I am this week in “Albuquirky,” so named
by the residents of Santa Fe in the grossly misbegotten belief that they, and
not world surrounding them, are the true arbiters of truth and light. I will be
here 3 out of 4 weeks this month, taking a class then teaching a class then
presenting at the State annual DHS Conference.
Whoopie!
##########
We are outraged (inraged as well)! On
the eve of Albuquerque’s annual balloon festival, France (France!) has claimed
to have wrested from us the one hour balloon launch record (345) by setting off
408 on the occasion of their Fete de
Balloon.
What? The French? What do they know
about balloons? OK, there was that Montgolfier fella, but that was over 100
years ago. I smell something poisson-esque.
Perhaps they were counting une, deux,
trois, huit. In any event, come our festival October 5, locals vow to
blanket the sky with canvas, perhaps to prove we have more hot air than the French,
which would be quite a feat. Vive la
balloon!
##########
I am certain there are those who would
rise in indignation to dispute this assertion, but I do believe that Santa Fe
is the “doo-dad” capital of the planet. Virtually every summer weekend the
historic Plaza is roped off to vehicular traffic and replaced with stalls, there
have to be 500+, merchandising a dazzling array of bric-a-brac, mostly jewelry
and painting, all “in the tradition of the west,” which to me translates as
gaudy.
And in the shade of the adobe overhang
along East Palace, seated on the ground, wares spread before them on blankets,
rest indigenous peoples hawking baubles at one third the price of identical
merchandise displayed in the air-conditioned shops a block away.
Hawking may be a misnomer. In general
they appear uninspired by the commerce they undertake, and mid-afternoon often
finds them dozing until a tourist attired in blinding shades of chartreuse and
fuchsia arouses them with an inquiry into price. I find the scene depressing, a
stark reminder that despite the Government expenditure of billions designed to improve their lot, we have
largely failed.
And I cannot traverse East Palace
without grinding my teeth at the transformation of address 109 from the
ancestral home of the Manhattan Project into a garish emporium of gewgaws,
gimcracks, and thingumajigs.
Those who have not yet heeded my counsel
should proceed post-haste to their local library or used book shop (or Amazon
for the couch potatoes among you) to acquire “109 East Palace” by Jennet
Conant. Even the pacifists among you should appreciate this comprehensive
account of the birth of the bomb.
##########
I wonder what Santa Fe will be like when
winter drives away the tourists and replaces them with ski bums? I am already
starting to dither upon whether to reacquaint with my skis, although the $50
“old fogy” season pass is a temptation (when I was age 58, essentially free
skiing was common for those 60 and above. As my age progressed so did the
threshold, but I have finally caught up.)
A long-ago acquaintance and ski patrol
team lead abruptly abandoned the sport at 70, saying the voices get louder and
the fall and bounce at 20 gets you a free ride in a sled at 70. True. And even
the exercise of caution, at which I show scant competence, does not protect
against the buzzed (at 10am!) 250 pound out-of-control wingnut wreaking havoc
on the slopes. Stay tuned.
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