2013-17 Santa Fe

Those who know me will find unsurprising my silence on such cosmic issues as the birth of the anticipated future king of Great Britain. But I rise to note that I have some direct familiarity with St. Mary’s Hospital on Pread St., in the Paddington district of downtown London, where the “little prince” arrived.

 A family member spent some of her last days there, in a ward with dirty floors, dim corridors with light bulbs out or missing, a visitor’s bathroom that would rival the depths of any rural gas station privy on the planet.

I suspect princess Kate was in a different section, perpetuating the wisdom of the ages that the chosen fare better than the choosers. Brings to mind the behind-the-scenes attempts of “progressive” US lawmakers to insure their lofty medical insurance programs are not diluted by Obamacare which they tout so aggressively to we great unwashed.

And I bet the Royal family is unaware of a superb Chinese carryout just across the road from the hospital. Perhaps I’ll drop a line…

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In New Mexico I must present at least 5 pieces of identification (originals only if you please), one from list A, 2 from B, etc., to obtain a driver’s license. But in order to cast a vote for the President of the United States I need only declare that I have a right to do so. No questions asked, thank you very much. Show a picture ID? How dare you!

 

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Enjoying a beer in the garden of a local establishment last Sunday, an (obviously) tourist duo arrived and plunked down at a free table. Well, he did; she grimaced and walked inside, only to emerge with a sponge and a wad of paper towels and proceed to thoroughly wipe down what appeared to be a clean table. She closely inspected the glass in which her water was served and fidgeted excessively over what she clearly felt were unacceptable sanitary conditions.

As I departed, in keeping with my (partially) successful campaign to be more socially acceptable (or at least less disagreeable), it required all my willpower to refrain from glancing under her table and exclaiming, “my God, did you see the size of that rat.” Being a good citizen takes much fun out of life.

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Despite the excessively liberal nature of my surroundings, there is a pervading sense of humor present in many of the locals that can bring out an easy smile. I was informed by an aging Hispanic gentleman with a twinkle in his eye, that contrary to the accepted dictionary definition, mañana in New Mexico means “not today.”

And prominently displayed in an office near mine rests a sign that I wondered might affront some of my co-workers.

Calling an illegal alien an undocumented immigrant

Is like labeling a drug dealer an undocumented pharmacist

Despite a very politically correct workforce, the sign appears to generate no palpable offense.

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The monsoon rains have arrived, not the literal sheets of water that characterize the Asian variety, but a deluge nevertheless. High winds and flooded arrayos accompany the precip, but it does cool down the landscape.

2013-16 Santa Fe

Happy 4^th of July. With Cinco de Mayo behind us and Quatorze Juillet (Bastille Day) just 10 days hence, we are awash in jours fetes. But nobody does it quite like the Spanish. While assigned to the U. S Consulate in Barcelona long past, we incurred a month with some 10 Spanish holidays and one American. More days off than on.

One of my odysseys during that period involved a summer crossing Spain to witness its plethora of festivals, including Santiago de Compostello (with fireworks on metal wires exploding just overhead a packed square) and the crown jewel Pamplona with its infamous bull run.

I and amigo Archie, much to the consternation of his Israeli wife (in no small part as they were parents of 18-month old twins) vowed to participate in the running, the first iteration of which occurs on the 7^th hour of the 7^th day of the 7^th month.

It is de rigeur for runners to spend the night before in Hemmingwayesque fashion, drinking and bolstering courage through multilingual braggadocio. Somewhere in the early hours I slipped off the rails and regained consciousness to the sound of trumpets high in the hills heralding the release of the bulls.

Simultaneously I felt a rough passage over my midsection and looked up to see a street sweeper gently nudging me out of his cleansing path. It is my only instance of sleeping in the gutter, and I have often wondered if this was divine intervention or simply a drunkard’s folly. The latter most assuredly.

It was on this sojourn that Archie’s Ella and my companion departed to explore the town, leaving us with the twins on an Atlantic beach. Shortly after their departure we heard cries for help whereupon Archie and I leapt into the surf and rescued two pre-teen locals caught in a riptide.

We were roundly feted by the local populace, mostly with the presentation of jugs of vino tinto. When the women returned they were offended by the accumulation of jugs and totally unbelieving of our feat of heroism.

In fact Ella was sorely agrieved by her awareness that one of the improperly attended twins was ingesting large handfuls of sand. Not to worry, claimed Archie, he’ll figure it out in the morning and the lesson learned will remain for life.

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Though I am poorly equipped to do so, I am attempting to teach Spanish to Henrietta, the lady in my GPS. She is resisting. Lujan comes out “low-jan,” etc.

 

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Mooshie2 (named in honor of a former feline friend) hangs out around my ground floor balcony and is often curled up in my balcony sling chair when I arise around 04:30. There’s a rumor that s(he) – still haven’t got a good look at the south end – is feral, but as even the wild must eat I lay out the odd morsel.