After our blissful reunion at the Albuquerque ‘Sunport,’ as they call it here, Lorelei and I headed north on Interstate 25 toward Santa Fe. We both remarked how surreal it was to be in this desert landscape, so completely different in geography, geology and vegetation from the region surrounding our New Hampshire home. It was more so for Lorelei, of course, since she left there just that morning. The transition for me was more gradual, but still, things look so very different in New Mexico from anything we’re accustomed to.
The speed limit on the Interstate highway is 75, once outside the city, and it’s remarkable to note that every highway overpass is painted with what appear to be Native American designs and symbols in colors reminiscent of the landscape. The effect is stunning and makes me think that people here are very in tune with their surroundings and wish to have even these manifestations of modern transportation infrastructure conform to the surrounding natural aesthetic. It’s quite different from the drab gray concrete bridges and overpasses that we see in the northeast.
As we approach Santa Fe, I phone my friend Robert Bluestone, who instructs us on the best exit to take and route toward our destination place of lodging, the Dancing Ground of the Sun. We get off at the proper exit and note that at some point Old Santa Fe Trail morphs into Old Pecos Trail and we easily locate Passeo de Peralta, a road that appears on the map to nearly encircle the central core of the city.
We see the sign for Dancing Ground of the Sun (hereinafter referred to as DGS or just DG or maybe even ‘that quirky inn,’ from time to time) and pull into the parking lot. We’ve driven right to it from the airport and feel rather proud of ourselves. We go inside and announce ourselves to the young woman at the reception desk, who rather abruptly informs us that check in time isn’t until 3 and our room isn’t ready. I felt my shoulders to make sure I hadn’t grown an additional head, responding to her look of stunned disbelief that we’d be there so early. My trusty watch reports that it’s just after noon, so we have a little time to kill. Our ungracious hostess doesn’t offer any suggestions as to how we might occupy ourselves – heck, she doesn’t even smile – so we take this as a sign that we’re on our own.
Lorelei with a new make-believe friend...
We get back into the car and drive a few blocks and take a left turn, following the direction offered by a sign to Santa Fe’s historic Plaza, the historic center of the city, ringed with shops and galleries. A big SUV pulled out of a parking space in front of the Art Museum so we pulled right in – happily there was even still time on the parking meter. We wandered around the Plaza and found the French Bakery and Crèperie. The display cases offered incredible delights and Lorelei, the hungry one in our duo, chose a thick slice of spinach quiche. I ordered an Orangina and snuck a few bites of quiche when she wasn’t looking. It was delicious.
We phoned Robert Bluestone, as we’d said we would once we found our hotel, and he gave us directions to come out to the home he shares with his wife Rebecca (who was unfortunately for us) out of town during our visit, and 3 poodles in assorted sizes – Jake, Bosco and the newest … I can’t recall the last one’s name!
Robert is a classical guitarist and Rebecca is a noted weaver of striking tapestries, many of which seem to reflect the color palette of the southwest. Together Robert and Rebecca tour the country presenting a program they call Woven Harmony. Although I’ve not seen the program, I understand it explores the different but not dissimilar natures of their individual art forms. Guitars have strings and musical notation is done on staffs with multiple horizontal lines. And the loom Rebecca uses to create tapestries comprise multiple parallel strands across and through which other strands are drawn in the process of weaving. You can read more and see pictures of Robert, Rebecca and samples of her work at http://robertbluestone.com.
Rolf with his new make-believe friend...
We packed a great deal into our 5 nights/4 full days in Santa Fe. We so enjoyed just walking around downtown, popping into shops and watching the people. We were somewhat amazed by the number of galleries and shops offering art in all forms at some pretty extraordinary prices – prices in the tens of thousands of dollars were not uncommon. We found ourselves wondering who buys all this stuff. Where do they live? What do they do in the world that provides them with the resources to have this stuff around their homes or where ever they put it?
Our friends Jeanne and Kim, who live in Santa Fe, were leaving on a vacation trip to the Caribbean the day after we arrived, but Kim was able to join us for lunch. Kim is the director of development and communication for the Telluride Film Festival (http://telluridefilmfestival.org) and we’ve known her for several years through our work there. She gave us directions to a really great place called The Chocolate Maven, a restaurant known only by locals, she told us, because of it’s rather unusual location – tucked in behind a body shop behind a Toyota dealership. Even when we finally found the place, we were in a state of some disbelief because of the very industrial appearance of the outside of the building. But our lunch was memorable.
