The Sea

Another image from the apartment.

We have my father over for dinner now and then. He comes and sits in the front room. Oreo, our dog, makes an enormous fuss over him, leaping into his lap and licking his face. He laughs and seems pleased.

Then we eat. My father likes Martha's cooking, though he finds it a little mild. This is a man, recall, for whom spices are a food group, and no plate is complete without cayenne pepper. But he enjoys the food, enjoys us, enjoys his time here…

Afterwards, we talk for a while. He talks to us, particularly to Martha, about politics or the sale of our house back in Winchester, or about my mother and his hopes for her recovery. He grows animated. Then he tires. I take him home. I leave him in the driveway of his house and drive away, not wanting to seem to hover, not wanting him to see me lingering to make certain he gets inside without problems.

And I go home to Martha. We sit and read or cruise the Web, or watch a sitcom on my laptop.

It gives me a curious feeling. You see, I never had my parents over to my apartment when I lived here. Later, when we were in Massachusetts, they would come to visit, of course, but there was never that moment that most of us have in extreme youth when we invite (for the first time) our parents to "our" place, and we show it off proudly. We say, in effect, look, see? I have the made the transition to adulthood. Or, at least, am making it. Will complete it. Soon. I promise.

Now, thirty years on, when I am already middle aged, and married, and have a grown son, I find myself experiencing that late moment of adolescence…that earliest hint of maturity…

That dawn which for me, alas, came so long delayed…when my sun is already at zenith…

And theirs so close…so dreadfully close… to the sea.

Time, Space...disco

More on the apartment…

After we got the boxes more or less sorted out, we found that it was really quite comfortable. It is large enough for our needs, yet not so big as to be a burden, and I must confess I greatly enjoyed not shoveling snow in the winter…it doesn't fall here often, or at least it isn't deep, and even should it happen the apartment complex staff handles everything nicely.

Yet, it has summoned up some curious ghosts for me.

For example, as I write this our stereo plays. We have it tuned to a local oldies station. For whatever reason the station plays a lot of music from the late 1970s—James Taylor, Moody Blues, Helen Reddy, Foreigner, Queen, Olivia Newton-John, KC and the Sunshine Band, Neil Diamond, the Bee Gees, and so on. There's even a little of the less offensive Disco on display, a genre which has aged much better than I thought it would.

In other words, I'm listening to music now that was popular just about the time I was finishing up my undergraduate degree and getting ready to move to Massachusetts.

And thus the ghosts. I sit in an apartment that isn't greatly different from the one I had then, more than thirty years ago. I listen to music that was popular when I was in my twenties. I find myself now, as then, confronting fundamental changes in my life…even in my identity. Then, I considered the prospect of a new state, a new environment, the beginnings of a career. Now, once more, I contemplate having a different existence, one in which I am the caretaker of my parents' property, or, even, the caretaker of my parents themselves.

So, I find myself returned to the uncertainties of youth. And that is both good and bad. When you are very young, life is like a grand hotel, one with a seemingly infinite number of hallways stretching off in all directions, all lined with doors, each more inviting than the last.

Now, for me, the hotel, the hallways, they still exist. But the doors? Many of them are closed forever. Barred and shut.

Ah, but there's the rub. Behind some unlocked doors are monsters. I have found a few of them. 

So, if there something sad in the loss of promise, so too is there something comforting in the knowledge that I may not need encounter them again.

Or, rather, there may yet be Minotaurs in my personal maze. But, at least…at least…this time they shall not take me unaware.

Stuff...too much stuff...

But from food to place.

We arrived in late afternoon. A short time later we parked in the lot of our new apartment building.

As I think I've said somewhere else, the place is really quite nice, and very, very handy. We're directly across the street from the Home. To visit her, I need only cross the road. And my father is not far away. I can walk to his house, if need be.

And our own particular apartment is charming as well. There are two bedrooms—we use one as our shared office—a kitchen, a dining area, a living room, and two baths. It's comfortable, and cozy, and we are happy here.

