Boston (2)

One last thing before I return to Albuquerque. I was never really a Bostonian. Nor even a New Englander. You need to grow up there for that. It helps, too, if your parents and perhaps their parents grew up there, as well.

Yet, I'm married to a native New Englander. My son spent his childhood there. I, myself, lived in the area twenty years there.

And, well, I'm proud of the town…my other, adopted home. I'm proud of the way it handled the crisis. I am proud of the way it aided the injured, grieved for the dead, endured the lockdown, co-operated with authorities, celebrated the capture of the bombers, and did it all without too much bloodlust.

There was something noble in all of that.  I'm not sure that, had I been there, I would have managed it quite so well.

So, bravo (and brava) to Beantown. You're a better place than I am a person.

Boston (1)

Taking a moment away from my story of the city, my new/old home of Albuquerque.

As I write this, the final act of a recent tragedy out in Boston has played itself. The two men…boys, really…who seem to have been responsible for the brutal, bloody, stupid acts at the Boston Marathon have been identified. One is now dead after a dramatic firefight with police. The other has been captured.

Fortunately for me, everyone I know back East is safe. No one I knew was at the race. No one I knew was caught up in the exchange of gunfire that killed the first terrorist. Though, it was a near thing. My son knew the cousin of one of the policemen who was badly wounded. And, my son's girlfriend lives just eight blocks from where the two men lived. A man I publish, one of the writers for the Belfort and Bastion, has an apartment not far from the police command post set up after the incident.  Meanwhile, some very close family friends, a couple with two young children (we've known the mother since she was a toddler), were awakened in the night by the sound of firearms and sirens.

Still, there is something horrible and enlightening about all of this. At least there is for me. Even given my distance from the actual events.

To wit, I'm struck by how much life rather resembles an old fashioned cinema, the type I used to visit as a boy, in those long lost days before Surround Sound, CGI, and megaplexes.

You would go into the theater, your popcorn in one hand, your cola in the other, and you would seat yourself somewhere near the front. The screen would glow silver and white (yes, I recall the days before color was ubiquitous). You would hear in the background the comforting rumble of the projector. You would lose yourself in the adventures of the lights and shadows on the wall before you—comedy, adventure, Three Stooges, James Bond, Disney, cartoons and cartoonish humans. The plot would contain no real surprises. The characters would be true to their stereotypes.

And, for most of us, most of the time, that's what life is like. It goes on its predictable way. Sometimes bad. Sometimes good. But largely uneventful.

But then…

Sometimes, when I was a boy, and you went to the cinema expecting to see Clint Eastwood claim his Few Dollars More, or Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux confront the Morlocks in their fury, there would be an interruption. A flash! The film would break. You would see the scene shatter before you, be replaced by light and fire and white emptiness.

The Projectionist, asleep on duty, or indifferent, or gone for a cigarette out front, would do nothing. And you (a child) would be forced to go forth. Crippled by your shyness, you would have to explain to the authorities that somehow the Hollywood epic in its wonderful blandness was gone.

Well, it's like that. We live our stories. We assume they are important. We assume they are reality, or at least all the reality that matters.

And then we reminded.

By the light. And the fire. By the emptiness.

There is something beyond the screen.

And it may not love us.

To all my friends in Boston, and all Bostonians

My thoughts are with you in this dreadful moment.

Things Which Have Not Changed (1)

Crime.

When I first told people I was moving back to Albuquerque, some of the friends I still had in the city warned me. “It’s not like when we were kids here,” they told me. “Violent crime is way out of control. It’s like that TV show, Breaking Bad, but real life.”

I'm not sure about that. Of course, it might be true that there's more crime here now than then. The city is certainly larger than it was, which means there are more people, which means in turn that (if only because of simple math) there will also be more criminals. And, too, there is a very real drug problem here—some very major drug cartels, very dangerous organizations, exist right across the border in Mexico. Plus, there are gangs here, and ethnic conflicts.

Still, the perception of crime is a personal and a very relative thing. In my own case, and from my own perspective, the city seems pretty much unchanged when it comes to threat level. If anything, I feel safer here now then I did before.