As the name implies, they create and serve a great number of sweet treats in their bakery, but their lunch menu is eclectic, offering a few southwestern nouveau cuisine dishes, some international meals and others that can only be described as their own. The place was packed for lunch on a Wednesday before noon.
We had a nice visit with Kim and wished she and Jeanne well on their vacation in the sunny Caribbean.
That afternoon, we connected with our friends Roger and Linda Knapp, whom we also know from our work at the Telluride Film Festival. They’re retired and now live in Santa Fe, in a very nice, new desert development, perhaps five miles outside of the city. Almost all the architecture we saw there was adobe, whether commercial or residential. We observed that the style tends to blend well with surrounding landscape, with homes occasionally almost disappearing into the background. Roger and Linda’s home was fun to be in. We enjoyed a glass of wine and cheese and crackers in their lofty living room with a huge picture window that faces west to capture the sunset, which they report is different every day.
The next day we visited Bandelier National Monument, a canyon where Native Americans lived in dwellings in the sides of the cliffs. It was extraordinary, and the day was perfect. We bought the self-tour guide for a dollar and walked around the trail, stopping at the numbered spots to read about what we were looking at. We learned how the people who lived there came because of the water that flowed through the canyon. They grew corn there and established a thriving community that numbered in the hundreds. The Kiva was a sort of central building that had sort of governmental and spiritual functions. The men would gather there to consider things and make decisions.
Looking down from the cliffs on the valley floor ruins.
We chose to take the longer trail that also involved a climb up steps and ladders to a height of over 140 feet in order to see some of the higher dwellings. It was a pretty strenuous climb, especially at an altitude of about 8,000 feet, but well worth it. The view of the valley was breathtaking. We marveled that people had to haul everything, including heavy jugs of water, up to these dwellings. The life we saw depicted and imagined there was both idyllic and challenging. It’s not known why the Native Americans who lived there left the canyon, but it’s speculated that there might have been multiple years of drought, poor crops or other conditions that made it necessary for the people to move on. Ancestors of these cliff dwellers live in the Pueblo nearby.
We climbed quite a way to see the cliff dwellings.
That evening we had dinner with our friend Robert Bluestone at a very popular restaurant on the Plaza called The Shed. It was completely full for the evening when he called, but he has ‘connections’ there. He’s close friends with the owner, so when he mentioned his name a table miraculously freed up for us. It’s so much fun to be friends with a celebrity. Robert’s music was even playing on the sound system when we arrived for our 7:30 reservation. As in other life situations, it’s all about who you know.
Saturday morning we headed north to Taos. We’ve been to Taos once before, back in 1992 when we were driving a neighbor’s car from Maine to southern California, but we didn’t have any time to explore. This time we hoped to see what has propelled Taos to some recognition and popularity. Kim suggested that we drive up via the main road and return to Santa Fe by the ‘high road’ because it would be a beautiful drive.
It takes about an hour to get to Taos from Santa Fe. When we arrived, we drove right through town and just about into Taos Pueblo on the north side. Nothing looked familiar at all. We turned around and found a parking space by Kit Carson Park where something big was going on. It was Earth Day and there was a celebration ceremony taking place that involved, apparently, representatives from several Native American tribes and other traditions too. They had planted a tree and as we approached, people were speaking to the assembled crowd. Since there was no amplification it was difficult to hear what was being said, but it appeared to be a series of pretty simple expressions of gratitude for the Earth and all it provides, and concern for the future. There were a number of political expressions going on, too, mostly in the form of stickers on guitars and other devices, and signs hoping for peace.
Earth day celebration in Kit Carson park, Taos, NM.
We wandered from the park along a few side streets that featured galleries, lodgings and eateries – nothing of much interest, to be candid. Then we crossed the street to find Taos’ historic Plaza. That was something of a disappointment too. There were plenty of shops purporting to offer the finest in southwest ‘stuff,’ whether made by Native Americans or not, apparently. There was none of the glitz and style of Santa Fe, but it was difficult for me to discern authenticity in the offerings either. Ultimately we did find a candy shop and we each enjoyed an ice cream cone. Mine was cinnamon, which I don’t think I’ve had before. It was quite good, very rich and flavorful.
