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