New Mexico #6: Santa Fe

So, last time, I finally got us out of Albuquerque. You recall that last we met I ended on a down note. I had talked about the dead zone which is downtown Albuquerque early on a weekend morning. I talked about the train station that had once been quite beautiful, but which is, now, pleasant enough…yet a little too planned, a little too much the brave effort, a little too utilitarian, a little too much refurbished bus stop with city seals and corporate logos.

You'll recall, too, I mentioned the dying bird and the street people, the latter in masses in the lobby of the station.

Well, today, we'll head for cheerier climes.

At least at first.


*

So, we boarded the train—the Rail Runner—and almost instantly everything was magic. The train is new. Everything about it is new. The seats are not worn. The carpets are clean. The great windows are sparkling and transparent. Young people, the conductors, in new uniforms, move up and down the aisles collecting tickets.

It struck me that it was all a wonderful adventure in the past—a return to the days when train travel was gracious and comfortable, and also, back to my youth, when my family would take me to California to visit my Uncle and Aunt, and we would go to Disneyland, then so bright and shining. And, while it wasn't my favorite ride (my fav was the monorail) we would take at least one circle round the park in the train from Main Street USA. The well-scrubbed conductors and engineers would pose smiling for photos.

It was like that, a little. For just a moment, I was six years old again. Uncle Walt was in his heaven. And all was right with the world.


*

We moved out of the city. The downtown was replaced by light industrial parks, then small homes, then countryside. Around us stretched hill-lands and grasslands, range and mesa, sage and tumbleweed. We could see the mountains in the distance.

We talked. My parents told us about their trip to China. We told them about our son—David—and how he was going to graduate from college. We watched as the crowd of other passengers grew around us.

A pleasant voice came over the intercom and said we were entering Indian lands. We were asked to reframe from taking photos. This out of respect to the sensitivities of the local people.

We pulled then, through, a pueblo…a small town of adobe and empty spaces. Here and there were the dome-shaped brick ovens in which fry bread is made. They are beautiful and strange, those ovens. Organic, almost. As though they grew there, or were thrown smoothly on the mandala wheel of the potter.

On the way back, we would hear a young lawyer (a man who seemed unable to keep his mouth shut) begin to lecture a pair of total strangers in the seat next to his. "They bake bread in those," he said, and went into detail. He assumed they were tourists, eager to hear his wisdom. The man and two women tried repeatedly to get a word in. Finally, when he took a breath, they interrupted. "We know. We are from here."

It didn't stop him from talking all the way to the station.

The train moved on.

*

We moved upward and through hills, past the highway, then away from it. For a moment, we would be an open field, cattle grazing in the distance, a string of barbed wire between them and us. Then, we would be in the hills, empty and steep.

Then, rather suddenly, we were there.

We were in Santa Fe.


*

There are two stations in Santa Fe. We went to the second one. It is in the midst of new buildings—shops, restaurants, offices. All very clean, very fresh, very bright.

We exited the train. Conductors appeared as if by magic at the doors and helped everyone down the steps. The morning sun slanted brightly down from the East and the station platform was soft yellow in the early light.

We walked along the platform and more smiling young people in uniforms appeared. "This way to the free buses…" they motioned us. "This way to the shuttles downtown."

We followed their cheery directions. We found ourselves in a white van where a pleasant man told us the stops of the van and how often it ran. He noted particularly the final run of the evening so that we wouldn't miss our train…assuming, of course, that we didn't stay the night.

And, a few minutes later, we were in the Square.


*

Like most historic cities, Santa Fe is centered on an ancient square. There is a monument in the center of the square, and a bit of grass. Along one side of the square is the Palace of the Governors, from whence the Conquistadors once ruled, and which is now a museum. Along the other sides of the square, and stretching off deep into the city, are shops, restaurants, tourist attractions, art galleries, hotels, sculpture gardens, historic churches, more restaurants, women's clothing shops, handcrafted furniture studios, more art galleries, more hotels, more shops, and then, for change, more restaurants.

My parents suggested that we split up. They didn't want to hold us back, they said. So they said they'd meet us at the La Fonda hotel at noon. We would go to lunch from there. We agreed. They vanished in the direction of the Palace.

We went to the shops. We were, in fact, on a mission. Our son, as I said, was graduating from the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. We wanted to find him a gift for the occasion. We weren't quite sure what to get him. He likes Southwestern art. He has a small collection of Kachinas, though he has no room for them at his apartment, so they are at the house with us. Still, they wait for him and for the time when he'll reclaim them. One morning, one future day, Sun and Mudhead, Eagle and Maiden, will fly from us to him.

Which is just as it should be.