And lest I forget, we did spend about $5 on an eyeglasses repair kit. Lorelei had lost a screw holding one of the arms on her sunglasses the day before at Bandelier. (I hope my faithful readers are taking note that I’ve passed by the opportunity to make an easy joke about my wife having a screw loose. Quite simply, I’ve matured, so I’m above that sort of thing. Well, mostly.)
We took the ‘high road’ back from Taos, and it did offer quite a feast for the eyes, especially after we became un-lost. Apparently we missed a turn early on and didn’t discover the error until we were about thirty miles down the wrong road. Well, it was the wrong road as far as our journey was concerned, but I’m sure it’s the right road for people who needed to use it to get to certain places that were not where we were going.
We managed to get ourselves reoriented and on the right path (a metaphor for us? Hmmmm…) and it was good. Very interestingly, though, the road narrowed in a few places to where we actually thought we were going to end up in someone’s driveway. We got just a little nervous, wondering if maybe we’d lost our way again, but the road sign clearly showed this was the state route we needed to follow back to Santa Fe. And it all worked out, of course, or I wouldn’t be writing this now. Since we were often on tribal land along this route, we really wanted to be sensitive to the notion of not intruding on anyone’s space, as we’d read in a few places was the proper etiquette.
We even manage to stumble upon the Church of San José de Gracias, described as ‘the finest surviving 18th century church in New Mexico’ in a little town called Las Trampas. I don’t know Spanish, so I’m having a hard time figuring out what Las Trampas means. It doesn’t sound altogether complimentary. Was it settled originally by a bunch of hobos who arrived in boxcars? Or maybe by a bunch of rascally guy dogs who, years later, after they were somewhat settled, brought in Los Ladies?
Blue bird at the mission at Las Trampas.
In any case, there was a startlingly blue bird perched on the cross over the front door of the church. The bird sat there while I fumbled to get my camera out quickly and surprisingly was still there when I finally snapped a picture. It still looks fake when I look at the image, but trust me, it did fly away. It was about the size of a robin, maybe a little larger. I saw others of this species at the Grand Canyon a few days later.
Ultimately we found our way back to Santa Fe and the illustrious and fortuitous DGS. Lorelei looked through a local directory of restaurants and found one she thought we ought to try: Rooftop Pizzeria. We found it by its address and the entrance turned out to be through one of the shopping arcades just of the Plaza. We were told it would be a wait of twenty or so minutes before we could get a table out on the deck where we could watch the sunset. That was just fine with us because we were in no hurry.
Dinner was outstanding, the service was attentive and friendly, and the sunset was superb over the rooftops of Santa Fe. I was our next-to-last night there, so this was a good choice. Obviously not southwestern cuisine, the thin crust, wood oven pizza was an inventive blend of flavors, textures and colors. We even shared a dessert and each had a decaf cappuccino, but at 2 a.m. when I sat up straight in bed, I doubted any caffeine had been removed from those beans.
Note the last item on the sign at left.
Sunday, our final full day in Santa Fe, we decided we’d just meander around town, read in the Plaza if we wanted, and just plain take it easy. So we did. I started the day with the pilgrimage to Starbucks for a vanilla latte for me and a cappuccino for Lorelei. Robert Bluestone invited us out for coffee and a last visit with him. We all took a walk with the dogs. It was quite beautiful out, clear blue sky and nicely warm.
Back in town later, we wandered the streets of Santa Fe on foot. We wanted to check out the Guadeloupe section and I hoped to find the hemp store that Linda Knapp told us about, notable for its assortment of outrageous bumper stickers. I bought one that reads ‘Non-judgment day is near’ and it’s now on my car. Lorelei’s reads ‘Born ok the first time’ but I don’t think she’s got the courage to put it on her car. I also couldn’t resist buying a couple of very funny postcards that poke shameless fun at our alleged President. I think I might be in trouble with the Feds if I should try to send at least one of them through the U.S. Postal Service. I’ll just put them on the fridge when I return home.
We had to hit the French Bakery and Creperie one last time. Lorelei made the better choice and had a spinach crepe. I had a peach one, but it was canned peaches and just not that interesting. The spinach crepe was filled with a wonderful, rich and creamy spinach concoction with more than a hint of garlic. It was really outstanding.
