fronted by its own glowing sign — giant arrows, cowboy silhouettes, desert sunsets rendered in buzzing neon. Classic cars lined the streets, chrome catching the desert light as travelers filled booths or leaned against gas pumps swapping stories.
Today, much of that heyday has slipped away, Route 66 reduced to a nostalgic detour rather than a lifeline. But in Tucumcari, echoes endure. A handful of motels still ignite at dusk — the Blue Swallow, Motel Safari, Roadrunner Lodge — lovingly restored to keep the romance of the road alive. Their neon still hums, washing the asphalt in pinks and blues, a reminder of when the American dream was measured in miles, not likes.
Stand there at night, watching the glow against the desert sky, and it’s easy to hear phantom engines, the shuffle of boots, and the sense that this small town was once a giant on the road to somewhere.