Of course, that is partly due to a lot of unique factors. I don’t normally go into those places where I’m likely to get mugged. And I am no longer a young man, and young men are surprisingly often the targets of violence, at least when the perpetrators are other young men.

Plus I am no longer in the local school system, which, in the 1960s and 1970s was not a happy place to be. Not if you were, shall we say, a member of a target population.

*

Yet, I'm interested in how often I hear from the residents that the City is worse than it was. I hear it from my friends here, both new and old, and from long term residents. You hear about the new and more violent gangs that are on the streets. They say we now have branch offices of the Cripes and the Bloods. And the Cartels really are here. Plus, of course, we have our local groups, local warlords, and everyone cites Breaking Bad.

But, the thing is, if you look at the actual crime statistics, you find rather a different story. At least as I interpret the numbers (and I’m using here the city’s own reports from cabq.gov/onlinesvcs/crimestats/), it looks to me as though the over-all rate of crime has actually gone down. Not way down. It's still all too possible to get mugged or hurt here. And we’re still far ahead (alas) of the rest of the nation…particularly in personal assault cases…but, things do seem to be moving in the right direction (i.e., downwards) even if the velocity could be better.

How then to account for the perception that Things Are Getting Worse? Why are so many people, particularly people I knew as a boy, telling me to watch my step?

I suspect the answer has to do more with the human soul than with the city's numbers. There is in us, I think, a hard-wired need to see the past as more fortunate than the present. I think we are designed, neurologically, to do so. I think nostalgia is a need as intense as hunger and desire, and arises from the same dark, damp, inexplicable recesses of the brain and the spine.

*

Why? Why would we have such a need? What would be its "evolutionary value?"

I suspect that it helps our daily lives. The past, made rosy, prepares us for the future. We strip away the realities of our genuine story…the pains, the embarrassments, the humiliations, the moment we realized our parents were human, the moment we realized that we ourselves were so very, very flawed…and what we have left is a fortress. The Past is then our refuge. Our goal.

Yes, we say, our present is less than lovely…but the past! Ah, the Past! The Past was perfect. It was where our parents loved us, our friends were genuine friends, our teachers offered us genuine wisdom, our wants were few and easily satisfied, and the future was ours to possess.

If none of these is now true, well, we have the memory that they once were. We can retreat into remembrance. Or, if we have energy, then we can set out to rebuild that vanished Eden. We can tell ourselves that we are not undertaking so daunting a task as the creation of something new. We are simply regaining what had been lost.

How easy it will be. Or so we tell ourselves.

And underestimating the length and difficulty of the job is a fundamental prerequisite to our beginning it.

*

So on some level it is healthy and good that my friends warn me of the degraded state of the world. Whether the world is degraded or not is irrelevant. It means that they are in touch with an ancient part of us that stands, amazed and frightened, at the gates of paradise. Stands, and plans, and strives for a way back in.

Which, alas, confronts me with an unsettling question. To wit, why do I not share their feelings? Why have I no touch of the shared and common Eden?



*


I suspect there are many reasons. For one, I was among that group of young people who, in the late 60s and early 70s, were so supremely focused on the future (moon shots and space travel, sci-fi and Star Trek, the fascinations of we pre-nerds at the dawning of the information age) that we never had much time to consider the Present, much less the Past.

And, too, I must confess to having a somewhat melancholic disposition. Some unfortunate aspect of my genetics makes me tend to remember only the less happy aspects of my history, the times when I've failed others or myself. (Alas, there is no shortage of those.)

But, most of all, I think, I suffer from excessive rationality. It is a kind of mental disorder, and one compounded by a regrettable knowledge of history, and particularly of its less attractive aspects.

*

As I say, these characteristics are not good. They are flaws in my makeup, not advantages.

But, one plays the hand one is dealt. I will work with not against my disability. If I cannot love the Past…or, at least, not my own Past in this city… I shall focus instead on the Present.

In other words, I shall pretend that Now is Memory. That the current is nostalgia.

Is it a perfect strategy? No. But, it is the one I shall employ. And, besides, there is a certain resonance about it. After all, I am told that this is the day of Breaking Bad.

But to break bad…to shatter evil…does not that also mean that one creates good?