But we weren't quite sure what to get him. We had thought about another Kachina, but those are hard to ship. We thought, too, about a Zuni fetish, perhaps the badger or the bear, though I suppose the lion would suit him best.

So, one of the things we wanted to do was just browse…just see if we saw something we thought he'd like.

Honestly, though, I was a little reluctant to get him anything in Santa Fe. It is, after all, a city full of travelers and tourists. And prices go up accordingly.


*

We toured. We shopped. We made our way, with our cameras, among our fellow tourists, with their cameras. We window shopped. We looked at the mannequins wearing "broomstick dresses," and squash blossom necklaces. We went past the Loretto Chapel with its supposedly Miraculous Stair, constructed (it is said) by Saint Joseph himself. It is surely not true. But it makes a rather sweet story. We looked at the jewelry on display by the sidewalk vendors in front of the Palace. Martha refused my repeated suggestions that I buy her something.

We decided we saw nothing that would suit our son. So, we headed for the La Fonda.

And then, we began to notice what we had seen all along, but which we had chosen not to see.

The Wealth.


*

Now, understand me. There is nothing inherently wrong with people who have money. Indeed, I'd very much like to be one.

But, let us face facts; riches are no more a guarantor of virtue than is poverty. More, there is a kind of wealth (careless, indifferent, arrogant) that is most unattractive indeed.

And Santa Fe has money. Not all of Santa Fe, of course. Most of the people there have mid-sized incomes at most. But, recall, this is a city which has drawn to itself the affluent for almost a century—movie stars and best-selling novelists, entrepreneurs in search of simplicity and romance, lawyers of a bohemian bent, oil men from Texas, trust fund babies.

You see them, and their money, periodically, unexpectedly, in a flash…like the parting of clouds that reveals the sun. You'll be in a gallery, you'll glance away from a painting, and there will be a celebrity you know. Or, you'll be at a restaurant, glance at a table, and there will be two women, their clothes more expensive than your car, sampling Chili Rellenos with tentative forks. Or…in our case that morning…the blonde girl, as sleek as a centerfold, so very pleased with herself, and with her hateful little dog whose name was not Toto.

We had decided it was time to head back toward the La Fonda where we would meet my parents. We turned into the square from a side street, and she was there on the sidewalk—a woman somewhere in her twenties, wearing an expensive short white dress, carefully shaped hair, designer sun glasses, quite pretty in her way, yet with that certain self-satisfied hardness that comes from knowing that you are almost always the center of attention.

We heard her before we saw her. She was yelling to some companion across the square that they would meet up later. We heard her cultured but—at that moment—shrill voice as it cut over the traffic.

We turned and looked. She was standing on the walk with a small dog on a leash. I don't remember the breed. Something tiny. It pawed restlessly at the ground. She pulled it forward and they went on a little ways. Then, it halted and would not go on in spite of her urging. It lifted its tiny rear into the air and…

Shit upon the walk.

*

I, too, have a small dog. A Shih Tzu. I walk him every morning. He, too, does his business on the way. I carry a little stash of plastic bags expressly for the purpose of cleaning up after him. Yes, that means I am bourgeois, and I follow the rules, and I wash my hands after I use the john. Doubtless many men and women find me amusing for that.

But, I feel there is something so very crude about leaving excrement in a public place. And, more, that there is something arrogant in thinking that someone else, someone lesser than yourself, will deal with your messes.

And the young woman? With her dog?

She watched, faintly smiling, while it finished its leisurely crap. And then, without a backward glance, she led it away.

The little pile that it…and she… had left behind remained steaming where it was.


*

It was a little thing. A small thing. A trivial thing. In Manhattan or downtown Boston, you wouldn't give it another glance.

Yet, for me, in this place, it was a metaphor.

*

Martha and I watched her go. Martha said something about the sheer thoughtlessness of her action. I agreed.

We shrugged. Well. Time to head to the La Fonda.

Yet, even as we walked, I began to wrestle with curious ideas…

About the difference between a city and an amusement.

But that's for next time.






Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

Pickle Hats

Well, I'd originally planned to do issue six of my New Mexico saga this week…but, a couple of things got in the way. First, I worked myself ragged on some other projects. Second, I got a flu shot and that seems to have whacked me a bit. So, put 'em all together, and they spell I-Can't-Keep-My-Freaking-Eyes-Open.

So, instead of New Mex, here's some Intermezzi:

*

As an historian, I'm sometimes astonished by the difference between the present and the past. Things which seemed perfectly sensible then would seem laughable (at best) today. And vice versa, I'm sure.