Except…

There is this little issue of *stuff.*

All our stuff arrived a few days after we did. It came in five U-haul containers and was duly delivered out front in the parking lot. Tables, chairs, a sofa, a recliner, a dining room set, lamps, paintings, art works, two TV sets (neither of which we use), and boxes, and boxes, AND boxes….of books.

Oy.

It was then, really, that we realized …however dimly…that we had moved from a two-story house to a two bedroom apartment. And we just didn't have room … for… all… that… stuff.

The irony is that we'd thought we weeded out and downsized. We donated, we sold, we threw away…we got rid of more than half of possessions, at least, before we moved.

But, once we were here, we discovered the reality. That all our weeding and tossing was insufficient. We found ourselves in our apartment, which formerly seemed so copious, with boxes and cartons piled floor to ceiling.

After two month, we have more or less managed to get the mess under control. My father, who I think saw what was coming, volunteered to let us store stuff at his house. And now, his guest room is stacked floor to ceiling.

I realized that he was amused by us, and our situation. In his wisdom and his age, he knew what we had not yet discovered.

To wit: possessions are like beliefs. Even when proven baseless and false, you cannot get rid of them so easily. They flourish, they reproduce, they remain…

And what took thirty years to acquire may take thirty more to lose.

Foods we cannot get

Foods we cannot get...


If there are new foods to discover here, there are some we have left behind. Though, I'm surprised by how little we miss the cuisines of Boston. We were neither of us big fans of the things that are, perhaps, most characteristic of the foods of eastern Mass. Clam chowder, clam rolls, fried clams, steamed clams…lobsters and fried fish…jonnycake, funnel cake, popovers…these and others we do not miss, particularly.



There are some things we mind not being able to buy. Coffee-flavored ice cream is rare here, though you can find it if you look. Good bagels are similarly scarce…though, again, if you look you may discover them.



What has been a loss, though, is hot dog buns. In most of America, and certainly in New Mexico, a hot dog is oblong and round across the middle. It looks like a small loaf of soft bread. In New England, hot dog buns have flat sides and open from the top. This means that you may grill them, in butter, in the same pan that you cook the dogs themselves.



It is…oh God!...close to heaven to eat a hot dog with that kind of bun, toasted and warm, and with relish and brown mustard. Such a feast is best consumed in the company of a friend and a "frappe"—a milk shake—on a Saturday afternoon that knows no other obligations.



And, alas, such buns are not to be found here. No bakery provides them. No store for ex-pat New Englanders stocks them on its shelves. We are reduced to relying on the kindness of friends who mail them as presents on birthdays.



Such are the small tragedies of life. Or, maybe…it is calling. I am summoned by fate. I should enter the bread-baking business. Offer New England buns to southwesterners. I shall wear a paper chef's hat and an apron…call myself "Mr. Buns,"…promote my business by cruising the town in a converted Wienermobile.



There are less dignified fates. Consider the banker, the lawyer, the marketing expert, the social media consultant, the Wall Street insider…the men and women in tight suits with padded shoulders, optimizing shareholder value and agreeing that a rising tide lifts all yachts.



At least I would know I was ridiculous.



There is a certain blessing in that.

Piñon

There is no end of other foods that are unique or at least characteristic New Mexico. I won't go into most of them.



Although I should mention to the Piñon. This is a sort of pine…smallish, not exactly a shrub but no towering monarch of the forest either. You find it in forests and groves, particularly in the hillier areas, all over New Mexico…and, indeed, throughout the American Southwest and Northern Mexico. What makes the piñon part of an entry about food is that it produces a nut, sort of oblong and white. You can eat it and people have done so for thousands of years.



Here, people have piñon nut, roasted and sometimes salted, as a snack. That's common throughout the Southwest. But New Mexicans will also take piñon nuts and grind them with dark roasted coffee beans, rather the way that folk from New Orleans will mix their coffee with chicory. Coffee brewed from the mix can be best described as very, very rich, a little heavy (almost as though it already contained cream), and nutty.



Piñon coffee may be unique to the state. I'm not really sure. I've seen it in other parts of the southwest, but whenever I have… in Texas, Arizona, California…it has always come from here. Usually in the little yellow bags that are the trademark packaging of the New Mexico Pinon Coffee Company, a local institution and something of a genuine landmark. (You can see them at their website if you like. It's nmpinoncoffee.com/.)