Things which have changed (1)

Size.



I should mention some of the ways in which the city, Albuquerque, has changed in the time since I've been gone…that is, the last 30 years or so.



The first and probably the most obvious is sheer size. I've not done serious research, but I did check the web, and according to Wikipedia the current population is 552,804 (or, at least, that's what it was in 2011).  If you include the surrounding areas, what specialists call "the Metropolitan Statistical Area" (MSA), then things get even more interesting. The total population then is in excess of 887,000 souls.



Now, when I left here, in 1979, the population of the whole area…not just Albuquerque but the MSA, which is to say almost the whole center of the state…was just about 480,600 (at least according to the web sites I've checked). In other words, the size of the city and its environs has not quite doubled since I was an undergraduate in my twenties.



And the increase becomes even more dramatic when you go further back. When I was thirteen in 1970, the population of the MSA was somewhere between 350,000 and 370,000 people, depending (I gather) on who you count and how you count them. (I'm using censusscope.org as my source, and it gives a number of about 373,000. However, The Real Estate Center at Texas A&M University provides the smaller number.)



In 1960, when I was all of three years old, the city's population was 315,485 (again, according to censussope). Thus, just in my lifetime, Albuquerque has gone from being a pretty small town, really, to a reasonably serious player among America's middle ranked cities.



This is not necessarily a good thing. There have always been serious traffic problems here—everyone has a car, public transportation exists but it is under-funded, streets are broad and straight, and speed limits are high and often not particularly well-observed.. (There's one avenue not far from where I sit now which has a limit of 55 miles an hour. This is not a highway, understand. It is a city street. It cuts between residential areas and is lined on either side by shopping malls. Thus pedestrians, if there are any, must play a kind of tag or leapfrog with thundering cars and SUVs, all moving at speeds that would be considered intimidating on some Eastern freeways).



Now, though, those problems are increased by an order of magnitude. Traffic can be simply overwhelming. At rush hour (and it seems that, in these days of 24/7 work weeks, every hour is rush hour), you will find yourself at some stoplight on an average city road that has up to eight lanes, not counting the two additional left turn lanes, and a right turn lane as well. Yet, in spite of that vast capacity, you will be trapped, stopped, stuck in motionless traffic, with too many cars (each containing too few people), waiting long hours for something, anything, to move.



I remember when we first started visiting here, my wife and I. My father told Martha, "This town is getting just too big. The traffic is terrible."



Martha, city-girl from the densely populated east, laughed when she told me this. Albuquerque? Wonderful little Albuquerque? Albuquerque the anti-Boston? Albuquerque with too much traffic? How was that possible?



Then, she started driving here on a regular basis.



A few years, even before we moved, she told me, "You know what? Your father was too right."



And at that moment, in her face, I saw the sadness that comes with the death of a hopeful illusion—that is, the idea that somewhere, somehow, there is a kind of Shangri-La, a Mayberry, a Rivendale, where the good things of cities are not balanced by the bad.



I recognized the look quite easily. It's been on my face often enough. In Boston, New York, New Orleans, Las Angeles, Montreal, London, Paris…others.



Think of it as the curse of the small town boy. The boy who goes in search of something, some excitement, some escape…but who discovers the reality that place is largely irrelevant. If the heart is itself not at peace, then there is no safe harbor. Serenity does not come from position.



So he returns to the community that sent him forth. Only, alas, he discovers too the sad wisdom of Mr. Wolfe.



He will have no welcome.

Taking a break, and Something For Everything

I'm taking a break today. I should be posting something about New Mexico and our lives there. But, well, I'm tired. I've had a long, long day. Sometime, when I'm feeling particularly chipper, I'll share the gristly details. Or maybe I won't. We all of us have enough petty annoyances in our life. You don't need to hear mine.

Instead I'll simply post a link to the Belfort and Bastion editorial blog. There's an essay there you might enjoy. It is about a new author of ours, and his book, which is sort of a teenage Faust projected into our grim, postindustrial little age.

You can see it here.

And, in the meanwhile, I'm off to seek solace in a long jog and a short beer.

Until next time…

Onward and upward.

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.