Take for example, the Pickelhaube. Yes, it does look like Pickle Hat. No, it doesn't have anything to do with forking out cucumbers in brine. Instead, it is the German word for a spiked helmet. That's the one you see in pictures of Prussian troops...the one with what looks like a spear point sticking out of the top.

After the Franco-Prussian War, everyone was so impressed with the Germans that a number of different armies actually adopted or adapted the Pickelhaube for their forces. There were British spiked helmets, Chilean spiked helmets, and even American spiked helmets.

I've never understood that.

I mean, how threatening can you be if it looks like the Jolly Green Giant is, at any moment, going to grab you by the ankles, flip you upside down, and use you as a garden implement?

*

Before someone jumps on me, I ought to mention that the Prussian Pickelhaube was not necessarily a German invention. There have been spiked helmets for centuries (the spike actually deflects a downward slash of a sword) and they may have been first introduced (or re-introduced) to modern European armies by the Russians.

So, the Pickelhaube is ancient and venerable.

But, even so…

Damned but if it's always looked to me like some clown's idea of a way to pick up trash while doing somersaults.

*

But seriously…

For a cool example of a British Pickelhaube, track down the portrait of Sir Frank Swettenham by the American painter John Singer Sargent (1856-1925). Swettenham was the British governor of what is now Malaysia. Sargent's portrait of him shows a man resplendent in a white uniform, a white spiked helmet in the chair next to him. (See here, for example, http://jssgallery.org/Paintings/Sir_Frank_Swettenham.htm)

Meanwhile, here's a site with images of American Pickelhaube, http://forum.axishistory.com/viewtopic.php?f=58&t=17628

And, lest we forget, here's a site that deals with the Prussian original, http://www.kaisersbunker.com/pe/. (BTW, I love dachshund in the Pickelhaube.)


*

Finally, I gather that after World War I, the Pickelhaube died out in military dress (at least, outside the German speaking world) and pretty much vanished entirely after World War II.

Sad for the hat, I suppose, but, in the long run, a good thing. I mean, I have friends in the military. It's hard enough for them to stow their gear as it is. Imagine a modern government issue Pickelhaube. Going though airport security would be a nightmare. And getting it in the overhead compartment?

Sheer hell.

Maybe worse than combat.

New Mexico #5: The Alvarado

Okay, so, this time, I’m finally going to get to the next installment of the tale of my recent trip to New Mexico.

It will involve The Alvarado. Beautiful and gracious.

And gone.


*

I am a little melancholy in this one. So be prepared. But it does end on an up note.

Anyway, when I left off last time, in New Mexico #4, we were heading downtown. My parents wanted to take us on the “Rail Runner.” This is the new, relatively high-speed train that goes from Albuquerque, where they live (and where I grew up) and Santa Fe, which is the capital of the state and perhaps its most famous city. Santa Fe is the romantic city, where movie stars go.

Oh, some other New Mexican communities likewise have their claims to fame. Taos is where D.H. Lawrence and a host of artists and poets went to be very, very trendy and counter-cultural together in the 1920s. Meanwhile, Truth or Consequences (yes, that is its name), may be the only town in America named after a quiz show. Los Alamos is linked forever (if not quite fairly) with the Bomb. Gallup is both loved and hated for its relationship with Native Americans. Roswell has its Aliens, as imaginary as Mickey Mouse and, in their way, as much a part of pop culture.

And Albuquerque? My hometown? Largest city in the state?

Well, it’s where Bugs Bunny inevitably failed to make that left turn on the way to California.


*

My father drove us through the streets of downtown Albuquerque. Last time I talked about that a bit. How the city’s heart is nearly empty on weekends. At least before noon. Oh, you have a few souls here and there. A few business-folk going to their offices for a spot of extra work on Saturday. A few churchgoers on their way to Mass. The very, very, very few…vanishingly few … people who actually live there.

And, of course, the street people. And a few criminals. They are present. They can be found.

We parked in a large garage, took the elevator to the ground, and then walked to the train station. It is new and clean and very much out of place in the city.

I remember it from years ago. As a boy, my parents would take me east to visit my grandparents on the El Capitan or The Superchief—travelers’ trains, comfortable, elegant, exciting. Some of the last such in America. I have never forgiven the auto, the plane, and larger American culture for allowing them to die.

The station, too, is vastly changed from what it was. When I was very young, it was a magnificent place. It was, to be precise, The Alvarado. Say that word in a whisper, as though you were invoking magic. For, in fact, you are. It was glorious. A complex of buildings and shops, all in the Mission Revival style (look it up). It was a hotel, a station, a place of transport yet, also, a destination famed for its luxury. People came expressly to stay there because it was an attraction in itself.

It was lovely and elegant and …and…it is all gone now.