Honestly, I'm not a regular drinker of piñon coffee. It's a little oily for my taste—though there are people who will touch nothing else. But there is one aspect of the piñon that I'm completely sold on—its wood. Burn it and you have an amazing smell… something like sandalwood, something like rosemary, but not really exactly like either.



I will leave you with an image: a night, not too cold, but chilly, and you are out of doors. There is a piñon wood fire. It flickers. It pops. Its strange, lovely scent is everywhere. You are with someone dear. There is a bottle of wine…



But, wait. There is no need of me here. You have an imagination. You have the capacity for romance. You may handle this.



Indeed, I charge you to do so. Envision it now. Construct it as your night. Your fire. Your lover…whoever that may be. Your wine.



Your sense of wonder.



Your stars, unimaginably bright, under a sky of ebon black.

Sopaipillas

More on food…



New Mexican cuisine is actually distinct from those of other regions, so much so that it actually rates a separate entry on Wikipedia. (It's on the web. It must be true…he said with a smile.)



Anyway, New Mexican cuisine is related to but distinct from the those of Northern Mexico, as well as "Mex-Tex" from the east and Arizonian and Californian stytles further west. Thus, New Mexican dishes are sometimes unique to the area (as, for example, in its use of the Green Chile in preference to all other chiles) or they prepare dishes in unique ways.



One food that New Mexico does share with much of the American Southwest, as well as parts of Latin America, is the sopaipilla. This is a kind of bread or pastry made from wheat flower. They are made by rolling out dough into a kind of triangle, folding it over, and then deep frying it.



When it is fried, it puffs up. It is warm and toast, and empty, a kind of brown, tender bubble of bread. You take it, still warm, and bite off one of the ends. Then you pour honey into the hot interior, and eat it…



Again, to die for.



Sopaipillas are sometimes served as desserts, but where and when I grew up, you ate them with the meal. Hot, fresh, brown, glowing…like a kind of edible luminaria.



My most intense memories of sopaipillas come from my childhood. When I was very young, my parents would take me to a restaurant down in old town. It was quiet and dim and huge…and very, very old…in an adobe building that dated back to earliest days of the city.



In the back wall of the restaurant there was a glassed-in booth. Inside the booth, a chef and a huge pot of oil. You could watch while he made the sopaipillas in a batches of dozen at a time. My father would pick me up and let me watch. The man behind the glass would smile.



It is one of my favorite memories. It dates from that moment in my youth…that moment I all our youths…when the world seems full of safety and promise, and sweet honey, and those around you are protective or at least indulgent…and miracles and wonders come fresh and hot.



And full of honey…





*



One other memory of sopaipillas. American cuisine is, today, much more diverse than it once was. At one time, and in some places, meat, potatoes, and white bread was as exotic as it got. (When I was a boy, I knew people who had never eaten in a Chinese restaurant.)



That day is (I hope) happily past. You probably had Green Chiles and sopaipillas for supper last night, and my long description of them is both unnecessary and boring.



But, not that long ago, 'twas another story entirely. A few decades past, in a certain Northern state, and I was a undergrad in search of a university, I was traveling and hungry and I went to a restaurant that advertised itself as "eclectic." It was expensive, and rather chic, and I really couldn't afford it. But, there were burritos on the menu and I was lonely, alone, and rather homesick. So, I counted up my pennies and figured What-The-Heck?



I went in and found that the burrito came with mixed vegetables. From a can. And the beef was ground chuck.



But the real jewel of the evening, the cherry on the top, was the sopaipillas. It was a cold night, wet, and I'd been dreaming of those sopaipillas…warm, and golden brown, and sweet with honey.



They didn't come with the meal but I knew they'd be dessert so I waited patiently. Finally, the waitress came by and said, "Are you familiar with sopaipillas?" Her tone indicated that of course I wasn't. That I was a rube and hick and kid and would never have tried something so exotic.



I assured her I was…my eagerness all too evident…and said that she should bring them on. I was ready.



"Here you are," she said, and produced a tin box, maybe twelve inches on a side, and decorated with New England motifs.