After eating, we wandered around a little more before deciding that we’d done enough. Lorelei graciously agreed to go to a laundromat with me and do my wash. We returned to that quirky inn, retrieved my two weeks of dirty clothes and headed out to find a place to wash them. The phone book listed a ‘modern’ laundromat on St. Francis St. with 40 machines, including double and triple capacity washers. I could hardly wait to get there. Filling two standard washers and using two dryers, we were done with the wash in about an hour and a half, and headed back to the Dancing Ground of the Sun (that quirky place we stayed).
It was about dinner time and we thought briefly about trying to find another restaurant to try, but quickly decided that the Rooftop Pizzeria would be just fine. We even contemplated ordering exactly the same meal as the night before, but we managed to try something different. Also, just to be different, we decided to eat inside instead of out on the rooftop. This night we chose a pizza with smoked salmon, some kind of white cheese, garlic, spinach and capers. There might have been something else, but I don’t’ remember. While I’m not generally prone to use superlatives, especially in the context of an entire lifetime, but this pizza may well have been the most succulent pizza I’ve ever experienced – ever. There was even some left over and we brought it with us. I had it the next afternoon for a snack.
The following morning, Monday, we arose at a decent hour because we needed to get Lorelei to the airport – excuse me, the Sunport – in Albuquerque, so she could fly back home to New Hampshire. Now I think it’s only fair to let you know, dear faithful readers, that I’ve left out a great many intimate details of our truly blissful (dare I say passionate?) reunion in Santa Fe. After all, the internet ought to be a family medium. I would not want to write anything here that you might feel uncomfortable sharing with your own children or even with your mother. And, come to think of it, my own mother might read this. Let me just say, in a dignified and austere tone, that this adventure reminded me of all the reasons that I married Lorelei. She truly is one of a kind and I’m grateful for every day that she consents to continue to share a path with me.
But, yes, she did need to head back to the so-called real world that day, and I needed to continue my hopeful journey toward re-employment in some form or fashion. We arrived at the Sunport in plenty of time to get her checked in for her flight. We sat and talked in the departure lounge, just before she needed to pass through airport security screening. We’d had such a splendid week together, it almost made being apart worth it. There is something to be said for the contrast between being with someone and being without that person.
So Lorelei headed back east by jet and I continued my westward trek in my trusty Saab, which by now had accumulated enough miles since its last oil change that it was time again for that service. Heading west on Interstate 40, just before leaving the city of Albuquerque, I got off at an exit that looked likely to have a Jiffy Lube or similar service center. I wandered around the streets, but to no avail.
Just when I thought I’d need to give up and get back on I 40, I decided to get gas and I went in to inquire of the people at the counter. The older of the two women said she thought they’d do an oil change across the street at the ‘Big O Tire Store.’ The younger one giggled and said she’d call to ask. It turns out she has a crush on one of the young guys who works there and he comes into the store frequently to buy soda. When she gets off the phone after quite a lengthy and entertaining conversation (in Spanish), she reported to me that they could take my car right in if I wanted to go across the street. So I did.
The service at Big O Tire was great. They had my car done ready for me to pick up out front in less than 30 minutes, and it only cost $26. I thought that was quite a good price, especially for synthetic blend oil. To be truthful, I was actually a little suspicious that it might have been a scam, since I have NH license plates and all, I wondered if they might have only SAID they changed the oil and filter. When I got out of sight of the place, I pulled over and looked at the filter and took out the dipstick to look at the oil. The filter was brand new, the oil was clean and fresh and I felt kind of guilty for doubting that they’d done the service. Lesson for this day: Be more trusting of others. Some people are happy and smiling because they’re young and in love, not because they’re ripping you off and getting away with something.
While I was waiting for the car, Lorelei called on my cell phone from the airport. She told me that she’d volunteered to be ‘bumped’ off the flight from Albuquerque to Denver, but that they’d rerouted her flights in a much better way. Instead of flying from Albuquerque to Denver to Chicago to Manchester, she’d now fly from Albuquerque to Chicago to Manchester, and she’d arrive home at the same time as her original itinerary. Not only that, but she also received a certificate good for a free round trip on United Airlines, anywhere they fly in the continental U.S. Lesson #2 for this day (bonus): Good things do come to good people.
