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Richard Mitchell, 84, of Albuquerque in 2016. Mitchell used the Green Book to drive across the United States in 1964. The travel guide “assured protection for Negro travelers.”

(Photo by Craig Fritz / For The Times
)

Forty-four of the 89 counties along Route 66 were sundown towns, communities where it was encouraged for Black people to leave before dark — or else. Route 66 diners, motels and gas stations routinely refused service to Black travelers. In 1936, a Harlem postal worker named Victor Green began publishing the Negro Motorist Green Book, a guide to the hotels, restaurants and gas stations along the route that would serve Black travelers. More than 1,400 tourist homes (private residences that took in guests when hotels wouldn’t) were listed during the guide’s run.

For Black families on Route 66, the Green Book was as essential as a spare tire. In Tulsa, the Greenwood District was once known as “Black Wall Street.” White thugs destroyed it in the 1921 Race Massacre. The community rebuilt and became a hub of Black commerce near the route. Springfield, Ill., was one of the first cities on Route 66 to offer services to Black travelers. It was also the site of the 1908 Race Riot, which helped spur the founding of the NAACP.

A vintage photo of the Hayes Motel in Los Angeles. It was featured in the Green Book, which listed places that served African Americans during the era of segregation.

(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

See what remains today: Only about 30% of Green Book sites along Route 66 are still standing. The DuBeau in Flagstaff, Ariz., once a Green Book listing, now operates as a motel. The recently shuttered Clifton’s in downtown Los Angeles sits at 7th and Broadway, the original terminus of Route 66. Route History Museum in Springfield is the only museum in the country dedicated to the Black experience on Route 66, housed in a 1930s Texaco station one block off the road. It offers a virtual reality experience that walks visitors through the Green Book cities of Illinois, including sundown towns.

Beyond the Green Book, other businesses that are worth a visit include Threatt Filling Station in Oklahoma, a Black-owned gas station (and safe haven for Black travelers) during the era of segregation, and the neon sign from Graham’s Rib Station, a beloved Black-owned restaurant for many years. It’s located at the local History Museum on the Square in Springfield, Mo.

Also known as Sky City, Acoma is a Native community of earthen homes perched atop a 357-foot-high mesa. It has been occupied for roughly 1,000 years by the Acoma Pueblo tribe, which is independent of the nearby Navajo, Zuni and Laguna, with its own language and about 5,000 enrolled members.

Thanks to revenues from their Sky City Casino and hotel along Interstate 40, the Acoma also have a large, handsome Haa’ku Museum and Sky City Cultural Center next to the historic mesa. There, outsiders can gather for escorted tours of 60 to 90 minutes, mostly walking. It’s $30 per adult. Photography, binoculars and note-taking are closely restricted, and outsiders are generally forbidden from the mesa except on tours.

My group of 18 travelers was led by guide Gail Toribio, 27. After a quick bus ride up a steep road built in the 1950s, we found ourselves on top of the mesa, facing one massive church, about 500 homes and several pottery stalls that materialize during tours. The views were spectacular, the pottery was full of painstaking detail, and it was fascinating to see the ancient and modern elements together in the hilltop homes. But the biggest thing and most astonishing story on the mesa is the San Estévan del Rey Mission.

When Spanish troops and missionaries showed up in the 16th century, they forced labor and Christianity upon Native groups, often slaughtering and maiming those who resisted, including many Acoma. By the 1640s, forced labor had produced the church on the mesa, its 40-foot-long ponderosa pine beams dragged from Mt. Taylor, more than 30 miles away. Somehow, when the area’s tribes rose up in the Pueblo Indian revolt of 1680 and killed most of the Catholic priests in New Mexico, the church endured. And over time, Toribio told us, most Acoma families settled into a sort of dual faith, combining their traditional beliefs with Catholic rituals, including Christmas.

After the church, we walked among two-story homes that were here long before the first Europeans showed up. (Only a handful of the homes are still occupied full time.)

“I was actually raised up there,” potter Gwen Patricio, 52, told me back at the visitor center. “No electricity, no running water. They asked the elders if they wanted electricity, but they said no.”