"What?"



"Your sopaipillas," she assured me.



I opened the box cautiously, as though it might contain live cobras.



Inside were little white things…biscuits, vaguely triangular, hard, cold as a stone.



"Sopaipillas," she said again, as I stared at them in horror and pain. Then, she hurried away to take something boiled and gray to the table across the room.



After a moment of grief, I nibbled at one. It was …bland. I later wondered if it had come from a factory, baked like a cookie, or whether they'd bought preprocessed dough …like the kind of that comes in tubes from Poppin' Fresh ("home cooked rolls"), rolled them out in triangles, and baked them up a few nights before. No longer hot, of course, and stiff as a board, but, Heck! No sense in wasting 'em.



I sighed. I shed a single tear. I paid my bill and exited into the stormy night.



There are some situations, as in Vietnam, when all you can do is get on the helicopter and leave…

And more Green Chiles

But I've lost track of the issue of Green Chile.


I suppose you've noticed that I was a little disappointed in the two Chile Fiestas I attended. They seemed small, somehow. And the one in Albuquerque was particularly so. There was a notable lack of food in the shadow of the balloon museum. I expected places where we could have bought a meal rather than just samples of hot sauce. But, perhaps I'm being unfair. Both are relatively new events. Perhaps they will grow with time.


Besides, I was afraid that Martha would be disappointed. I wanted to provide her with a genuine spectacle, something to both introduce her to the New Mexican culture and also entertain her. But, again, I think I'm overreacting. In spite of my concerns, she seemed to enjoy herself quite a lot—particularly the Los Lunas one, where she watched children play, shopped for jewelry, sampled the food.


But this, of course, is the nature of marriage. That we struggle and stumble, desperate to please, certainly that we have not done, only to discover that in the midst of all our terrors…


Someone wonderful loves us.


In spite of it all.

Balloons...Balloonists...Me

On the other hand…

I'd met them, actually. I mean the Abruzzos. You'll recall I said the museum's name is officially the Anderson-Abruzzo Albuquerque International Balloon Museum. The Anderson in question was Maxie Anderson, a local businessman and balloonist who was one of the pilots of the Double Eagle II.  The Abruzzo was Benjamin L. Abruzzo, another Albuquerque businessman and an aviator. He was on both the Double Eagle 2 and 5, as well as scores of other remarkable flights.

I did not know him. But I did see him now and then. My parents were skiers and Abruzzo was also part of the combine behind the Albuquerque Tramway, a rather remarkable cable car that runs from the city to the Sandia Ski Area (again, more of which later). And, now and then, Mr. Abruzzo would address the ski club of which my parents were members. I remember him as a personable chap in a business suit who spoke well and easily.

I also knew…well, that's too strong word… I knew of his sons. There were three, I think. The eldest was in the same Junior High School I was. I remember him as being pleasant enough—much bigger than I was, an athlete where I was anything but, and a bit of a favorite of the ladies, the teachers, and the coaches. But he wasn't a bully, which set him apart in my book. He could have easily taken advantage of his position.

I understand he grew up to be, like his father, a businessman and an aviator. But it was the youngest of the sons who ended up following most closely the father's fate. This man became a competitive balloonist and was well-known in the field.

I never met this man. But, I remember envying the elder Abruzzo and his sons. They seemed to live the life of daring and adventure which, for whatever reason I was temperamentally ill-equipped. Where they went out into the world and challenged, I stayed in my room and read science fiction.

I suppose I still feel a little like that. I ask myself if I had the chance, and I could have exchange fates…would I?

I wouldn't. But there would be a real temptation.

Which is odd…for the father died in a plane crash in 1985, and the younger son did the same in a balloon accident in 2010.

So, no.

And yet. And yet…

I hear that hateful little voice whispering. Forever whispering.

Better to have lived a day in passion than a thousand years asleep.

Green Chiles (again)

The other Chile fest we attended, the one in the City, was in a big field next to the Albuquerque Balloon Museum, or, more precisely the Anderson-Abruzzo Albuquerque International Balloon Museum. More on that later. For now, suffice to say that New Mexicans are also in love with balloons.

