The sushi parties, the pajama parties, the creek that ran outside our windows, she would sleep on the deck for hours smelling the oak trees and polliwog stained water. She was so smart I could look at the delicate flowers she was about to smash by walking on them and direct her with my eyes on the path to avoid them and she got all of that and did it.
•••
I’ve been here only two days and now I see why my friends said, “You may not return.” I thought to myself, ‘You just don’t know the love of a good rabbit, if you did you wouldn’t say that.’ But, I must tell you that this place is completely mesmerizing. I’m already obsessed. Not to mention how hypnotic the winds of the Mediterranean Sea are.
I just may have to have my rabbits sent on some Animal Airbus. If there isn’t one, there should be. A big ol’ airplane that serves those edgy, modern animals set to visit their humans all over the world--completely equipped with treats and people who wait on them hand and foot. I think this will happen in my lifetime. I am hopeful.
THE VILLA IN CARCES
For those of you who don’t know, Betsy and Ken Kobre of SF CA have offered me their incredible three-story villa that is seated in the heart of Carces, South of France --just above Toulon and Marseille-- in exchange for a painting (or 3).
I’ve been to France before, but not the South of France, only Paris. In only 48 hours I’ve had experiences with the food, wine, men, dogs, pigeons, language, architecture, drivers, sea, a baker at midnight, and many instances of French people making fun of me...just to mention just a few. But I’ll begin with the pigeons.
FRENCH PIGEONS
The pigeons don’t have self confidence issues here. They belt out their coo so loudly, they sound like owls--even in the strong winds of the Med. They are loud and fat and they look at you like you owe them. Entitled. They are Euro
pigeons with Marin CA attitudes! It’s not just the French pigeons either--they are the same everywhere in Europe.
Venice, Florence, Amsterdam, maybe not so much in Transalvania where there are probably homeless vampires that feed on pigeons. Those pigeons, unfortunately, are probably pretty skinny and humble with soft voices.
The pigeons here are sort of like the French men. Completely in your face with their hunger, but magnificent and
noticeably charming at the same time.
FRENCH MEN
I drove straight to Carces after 18 hours of travel, arrived around midnight. I didn’t sleep a wink on the plane. I got lost immediately. My phone didn’t work, though it was supposed to. I spotted this man walking around the village whistling and smiling, making hand motions to offer help. I finally gave in after circling him a couple times. I’m not sure what he thought but he immediately put his head into the car, his face 3 inches from mine. I pushed his head back out of the car and he laughed. I asked him, “Où est l’avenue Ferrindad?”
He spoke fast French. I began to use my hands. That universal sign language that looks apish and silly but does the job.
I got out of the car. He wore a white baker shirt that smelled like laundry detergent. He was a large and handsome man. He laughed at me (just the first of many) when I spoke French and would put his hand in my hair and say things I didn’t understand. He didn’t answer my question for a long time. He seemed to want something first.
He asked me how long I would be here, did I have family? Did I have a petit amie (boyfriend) or mari (husband)? I said, both of course. But he pressed on. He wanted me to go out with him on Thursday night. I said, no, Je suis ici pour peindre et visiter --I’m here to paint and visit-- he laughed and said Ce soir puis? Tonight then? It was midnight. I said in broken French. I am going now, you go this way and I’ll go that way. “seul?” he said, amazed. Alone? Oui, yes, seul. “No problem he said and then went on for another 5 minutes—something about how lovely I am and something about my red hair. I tapped him on the shoulder to interrupt him and put my head on my hands and yawned and closed my eyes. He laughed hard and got it. He kissed me on both cheeks, and we said our goodbyes.
The next morning I woke up early and went out to find a bakery. As I approached the bar that served alcohol, tobacco and espresso, another French man stood there on the corner. I looked like a bottom feeding crawdad with a perversity of red hair, I swear to god. Lo and behold there was my baker. He began to make fun of me to all the other bakers. I slithered away like a bruised ally cat, desparate for an espresso.
CARCES VILLAGE RESTAURANTS
Last night, Easter Evening, all the restaurants were closed except Le Saigon. The waitor gave me a menu. I gasped. There were illustrations of ducks standing up like people with their wings around each other in a buddy sort of gesture and below it an illustration of baby pigs suckling their mother, and under that all the pork dishes. The shrimp looked like a shrimp. Just laying there like it was already dead so I ordered the shrimp.
Tonight, I’m writing this from a quaint restaurant that serves mostly duck and fondue. It’s called the L’oie du bois (The Goose of Wood?). The waiter speaks a little English, and I speak a little French and the crowd behind me keeps laughing at us as we sort through our sentences. The waiter assures me they are laughing at him because they know him. In our conversations, I’ve learned that he listens to Blues in English only, he was a graphic designer for 15 years and the previous owners are artists as well. They draw. When I said ‘Moi, aussi’ – me too, regarding the graphic artist for 15 years, and that I am here this week to paint and draw mostly, he seemed not impressed. Sometimes, I am very aware of my American-ness here.
DESOLE -- ‘SORRY’ IS NOT A POPULAR WORD HERE.
I do know we say ‘I’m sorry’ a whole lot. I haven’t yet heard the phrase, Je suis désolé (I’m sorry) here—yet it seems to come up like a rite of passage in America, maybe even a weapon, a eradication of guilt, permission to trample. You see this in Peets or the grocery story sometimes. A person jumps another in line or spills on them while reaching for the half and half. Or you hear “sorry” in conversation where people are trying too hard. In France it feels simply unwise to say it. Coarse and weak somehow.