Friends, motorists, fellow Americans: The road ahead is far from straight. But it will take us through eight states and dozens of small towns, past Muffler Men and Patel motels, beneath the bright lights of Tulsa and Tucumcari, up close to Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks” and Angel Delgadillo’s barber chair.

In other words, it’s Route 66, an American artifact that turns 100 in November and seems to contain more curiosities and paradoxes than the Midwest has cornstalks.

To see all that up close and catch America’s Main Street making ready for its centennial summer, I drove the entire stretch — from Chicago to Albuquerque in one trip, then Albuquerque to Santa Monica in another, a combined 17 days on the road.

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Even before that first day of driving brought me to Springfield, Ill., I’d realized that more days would have been better. As traveler Leonidas Georgiou of Greece told me, “This is a lifetime journey.”

You quickly see that this 2,448-mile route is actually a medley of rural highways, small-town main streets, frontage roads and inescapable bits of Interstate 40. You roll from Midwest farmland to Southwest desert to the Pacific, rising and falling between sea level and 7,000 feet. The roadside signs and buildings, restored and ruined, cry out for more than a drive-by snap. And people are happy to see you, because Route 66 is what keeps some of these towns alive.

Beginning with your first miles — and a cup of coffee at Lou Mitchell’s diner in Chicago — you meet all sorts of travelers. A mother and daughter from New York. The California couple who just retired from the Air Force. The European cop who persuaded his mom to come along, then had her sleep in the car to save money. The “roadies,” many of them retired, who return every year. Some come for the scenery, some for the signage, some for the conversations.

Depending on whom you ask, this might be the most famous highway in the world. It is the inspiration for a short, happy song that’s lasted 80 years (Bobby Troup’s “[Get Your Kicks on] Route 66”) and a long, sad book that’s lasted 87 (John Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath”). Then again, if you were born in this century, you probably know the road’s story best from the 2006 Disney-Pixar movie “Cars.”

As the miles go by, you realize that Route 66 hasn’t been strictly American for a long time. Many Route 66 merchants and hoteliers say that most of their customers are travelers from abroad. Beyond that, many Route 66 entrepreneurs are from families that came to the U.S. in the last 50 years. I met a restaurateur from Lebanon, one motel owner from the Netherlands and four more motel owners, all named Patel, whose families arrived from India after 1965.

Route 66 west of Seligman, Ariz.

(Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)

“You never know what language or accent you’re going to hear,” says Rhys Martin, Tulsa, Okla.-based manager for the National Trust for Historic Preservation’s Preserve Route 66 initiative. “You’ve got new business owners. You’ve got unique cuisine. You’ve got this cultural diversity. You’ve got the African American experience. It’s more complicated than just a trip back in time.”

And this year is especially complicated.

Hundreds of small businesses along the route have been investing in centennial upgrades and celebrations, including a 19-day national caravan that begins June 6 in Santa Monica. But 2025 was slow on 66, in part because many Canadian visitors stayed away after President Trump proposed taking over their country.

1.) Views of the Chicago skyline from Navy Pier. 2.) Millennium Park, Chicago. (Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)

Now, on the brink of summer, soaring gasoline prices could keep many Americans home, and President Trump’s America-first rhetoric and nonresident fees might drive more international travelers elsewhere.

“We all worry about that,” says Terri Ryburn, owner of Ryburn Place Gifts & Gab in a 1930s gas station in Normal, Ill.

“We need new roadies,” says Anna Marie Gonzalez, co-owner of the Aztec Motel & Creative Space in Seligman, Ariz. “And the roadies need to be American this year.”

Now my rented Ford Escape SUV is rolling and my windshield is full of rural Illinois. Water towers, grain elevators, flags on barns. Black and white cows.

The skyline view from Chicago’s Navy Pier is half a day behind me, as are the crowds around the big silver bean in Millennium Park and the great American artworks in the Art Institute of Chicago (where “Nighthawks” hangs).

Experts say that about 85% of the old highway is still drivable. But some states post more signs than others. And everywhere, people steal signs.

Ah, but not these signs. One for a barn sale off Stripmine Road. A warning that Funks Grove has sold out of pure maple syrup. Somebody selling deer pee to hunters.

When I cross the state line, I face a billboard pitching “Uranus Fudge Factory, Missouri’s No. 2 Attraction.”