Anyway, once more we parked and paid a fee (bit more stiff this time, but it included entrance to the museum). Once more we entered and threaded our way through tables and tents.

It was pleasant enough, but there were fewer vendors of food…something of a problem since we'd thought we would have lunch there. Still, there was much to be seen. Again, there were vendors of sauce and toppings, whole roasted Chiles, jewelry…and (one major difference from the Las Lunas gathering) beer. Several local microbrewers were on hand to offer their wares.

I am not quite sure it was good idea (all those people and all that beer), but it did cool the tongue after one too many visits to the hot sauce samples.


*

We exited through the Museum. As I say, New Mexicans are crazy about balloons. In the Museum itself you may see all manor of historical balloons, or, at least, their gondolas, suspended from the ceilings on long cables…as though they still dangled from their gas bags.  And so, here you may see the Double Eagle II, the balloon which first crossed the Atlantic, and the Double Eagle V, which managed similar flight across the Pacific.

Impressive, really. The gondolas are relatively tiny. One wonders what it was like to be confined in them for day upon day, drifting with winds which you my exploit but cannot control, hoping that you will not tumble into ruin and death and white capped waves at any moment.

I suppose it requires that one be a sort of hero to manage that. You must be brave, verging on the fearless, and daring! You must be willing to risk it all on a single toss, telling yourself it will be seven and not snake eyes.

I could never be that sort of individual.

But, then, I suppose I don't want to be. If I must be heroic, and I don't suppose I ever will, then I would prefer it to be in some sort of service…doing something…for someone. For many someones.

Perhaps that means I am a lesser man.

So be it.

Oh, my God, I'm famous...sort of.

Well, it seems I've been quoted.

Way back in 1994, I wrote the following line in my ezine, explosive-cargo:

"If the Anti-Abortion Movement took a tenth of the energy they put into noisy theatrics and devoted it to improving the lives of children who have been into lives of poverty, violence, and neglect, they could make the world a'shine."

(I've also seen it reproduced on the web as "...make the world shine.")

But, anyway, someone just pointed out to me that it's been included in William Martin's recent book of liberal quotes, Quotes from the Underground: Radical Wisdom in Small Doses.

In a word, wow. Far freaking out.

Thanks Dr. Martin.

Green Chiles (3)

The Green Chile is so central to New Mexican cuisine that it is celebrated. We've been to two "Green Chile Festivals" since we got to town. One was in Las Lunas, which is a community some miles south of the city. The other was here in Albuquerque, but I will get to that second in another Xcargo.

The Los Lunas one was first. We had seen posters of it somewhere, and Martha said, "Why not?" So, one Saturday, we got into my little truck and headed down I-25…past the airport, past Isleta Pueblo (Indian land. Which means it has its own casino, now. Like every reservation in the state), and finally to Los Lunas.

We took a designated exit and followed signs. We came finally to Wagner's Farmland, which is both a working farm and a sort of local attraction. People bring their children. There's a petting zoo. A maze in a cornfield. Hayrides. And so on.

One huge field had been turned into a parking lot. Teenagers with little red flags guided us into through muddy roads—one of which we actually got stuck in. The tires were rolling merrily and going nowhere. I took it as a metaphor for my life. But, then, by dint of pulling, pushing, and some swearing, we got traction.

From there we followed the crowds to a fenced-in area. We paid a small fee, were given green paper bracelets to wear, and then entered. Around us were tents and tables, vendors and providers of free information about this or that service. There was live music from a stage.

We wandered. It was smaller than I thought it would be. But, Martha clearly loved it. Her camera was busy.

We ate enchiladas with, of course, Green Chile.  Then we toured the tents. Jewelry and jars of Chile sauce, handmade clothes and carved wood statues, brochures from this or that organization…

Oh, and then we got a free plastic cup from the New Mexico Chile Association. It sits now on the table beside me. I use it for water.

Then…

It was done. We went into Los Lunas, found a Starbucks, and with iced decaf Americanos, went our way again.

I wondered vaguely where the day had gone.