Back on the Interstate, now heading west with a song in my heart and the wind at my back. Well, that’s a little dramatic, so let’s just say it was fun to be able to drive 75 mph legally through the desert on a beautiful day in April. My tentative plan was to drive to Gallup, New Mexico, and then head north, off the Interstate, and then west across the Hopi and Navajo Indian Reservations. I was a little nervous about this plan because the expanse of western New Mexico and northern Arizona looked quite open and lacking in obvious places for me to stay. It’s safe to say that the uncertainty made me uneasy, especially after the wonderful week in Santa Fe. But I did move forward with this plan.
I exited at Gallup, but before heading north, I decided I’d cruise around the town for a while to see what there was to see. I’d heard of Gallup before and I always figure if I’ve heard of a place, there must be something of interest there. If there was something of interest, it wasn’t immediately apparent to me. But I did learn here that not all public radio stations play classical music and/or jazz and/or news. The public radio station in Gallup played Native American music, interspersed with standard NPR news and features. It was interesting to hear this and it engaged me until I was out of range somewhere in the desert.
Driving across the reservations, things are very different from anything I’m familiar with. Very few people appear to live there and it’s very dry. Even in small towns, though, things look not just humble, but significantly un-prosperous. What do people do who live here? Do they do anything? It was also a beautiful drive, at least at times. You drive for some miles over flat countryside and all of a sudden the road starts curving and lowering in altitude. Next thing you know, you’re in a deep canyon looking up at incredible walls, balancing rocks and other formations.
As I drove, I kept watching for someplace I might be able to camp for the night. But I found nothing at all. The next night I’d be at the Grand Canyon. Ultimately I arrived at Tuba City, Arizona, on the Navajo Reservation, and there was a motel there, a Quality Inn. I went inside and asked if there were any campgrounds in the area. ‘No’ was the answer, there’s an RV park, but nothing for people who have tents, so I checked into a room. It was very nice, comfortable, and it turns out it had wireless internet, so I was able to catch up on email and even managed to get some writing posted on my web journal.
Another confession: Remember my vow not to eat any fast food on this journey? Well I broke that vow in Tuba City. There was a Kentucky Fried Chicken and I couldn’t resist the Colonel’s call. Besides, there I was on the Navajo Reservation and it seemed kind of out of place. Corporate chicken and coleslaw served our nation’s First People. It wasn’t exactly irony. I’m not sure what it was. But the chicken was just the same as you’ll find in your town, and I liked it.
Robert Bluestone had told me that I really should go to Monument Valley, that it’s spectacular. When I got settled and fed, I looked at my map. Since Tuba City is only about 80 miles from Grand Canyon, I determined that I had plenty of time to drive the approximately 90 miles north to Monument Valley and then retrace my steps and head to Grand Canyon. It would be very do-able.
Driving north from Tuba City was at first pretty much of the same from the day before, but after a while pillars of stone started to come into view, rising impressively from the desert floor. On the final leg, turning north from the small town of Kayenta, the vivid rock colors began to appear.
In Monument Valley, taken by my German friend.
Monument Valley, at least the really spectacular part that’s part of the larger region, is a Navajo Nation park and not part of the U.S. National Park System. I didn’t realize it in advance, but in order to enter the park, I actually drove into Utah for probably less than a mile to get to the park entrance. It cost $5 to enter the park and there’s a restaurant and interpretive center. There’s also a 17-mile driving tour that you can take with your own car down into the valley. I visited the interpretive center and drove only a few miles down into the valley, just to get a taste of things. I was anxious to get to the Grand Canyon.
When I was up near the interpretive center, I noticed a man taking a picture of his wife (I presume), so I offered to take a picture of both of them with that spectacular backdrop. (On this trip, I’ve kind of made it my mission to take photos of people – couples, families, whatever group – so that one person isn’t excluded from a memorable image. People seem to appreciate this, and often they offer to take a picture of me, seeing that I’m alone.) They were from Germany and spoke only halting English, but seemed to understand me just fine. A little later, I saw them down in the valley on the tour road. They noticed the Hyde sticker in my rear car window and asked me about it. I explained that it was a private high school in Maine that our son attended for two years. I tried to tell them briefly about the concept of ‘Character-Education-Family’ as articulated on the sticker. They seemed quite intrigued, so I wrote the school’s website on the back of one of my cards and gave it to them.
There were a few Native American vendors on the road down in the valley. I purchased a bracelet for my daughter and a small sterling silver turtle with inlaid gemstones. It was fun to buy these very reasonably priced pieces from the people who’d made them.