After I pass the exit comes the sequel message: “Uranus is behind you.”

The Wagon Wheel Motel stands along Route 66 in Cuba, Mo.

(Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)

The Route 66 timeline starts in November 1926. That’s when state and federal transportation officials embraced the idea of connecting scores of cities and small towns with one long, paved road.

As I pull over for a barbecue dinner in tiny Cuba, Mo., the 90-year-old Wagon Wheel Motel pops up like a slideshow illustration of that time. The stone-walled motel looks unchanged in decades, but sleepy.

“Never closed,” says a sign in the window with a phone number. “If office locked we are close by.”

The Rockwood Motor Court in Springfield, Mo., is a window into the same era. Built in 1929, my $77 room is compact and the plumbing is delicate, but all the vintage vibes are present. Phyllis Ferguson, desk clerk, owner and “old building hugger,” is full of tips on roadside businesses and where to stay, because “I know these little tourist courts are getting fewer and farther between.”

Boots Court motel opened in 1939 to capitalize on Route 66 traffic in Carthage, Mo.

(Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)

In Carthage, Mo., at Boots Court, desk clerk Jason Shelfer shows me a splendidly restored 1939 room where Clark Gable slept and tells me he never appreciated the reach of Route 66 until now.

“When people from Brazil come to Carthage, Missouri,” Shelfer says, “something magical is happening.”

And there’s another side to this magic: 66 can also be invisible up close. Not just because of missing signs, but because it has aliases everywhere. It’s Jackson Boulevard in parts of Chicago, Garrison Avenue in Carthage and Main Street in Galena, Ks., where 18-year-old cashier Kassidy Kell welcomes me into Gearhead Curios.

“Before my job,” she confesses, “I had no idea what the thing was with Route 66.”

It was John Steinbeck who called 66 the Mother Road. But if the Mother Road has a father, it’s probably Cyrus Avery, a Tulsa businessman and big wheel on the Oklahoma Highway Commission in the 1920s. Avery, who now has his own plaza in Tulsa, campaigned for a Chicago-Los Angeles route through his hometown. Little did he know what was coming.

The Cyrus Avery Centennial Plaza features a bronze sculpture called “East Meets West,” just off the now-closed Cyrus Avery Route 66 Memorial Bridge in Tulsa, Okla.

(Mike Simons / For The Times)

Within a decade, drought and Depression had forced legions of Dust Bowl migrants from Oklahoma and beyond on desperate journeys west, using Route 66.

A decade beyond that, the end of World War II in 1945 filled the road again, this time with happy travelers.

That postwar era is what many people now think of as a simpler time, and perhaps a better one. But segregation and “sundown towns” were still in place along much of the route. For travelers of color, a carefree road trip would have been impossible. And for many Native Americans, the roadside proliferation of cowboy/Indian caricatures would have been nothing to smile at.

But these were years that reshaped the look of Route 66. Hundreds of motels, shops and gas stations rose along the road, often designed in bold geometry and bright colors.

Mary Beth Babcock at her shop Buck Atom’s Cosmic Curios in Tulsa, Okla. In the background is her giant, Stella Atom.

(Mike Simons / For The Times)

Flash forward now to Tulsa’s Meadow Gold District, a.k.a. “land of the giants.” In 2018, retailing veteran Mary Beth Babcock took over an old gas station, dubbed it Buck Atom’s Cosmic Curios on 66, and soon opened more shops nearby.

Then, to get attention and make drivers smile, she put up a few “muffler men” — roadside fiberglass giants. She started with Buck and Stella Atom, a space cowboy and cowgirl who loom over 11th Street, looking to the past and future.

“Americana!” says Babcock. “Road trip! Who wouldn’t want to do that?”

Near the east edge of the Texas panhandle stands the most elegant gas station you’ll ever see: the 1936 U-Drop Inn and Tower Station in Shamrock, which drips with Art Deco style. (No, you can’t get gas there. But you can eat at the cafe inside or charge your Tesla in back.)

In Groom, stopping for gas, I spy the largest cross I have ever seen — 190 feet high and 110 feet wide. Nearby, I glimpse a crooked water tower — built to attract tourists and billed as the Leaning Tower of Texas.

Sorry, Groom. I’m not stopping.

The fastidiously restored U-Drop Inn, a Streamline Moderne filling station and cafe in Shamrock, Texas, is one of the architectural standouts of Route 66. It doesn’t sell gas, though.

(Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)

I reach Amarillo just in time, grab paint cans and hustle out to the field where a line of 10 old Cadillacs stand half-buried. As the sun sets, they throw 50-foot shadows while the scent of spray paint fills the air.

This is Cadillac Ranch, an art installation from the 1970s where visitors are free to add their own paint, whatever they like. Mine says “Read Something.”

Next comes Tucumcari, N.M., one of the few places to sleep between Albuquerque and Amarillo. Because of that, it used to get thousands of road-trippers. They’d slowly roll down the main drag, choosing favorites from a riot of snappy names and caricatures lit in gleaming neon.

“They tell me it was like driving into a little Las Vegas,” says Gar Engman, owner of Tee Pee Curios.

But I-40 changed everything.

In 1956, President Eisenhower called for a better interstate highway system. By the mid-1960s, wider, faster interstates started opening, flanked by chain hotels and restaurants. After I-40 bypassed Tucumcari in 1981, and train service dropped off as well, Tucumcari crashed. Just about every town along 66 has a version of this story, especially in New Mexico and Arizona.

Visitors to the Cadillac Ranch art installation in Amarillo, Texas, are allowed to spray-paint the 10 Cadillacs half-buried in the ground there.

(Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)

So is Tucumcari a ghost town? Not exactly. Many buildings stand empty and the Apache Motel’s vintage sign rests flat in a parking lot like a fallen soldier. But several motels are clearly doing fine, as is Tee Pee Curios. At night you still see a great set of signs. Most dramatic is the Blue Swallow Motel with its bird in flight, cursive letters and promise of “100% refrigerated air” — maybe the most photographed sign on 66. But you can’t ignore Motel Safari, the Roadrunner Lodge and La Cita restaurant, which wears a red sombrero and serves a fine Frito pie.

In Newkirk, N.M., four turkeys cross the road, leaving me groping for a punch line.

In Santa Rosa, N.M., I tiptoe into the Blue Hole, an artesian well that’s always 62 degrees, then tiptoe out again.

Turkeys on Route 66, Newkirk, N.M.

(Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)

In Albuquerque, I roll past many blighted blocks on Central Avenue, then jog 65 miles northwest to sample the art and wealth of Santa Fe.

In the farmers market there, I give public poet William Curius $20 to pound out a Route 66 poem on his Royal typewriter. In 20 minutes, he comes up with a solid effort, but it’s nothing compared to his answer when I ask his age.

“I don’t identify with age. This is how you die. Counting each year.”

In Petrified Forest National Park — the only national park directly on the route — I hike among red rocks and howling wind.

By the time I reach Williams, Ariz., several people have told me that the European travelers know more about Route 66 than the Americans do. So when I see four guys from Greece on the sidewalk, I try that idea on them. Alex Andros, age 30, nods immediately.

“If you come to Greece,” he says,”you probably know more Greek mythology than us. So that makes sense.”

Now we arrive at Seligman, Ariz. It’s tiny, with a population south of 800. But in the lore of Route 66, Seligman is big. Because of Angel Delgadillo.

By 1985, though the roadway was still mostly intact, Route 66 was officially obsolete, decommissioned as a federal highway. Starved for visitors, Seligman was dying. But Delgadillo, a barber with deep roots in the town, had an idea. He and his wife, Vilma, rallied business people from nearby towns to seek historic status for their stretch of Route 66. After they prevailed, they started a statewide organization and set a national movement in motion.

Angel & Vilma Delgadillo’s Original Route 66 Gift Shop on Route 66 through Seligman, Ariz. (Mark Lipczynski / For The Times)

Scenes from Route 66 in Williams, Ariz. (Mark Lipczynski / For The Times)

The Delgadillos’ business, now a gift shop, endures on Seligman’s main drag, as do Vilma and Angel, who celebrated his 99th birthday in April. Two daughters help run the shop, which includes an old barber chair where you can sit for a selfie.

The westernmost stretch of 66 in Arizona is a driver’s dream and a magnet for motorcycles. Those 158 miles make up the longest-surviving continuous stretch of Old 66, beginning just east of Seligman, veering away from the railroad tracks, cutting through Kingman, twisting and turning through Oatman and the Black Mountains, eventually rejoining I-40 at the state line.

Then it’s time to cross the Colorado River. Roar through Needles. Pause at the Roy’s sign in Amboy for dusk. Crash for the night in Barstow.

At San Bernardino’s Wigwam Motel, I wind up chatting with a mother-daughter duo of Canadian travelers.

“I was against coming down,” admits Sharon Prinz, 75, of British Columbia.

1.) The stretch of old Route 66 between Kingman and Topock in western Arizona is known as “Arizona Sidewinder” for its 191 turns, often without guardrails. The old mining town of Oatman, known for its roaming donkeys, is on the way. (Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times) 2.) The Magic Lamp Inn in Rancho Cucamonga. (David Fouts / For The Times) 3.) Foothill Drive-In sign on the campus of Azusa Pacific University. (David Fouts / For The Times)

“It’s a timing thing,” says Wendy Prinz, 51, who talked her mom into coming. “If you put off something for a year, you might never get the chance.”

The end is near, and I’m feeling like a marathoner at Mile 25. Creeping along Foothill, Colorado, Sunset and Santa Monica boulevards, I scan the scene for old signs. Rancho Cucamonga’s Magic Lamp Inn! Azusa’s Foothill Drive-In! (But there is no drive-in, just the sign.)

And then, at dusk, it appears: the Santa Monica Pier and the sign declaring I’ve reached the “end of the trail.”

All those miles. Yet already, I’m making a mental list of stops to add and detours to try next time.

A sign marking the end of Route 66 on the Santa Monica Pier.

(David Fouts / For The Times)

“It’s so easy to use up all your time and end up running behind,” says Ian Bowen, manager of the pier’s 66 to Cali kiosk. “It took me six years to do the whole road.” And then, he adds, “you become part of the community.”

And you see how, in so many ways, the road is one long small town. When Brenda at the Midpoint Cafe in Texas sends a guest westward with a coconut cream pie for Robert and Dawn at the Blue Swallow Motel, Robert and Dawn thank her on Facebook (“It’s like a hug in a box”) and scores of roadies applaud. When Angel Delgadillo turns 99, West Side Lilo’s Cafe is ready with carrot cake. After Beth Hilburn adds a giant outside her Hi-Way Cafe, Mary Beth Babcock heads over from Tulsa to Vinita to say hi.

And when a rookie roadie finishes his first 66 trip, he has to wonder: Who will be out there this summer? Will it be enough to keep this fragile recovery going?

If this is the story of America’s Main Street, what’s the next chapter?

A MAJOR airline has scrapped one of its routes from the UK due to rising fuel costs.

Lufthansa has announced that it is axing its route between Glasgow and Frankfurt, Germany, this winter as the Iran War continues to affect fuel prices.

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The German flag carrier has already stopped selling flights on the route, with the last direct flight between Glasgow and Frankfurt scheduled for May 31.

A Lufthansa Group spokesman told The Herald: “Following the decision to discontinue Lufthansa CityLine flights effective immediately and to reduce unprofitable flights in the future due to high kerosene prices, the Lufthansa Group’s summer schedule will be reduced by just under one percent of available seat-kilometers.

“To compensate for this, Lufthansa has taken immediate action and will consolidate the flight schedules of all Lufthansa Group airlines, cancelling 20,000 flights by the end of October.

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“As a result of these decisions, flights to Glasgow will no longer be operated by Lufthansa via Frankfurt, but for the time being, by Edelweiss via Zurich offering access to the Swiss International Air Lines network.”

Flights between Glasgow and Frankfurt were first launched back in 2018 and currently there are 13 flights a week.

Lufthansa usually uses an Airbus A320 for this route, with between 168 and 180 seats.

As a result, this would mean the route carries as many as 2,340 passengers a week or 9,360 passengers over a month.

The airline previously announced that it plans to cancel more than 20,000 flights this summer as a result of rising fuel costs.

Most of the routes impacted will be short haul, with the airline also shutting down its subsidiary airline, CityLine.