More on Green Chilies…(or chiles)

Before you can eat them, they must be roasted. You can do this at home in your oven, but it is a lot of effort and instead most people buy them from some store or enterprise that has a commercial roaster. This is a device that looks sort of like a large, perforated drum into which the chiles are placed. Then the drum rotates slowly over an open flame—in the old days, charcoal or wood, today usually propane.

In recent years, this has become something of a growth industry. At harvest time, in October, many of the local grocery stores will install a roaster right outside their doors, on the walk or even in the parking lot. Thus you cannot go in or out, even on so minor a mission as to pick up that carton of milk or loaf of bread, without being tempted.

What does it smell like? Hard to say, exactly. Pleasant, and decidedly organic, but not familiar. I suppose you could say it has some resemblance to the scent of grilling vegetables, but not a whole lot.

I will say this. It is a strong scent. It carries far. You can't miss it. And I've heard stories (maybe apocryphal, but still amusing) of overeager authorities sniffing what they thought was the bust of all busts, bursting into a backyard or a tailgate party, and finding…startled suburbanites, standing around a roaster, wondering what all the fuss and bother is about.

Green Chile (1)

Things about New Mexico…

The green chiles. New Mexicans are crazy about green chiles. They love them. They love them green, they love them red, and they love them "Christmas," meaning a mix of the two.

They are a standard of cooking in the northern Rio Grande and beyond. And a word, these are Green Chiles, which are long and slightly curved. They are not to be confused with other chiles, which have quite different tastes. It can particularly confusing since as you move south into Texas or west in Arizona, the Green Chile gradually gives way to the jalapeño, which locals also sometimes call a "green" chile (it's green after all).

But for New Mexicans there will always been one chile and one chile only, the Green Chile, which (or so I'm told by Wikipedia) is also the state's single largest agricultural crop.  It is central to their cuisine, and, maybe, if one believes some historians and sociologists of food, is thus central to their personalities.

*

They put it on, in, or over everything. They chop it fine and put it on meat (like the burgers) or over certain vegetables, or even eggs. There is a thing called "breakfast burrito" that must be experienced. You take a flour tortilla, fill it with scrambled eggs, potatoes, and cheese, then you roll it up and top it with green chile. I've seen easternerscringe at the sight of it. But, try it once or twice, and you're addicted.

Another favorite, Green Chile Stew. It consists of Chile, potatoes, meat (pork or chicken as a rule, though there are vegetarian variants) served in a bowl. Quite amazing, really. I could, I think, live on it alone. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Though my very, very best beloved Green Chile dish is something called a "Chile Relleno," or, more precisely, the New Mexican version of a Relleno (the Mexican original uses the poblano pepper rather than the Green). You take a whole Green Chile, empty it of seeds, fill it with cheese, dip it in batter, and cook it rather like a fish. Again, it is amazing. (In fact, truth be told, I'm sitting here salivating at the thought of it.)

But, as I've implied, the Relleno is somewhat unusual in that it employs the whole Green Chile. Far more often, the Chile is chopped or sliced or otherwise made smaller and then placed on other foods.

And what foods! I've mentioned eggs and burgers. Add to them enchiladas and burritos and chimichangas and quesadillas and tamales and taquitos and a thousand other things whose names lay upon the tongue with a certain poetry… compelling, romantic, the music of the oven and the kitchen and that moment on a Christmas morning when you are (for once, so rare thing) almost content. Able to forget your thousand, thousand faults, the things which disgrace you. The things which make you wish for death. For just a moment, for a second…

They are gone.


*

Oh, two asides: Yes, there is such a thing as Chile-flavored wine. I've tried it. Not bad. And yes, too, there is green chile ice cream. That, I've never eaten. Someday, though…when I'm feeling strong.

Arrival

And then here is arrival…

Envision it as follows: she is driving the car. You are in your little truck. Because her sense of direction is better (you have a tendency to dream behind the wheel, to think of other things, and so miss exits), she leads the way. Even though she has never taken this route before.

And as you drive, you consider. How long has it been since you've come this way? Along 40 from the east? It is the ancient Route 66, celebrated in song and story.

Could it be forty years? Quite likely.

In any case, you drive. You have driven across the Texas border, through the uplands, the grasslands, the little towns, the small cities…some with fabulous names, evocative, exotic, and strange. Tucumcari, Santa Rosa, Clines Corners, Wagon Wheel, Moriarty…

And then just past Sedillo the road begins its winding way into the mountains, or rather the pass…Tijeras Canyon …that notch that lies between the Sandias and the Manzanita Mountains. Somehow, because you are busy driving, busy watching, particularly if it is dusk and you are tired, you do not notice that great gray and tree-covered mountain walls…almost cliffs going up around you. You don't notice until suddenly, least expected, they are everywhere…

Perhaps you notice the town … the town of Tijeras, itself…vest-pocket city, long and lean, its buildings and houses and the giant cement works between hilltops and mountain face…valley town, two-dimensional community, extending East and West, but there is no South nor North…

And then you are at the top. You arc over a mountain. And…

The city. Albuquerque.

It is best at night because then you see the lights stretching before you, below you, a vast field of neon and gems and incandescent street lamps, stretching from the shadows at your feet to the opposite horizon. (When you were a boy, when your parents took you driving at night, you would pretend you were a city in the sea, at the bottom of the ocean, or the dark side of the moon, and you were in a descending vehicle, submarine or lunar lander.)

But even in the daytime, or at the interface between afternoon and dusk, there is a certain magic in it, as you descend from the mountain and find yourself on a highway. You and she had hoped to stop just outside the city to regroup but she does not see the turnoff for Tramway Boulevard and so you follow her to Eubank.

She exits there and then pulls off at the first sign she sees that reads Café. She thinks you will be able to get coffee before you travel on to your father's house. You follow her into the parking lot. It is, you realize, The Owl Café. White building. Huge windows. And on the roof…an image. A statue. At first you think it is a cat. But then you realize it is an Owl. The Owl from the name. A huge owl's head, wide-eyed, beaked, great horned…

You stand in the parking lot for a minute. Then you walk to her as she emerges from her car. You embrace. You have made it.

You go into the Owl Café. You will discover, over time (because you will go back), that the coffee is…all right.

But the green chile burgers?

To die for.

Happy Holidays

I hope you had a merry Christmas, or whatever it is you celebrate.

Winds

I return, now, to talking about the trip here…that is, from Massachusetts to New Mexico.

*

Other scenes: moving through Kansas and Texas and encountering vast wind-farms—hundred of huge white turbines on towering masts, their blades rotating slowly or quickly in the wind.

I am told that they are not as innocent as some activists would have us believe. They are, after all, enormous constructions, taller than most buildings. And their turbine blades are vast. I'm further told they are a threat to birds and wildlife, and, under certain conditions (during storms, for example), to humans.

Yet, one thing is undeniable: their fabulous beauty…vast yet graceful, reed slender yet mighty.

Perhaps we need such things, even with their hazards, if such hazards truly exist. They remind us that nothing is unmixed. Loveliness is genuine, but it comes with a cutting edge…concealed or revealed…

And to know it, even briefly, is to know that, sooner or later, you will be bleeding.

Bleeding, but there's the rub of course. You will be back.

And you know it.

Of Sandy and Presidents

I haven't been posting here much for the last couple of months. There are several reasons for that. For one thing, I'm in the midst of a couple of very big projects and they are consuming almost all my time. For another, there have been so many important things going on the world—-first superstorm Sandy and then the election—-that my own little observations seemed almost fantastically unimportant…even ridiculous.

But, I can't help tooting my own horn just a wee bit. You'll recall that in my last entry I wrote about climate change requiring an interventionist government.

Well, in some ways I think that's exactly what a majority of the American voters decided in the 2012 presidential contest. They saw Sandy…the world's most horrific campaign volunteer…in all its hideous fury. They saw FEMA and the rest of the Federal government reacting with amazing speed to deal with the storm's destruction. And, maybe most of all, they saw Chris Christie and President Obama side by side…like a pair of titans…working to restore New Jersey to the living.

(Those amazing photos of the two men, burying their differences to do real good, may have won the election for the President all by themselves. And, of course, whatever the photos left undone, Christie's praise of his new friend and partner finished.)

I think a lot of people saw all that and wondered…would a government headed by Romney, and controlled by ideologues opposed to federal intervention on any level have done the same?

Thus, if I did not call the election, I think I identified one of the mechanisms that determined the winner. It is a small triumph, but these days I'll take anything I can get.

More on the pundit…

As I drove away, I wondered if the pundit, in all his erudite cynicism, really understood the implication of his statement. If climate change is happening, and if we have no choice but to "get used to it," well, that is going to require a lot of effort, time, and money on the part of a lot of people. In fact, it is probably going to require considerable government spending.

Or to put it another way, my pundit, in all his libertarian logic, was in fact arguing for the very sort of government—activist, regulatory, a welfare-state—which he has built a career out of opposing.

Other memories...

Other memories, mostly confused: searching for motels and hotels that were "pet friendly" Oreo, our dog, you see), searching for restaurants with patios and al fresco dining (the dog under the table with a bowl of water and a snack, us up above wilting in the sun), generally not finding such restaurants and so picnicking along the way in the shade of a tree or a dumpster.

Meeting remarkable people: the farmer/used car dealer who let us eat lunch on his property, the enormous bearded biker in black leather who took a great liking to Oreo and told us how wonderful, kind and loyal is that marvelous beast the dog. Better than humans. Who will betray you to your enemies. Or the law.

Enormous storms: lightning blasts from the highest of the high right down to the ground at your feet, black rolling clouds which (at one point) turned into the dreaded funnel and did some real damage in the town we had just left.

And heat. Heat. The great shimmering terrible heat of the drought.

*

Moving through Kansas was fascinating and terrible. The summer of 2012 was a summer of drought. You would drive through fields and fields of corn…blasted dead, withered, leaves brown and wrinkled as parchment. It was hard for the farmers. It will be hard for many others in terms of higher prices for food.

In one little town we stopped for lunch. Again, we couldn't find a place to eat where we could take the dog. But there was a little park, sort of in the very center of the community. We got sandwiches at a Subway, took out our folding chairs, and ate outdoors.

I say it was a "park," but envision nothing green. Nothing verdant or living. The grass was brown and dry. It was even brittle, for lack of a better word. You could touch it and it would not spring back.

Then, to add a touch of biblical plague to the scene, there were huge grasshoppers everywhere. Great horned locusts, like something out of Exodus. You would move or take a step and they would bound off in every direction, startling the dog who would try to pursue them, then fall back confused and maybe even a little afraid.

We ate our lunches and left.

I remember this incident clearly because shortly before it happened I'd heard on the radio that a certain and intelligent Right-Wing pundit had apparently said something along the lines of, "Global Warming is happening. Get used to it."

It was an interesting remark. It conceded that climate change is underway, yet did not extend the cause for that to human activities. Further, rather by implication, it suggested that even if climate change were due to the combustion of fossil fuels, well, that was the price for the modern world.

There may be something to the idea, I don't know.

And yet…

It did strike me as I looked out upon the brown waste that it is easy to say such things when you are sitting in an air-conditioned office, knowing that a chill drink is only a short walk to the fridge away, and knowing too that you are wealthy enough to afford significant increases in your food budget.

The rest of us… that's a different story.

About UVA

…it is one of the few colleges in America I've seen that genuinely has a touch of Oxford to it. Most of our schools do not have that…not even Harvard and Yale, both of which tried so hard to be our national equivalent, our place of spires and Thames, medievalism and brick, gowned scholars and merry undergrads in straw hats gone punting…

But Yale, Harvard, others…they never quite got it. For all their struggles, they became simply urban schools. Oh, excellent schools of course, full of brains and ambition. But city universities all the same.

And the merry undergrads? The scholars in black robes? They grow more rare with every passing day. Replaced, you see, by striving careerists, professionalists, specialists… heads full of facts and performance enhancing drugs (Nootropics, I think the word is)… for whom the concepts of merriment and medievalism, let alone punting, seem genuinely ridiculous.

These others, these new men and women, they are what society says it values. They will succeed. They will go far.

But, I wonder, sometimes, will there ever come a time when these chill and perfect creatures, so hard and so strong, will awaken to the haunting question…

What is life for?