In 1970, Those Who Knew Best demolished it. They ripped it to pieces and carted it away as trash.

When I heard, I wept. At the age of 13, and far too old for that sort of thing, I wept.

*

Oh, God! Those Who Know Best…

May they rot in hell.

*

Today, the “Alvarado Transportation Center” is a much smaller place, more utilitarian, more in the spirit of the bus station and the commuter rail stop. It isn’t bad, really. In fact, it is much better than what was there just a few years ago.

You see, when they tore down the old Alvarado, nothing much took its place for quite some time. It was nothing but an unpaved parking lot for decades. The dust would rise from it at rush hour and settle over the streets of downtown.

I’m not sure what it was that motivated the vandals in three-piece suits who murdered the Alvarado. But, if it was their intent to profit from their actions then they gained nothing. No new and expensive office buildings took the place of the station. No business renaissance revived the area. It just sat and withered, or else attempted to give itself back to the desert from whence it came.

Or, maybe, that was the point all along. Maybe those who moved with such unseemly haste to destroy the Alvarado (sending in the bulldozers before the building’s defenders could organize or even know the crime was coming) had no intention of constructing something new. Maybe it was all simply a message. Maybe it was the way that Post-Industrial America explained itself, said Behold, the day of the train is over. The day of comfort is over. The day of your being a “passenger” is over. From hence forward, you are live freight, at best.

Get used to it.


*

Anyway…

We made our way to the new station. It required we move through the first real crowd since we’d gotten downtown. The homeless and street people of the area use the station as a refuge. Through their numbers we made our way.

My father bought us tickets. I looked around the place, intrigued by the renewal of the area. We used the restrooms and bought a cup of coffee. Then, my father said we really ought to be heading out.

We followed him outside and up a set of stairs. Then, we were on a concrete platform beside the tracks. A small but respectable group of fellow travelers were with us. We all enjoyed the sun and the felt the air.

I had memories. I remembered coming there with them when I was oh…so painfully young. I remembered waiting in the lobby. I remembered going with them to the gift shops, the restaurants…all of it. I remembered walking with my father to the newsstand. He showed me the first issue of _ Playboy _ I’d ever seen. I remember right then and right there, realizing that I was —in spite of what the coaches said during PE— very heterosexual. And that, by Heaven! my childhood was drawing towards its close.

*

I saw a sign next the stairway that led back down to the station. I can’t remember exactly what it said, but it was something along the lines of, “Okay, you’re in Albuquerque…what now?” Below that was a list of things to do in the city.

I had a vision of tourists . . . perhaps Europeans …who had come to Santa Fe and then thought, What the Heck? Let’s see Albuquerque as well.

So, one Saturday, they take the train and find themselves…

Here. In the midst of concrete and steel. And echoes. And the nearest attraction is a half hour’s taxi ride away. If you can find the taxi in the first place.

*

And, then, the perfect symbol. No director of melodrama could have planned it better. No prophet could have provided a better sign of things to come...

Of would wait for us upon our return to Albuquerque after our time in Santa Fe.


*

There were pigeons in the place. They flew in circles around us, taking rest for a moment on the roofs of the buildings, then dashing to the concrete platform to see if we’d dropped anything worth eating.

A woman beside me said, “Look! His leg!”

I looked where she pointed. One of the birds had landed beside us. He limped, dragging one leg uselessly behind him.

“He’s got a thread around it.”

She was right. There was a length of something around his leg—thread, or fish line, or something plastic, I couldn’t tell for certain. All I could see was that it cut deep into his flesh.

“Can we get it off him?” she asked.

I lied. “I don’t know.” I knew we couldn’t. I knew he’d fly the minute we got near. I knew that he was dying. The leg would wither and become infected. He’d perish. It was only a matter of time.

We heard the train in the distance. It was coming toward us.

I took off my coat and held it up. I hoped I could throw it over him, like a net. Then, if I could hold him still, maybe I could get the line off him.

The woman took the other side. We circled him. He eyed us uncertainly. I prepared to throw the coat.

The train pulled into the station.

The bird was gone in a flutter of wings. We watched it fly away towards its inevitable destruction.


*

Now, forget that small tragedy. Forget the bird and his fate.

For a moment…that is.

We will, however, return to it later.

But that’s for later.


*

The train pulled into the station. It was bright and new, as shiny and wonderful as a toy. Except, of course, that it was real, and so all the more magical for that.

Young people in conductor’s uniforms appeared and greeted us. We trooped inside and found seats upstairs on the second story of the train. Great windows opened up and we could see out and everywhere. The sun seemed already brighter.

I felt my spirits rising.

And, a moment later, we were on our way.


*

Until next time…






Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker