2013-12 Santa Fe

Greetings from Santa Fe. Initial impressions:

             …it is Taos at twice the price

            …it is New Orleans without the insanity

…it is the liberal artist colony where hippies migrate in search of eternal bliss.

 

The famous Plaza is awash in tourists and indigenous persona hawking local crafts and trinkets. The address, 109 East Palace, housed the office that coordinated initial phases of the Manhattan Project before moving to Los Alamos in the early 1940s. It is now a jewelry shop! Incidentally, a superb and fascinating history of the Project by Jennet Conant, granddaughter of one of the Project luminaries, is titled “109 East Palace.” It and the accompanying “Tuxedo Park” come highly recommended by one whose 4^th grade teacher tagged him “a reluctant reader.”

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While transiting Wyoming on the trek to New Mexico, I was fortunate to be a guest on a large working ranch, and while others were honing their marksmanship, I set out on a spargeljagt. Spargel, known locally as asparagus, though I prefer the German translation in homage to the obsession with which the locals embrace the green shoot each spring, even fashioning it into ice cream. Tracking the illusive spargel can be daunting and requires a keen eye and strong nerves.

 I found it prudent to approach cautiously, as when aroused they possess the ability to blend in with innocuous flora and render themselves virtually invisible. It is often necessary to lie flat on the ground to catch the near imperceptible movement of the larger stalks as they wave in the breeze.

 Day 1 was accompanied by bitter slanting rain threatening to turn to snow and severe wind gusts. Barely enough was bagged to provide dinner sustenance. And upon returning to base I was subjected to an extended debate over the simmering question of balsamic bath vs. butter and bacon sauté. I sampled both and refused aggressive attempts to render judgment.

Day 2 dawned windy but brilliantly sunny as only a western morning can deliver. Outfitted with all necessary accoutrements including spargelbag, comfortable shoes, and PBR, I sallied forth deep along the banks of the North Platte.

While never discovering the motherlode, the goddess of spargel was kind enough to reward me with some 10 pounds of the green delight, and I returned to base weary but with a full spargelpouch.

Fearing an inability by those assembled to consume the entire catch (and following the code of the west that we consume what we harvest), an adventuresome colleague braved the 12 miles of muddy dirt road to acquire pickling supplies. As a hunter I left the gathering to others and repaired to the back deck to observe antelope, deer, and assorted fowl frolicking in the glow of fading sun.

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 Upon arrival in the Land of Enchantment I spent several depressing days in 90+ degree heat viewing downtown “casitas” (small casas?), looking for a furnished 3-month sublet to become familiar with the local terrain. High prices and questionable quality followed but then luck (which I equate with perseverance) struck. I am now ensconced in a rather fru-fru condo with pool, fitness area, and “wine tasting room.”

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Santa Fe is clearly an artist mecca complete with a liberal tilt that extends about 88 degrees from center. I have seen several signs proclaiming that Santa Fe has 45,000 more liberals (pardon, progressives) than conservatives. Well actually 44,999 now!

But I am relieved to note that there are pockets of sanity hidden amongst the elite. I happened upon the “Cowgirl,” a true “cow person” bar, complete with a guitar/violin/mandolin/fiddle band playing tunes with which I identify. The comely Shelby served me with distinction, despite her confused expression when I asked if she was named after the automobile.

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 I take the public bus to the Plaza as there is no street parking there to be found. The ride offers exposure to a wide swath of humanity and a view of “laid-back” taken to heights (or depths) I have not previously encountered. Passengers pull the cord signaling their intention to descend, but as the bus pulls to a stop they seem to be in no hurry to cease conversation with their seat-mate (whom they have met but 8 minutes prior yet are deeply into discussion of their divorce/health issues/anti-nuclear campaign/etc. Bus driver and passengers wait patiently and eventually the conversation ends and the departure is affected, often with a jaunty wave.

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If you are lonely and crave companionship, Santa Fe is your oyster. Everyone extends greetings and on the bus it takes total strangers an average of 20 seconds to share their most intimate secrets with fellow passengers. It is the anti-Paris, where you can live cheek-by-jowl for decades with folks and not know their name. I was in a 24-hour Walmart this morning at 5am and employees stocking shelves all met me with a friendly greeting.
 

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Sitting in the rooftop bar (the “top” is second story) of the Marble Brewery overlooking the Plaza, I am struck by how many of my fellow imbibers resemble characters out of Doonesbury. Perhaps a cosmic magnetism drawing the strange to the sublime.

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Santa Fe is famous for (among other things) its Opera. Tonight Lyle Lovett is featured. Not a ticket to be had in town. Just my luck!

pronto

2013-11 Lake Alcova & Douglas, WY

           

Those paying attention will note that I BLOG less in the new world than the old. Not exactly sure of the rationale here, but it is certain that Paris offers more street theatre from which to draw inspiration. The mountains offer introspection, which combined with fermented liquid refreshment, leads to long naps and periods of diminished lucidity.

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When I was young we blamed crazy weather on the Russians. Now it’s the political persuasion to which you don’t subscribe. Last Wednesday in Montana it passed 90F while Northern Virginia was under a freeze warning. But lest we smirk, there was a call for snow showers here yesterday.

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Twisting a tagline from Garrison Keilor, it was NOT a quiet week in Washington, DC, my (former) home town. I make full use of the recessive male gene that induces obsessive cable-channel-changing which in turn insures access to the full panoply of fringe opinion. On a recent excursion several talking heads noted the “back and forth” of discourse among those of varying political persuasion. It occurred to be that one must sally “forth” before venturing “back.” But then again, perhaps not in politics.

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Kenya has a new President. Recalls a story (as do most events these days). My first trip to Nairobi (eons ago) via an overnight flight from London landed on a sunny spring morning. I navigated the official taxi rank and my female driver immediately departed at a frightful pace down Airport Road, nick-named (I later learned) “suicide alley,” evidenced by the burned-out hulks of vehicles strewn along the way.

I dozed off and awoke to a surreal scene of flowers, chanting, huge murals, and universal anguish. My driver sat motionless, tears flowing down her ebony cheeks. I sat terrified, or would have been had I not been amply fortified by strong drink dispensed in the first-class cabin of the Kenya Airways 707 (See note below).

I sat frozen in the rear of the taxi for what seemed like hours, and eventually learned, through the taxi radio tuned to the BBC, that Mzee Jomo Kenyatta, the beloved father of modern Kenya had passed away in the night, and I was in attendance at one of the many makeshift mourning sites hastily assembled throughout the city.

This was long before cell phones, beepers, and pagers, so I set the alarm on my watch to ring two minutes hence, held it close to the driver’s ear, and upon execution whispered, as piously as I knew how, that I had an important meeting at my hotel. She slowly gathered composure and deposited me at the Nairobi Hilton. I left a nice tip.

As the hotel staff had entered an extended period of mourning, I languished in the lobby until a helpful Indian porter logged me into a suite, which three days later caused a bit of a ruckus when it was determined that I had paid only for a small single.

 

NOTE: Lest I be tagged as a closet oligarch, note than in a previous life I toiled for an organization that had an air freight division entitling it to 2 (almost) free annual first class tickets on each IATA airline. As the company grosses legumes (lit: large vegetables; French slang for “big shots”) took for the most part the best carriers (Singapore, Cathay Pacific, Lufthansa, et al), I was often relegated to travel from A to C (or M or X) to get to B.

This led to some memorable journeys, such as my 6 hour layover (11pm – 5am) in the Islamabad airport (a truly unforgettable experience) and the subsequent flight to Singapore on Pakistan Airlines, where, as the only occupant of first class I was invited into the cockpit (this was a VERY long time ago) as we traversed the snow-covered Himalayas. The pilot snored loudly and the First Officer regaled me with lurid accounts of the many conquests afforded him as the result of his uniform and position. After several years, the truly frightening sounds from the rear of the plane departed my conscious, though occasionally reappearing in nightmares. The view will remain forever.

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Within the week I will be the newest resident of Santa Fe, apartment hunting and preparing for my new métier. As an artist retreat made famous by the likes of Georgia O’Keefe, the housing market features a plethora of ateliers advertising zen accommodation, holistic furniture, and mesmerizing auras, the meanings of which I have no clue. Hopefully if you visit you won’t find me in a feather boa and love beads.

bientot