For instance, this group that keeps laughing at my French, well I waved them away and said, C’est Bon – it’s good, it’s fine, go away. And, they laughed more. Now I have their attention. When I said to the waiter “I’m sorry” (for not speaking better French) he looked down like he was embarrassed I had said it and the group behind me buried their faces in their food and seemed to pretend I hadn’t really said that. “I’m sorry” is clearly an act of tainted pride, an embarrassing thing. You just don’t do it here. And I find that as liberating as all the imperfections.
HEAVY STONE HOUSES
Walking to this restaurant, the smell of wood smoke and burnt cheese in the air, the loud creaking sounds of shutters closing and my heels clicking loudly on the brick. People live in heavy stone, so heavy, so old. I passed an old French prison, littered with beer bottles, plastic cups, but no gum that I could see on the ground.
This town is full of its own reality. Its own smells and sounds and people are more than tolerant. This is IT for them. This is how it’s always been. Seems a bit obvious to say that. Except I was raised in California where change is a religion of sorts--imperfections worked on, covered and tweaked. The power to transform reality into something new is quite exciting in California. So, this stone that will always be here and always was with its musty smells and the streets of creaky sounds is somehow a comfort--exciting in a different way. Like a film with a really good writer who knows how to write it so unto itself that we can’t help but fall completely and utterly in love with the story no matter the content.
I love California. I love the oak trees, the smell of eucalyptus, the acorns on the ground. Maybe not so much the grumpy people driving Cayenne SUV’s and honking at me for getting in their way when I ride my bike. They where they are, right? What’s a bike casualty here or there? Here, that same attitude comes out in the pigeons. And it works. Damn it if I don’t want to buy them freshly baked bread from one of the 4 bakeries in this village of 2500.
FRENCH DOGS
The dogs speak French! Only!
When I tried the same words in English only a quizicle look.
A woman was out walking her dog with her father and she told her dog to turn left ‘La Gauche.’ Later when I saw the dog and she was in the market. I said, ‘go left’ – the dog looked at me quizzically and froze.
Maybe ‘left’ sounded like arret! Stop. But English made no sense to this dog, that’s for sure. I’m going to paint that dog
for the exhibit in Sonoma. He can’t get away with casting me off when he’s made such an imprint. I hate one way
relationships with boy dogs. ; )
PAINTING
Spain is just a 1/2 day drive. I’ve always wanted to crash a Flamenco Dance event in Barcelona. But my experiences here have taken me in a different direction. I’m going to paint them for the exhibit and write some short fiction pieces instead of the exhibit I had planned. This is the one. This is too rich, humorous and quirky.
I see a week of four dollar Cote du Rhone wine and lots of painting, walking and being made fun of.
The sense of freedom here is tangible. It’s wild in that way that you can be when you really trust someone. Europe has always felt that way to me--unto itself, wild, wild, wild like the wind, and old as the sea.
Published in the book: Vignettes of Provence sold on Amazon.com
WHAT I'VE LEARNED IN BOULDER SO FAR:
1. When riding my 9 year old mountain bike around, if I listen to my i-Tunes biking mix, I have pretty convincing fantasies that I'm a mean, lean biking machine. Until I get strange looks because I didn't realize I was singing out loud or doing a little bicycle dance. And then reality crashes in harder when I see that the digital roadside speed-odometer says 17 miles per hour, and bicyclists are passing me (circling very wide), and the speed limit is 40.
* So Boulder athletes if you're reading this blog and you see an efforting, crazy looking redhead singing to Ani Difranco or making a complete fool of herself in other ways...just send me a little love--it goes a long way. A thumbs up will do. I realize that while you'll imagining all the great stuff you'll put into your power shake when you get home, I'm imagining a large glass of Chardonnay and wishing I had the guts to drink at 10AM. So just throw a peace sign or thumbs up my way. I'm not picky.
2. Some (more than I ever thought possible) of the men in Boulder, apparently appreciate curvy women. Bless you!
3. When I order a latte, the whole process goes faster if I ask for 2 percent milk or Soy. It can take the Barista time to either find whole milk stuck way in the back of the refrigerator, or to process a request he/she hasn't had in quite awhile. For a writer who doesn't want to loose the creative surge going on and just needs her caffeine IV, it's easier and faster to say 2 percent please.
4. The Waste Water Treatment Plant smells really good. A musky, soapy-like smell. Is this a good thing?
5. I have learned a love of gardening, how good vegetables and herbs taste from your own garden, a distaste for milkweed and big time appreciation of good neighbors.
Dakota loves Colorado. The birds make really loud sounds but can't get him because he lives in the penthouse suite with 2 adoring females.
Yesterday I ran away from home.
Several weeks of design and conference calls from my home office left everything in my home except the bunnies feeling un-nested, un-scented and without the feel of home.
As I drove to a very tiny little town called Sulpher Hot Springs I could almost smell the amber sanctuary of the earthly minerals in the car. I imagined pulling up to Christmas ligthts and the smell of wood smoke; a few skiers enjoying some mulled wine by the fire wrapped in warm cotton blankets and babbling the way people can when they find deep relaxation. Oh yes, I was certain I was headed toward the red river of freedom for a day. The kind of day that would give me energy for the intense month of design work ahead.
The drive from Boulder through the gorgeous windy roads near Golden, the tunnels and then up highway 40 turbaned with patches of snow, skiers taking any available run on the side of the road. I must say was one of the most inspiring drives I've ever had. Sipping on my double late (I had beg for whole milk this time. 'Get that fat free milk out of your hand! You trying to tell me something Bubba?') and munching on some homemade banana bread seeing these vistas and this road for the first time--yeah, it was a slice of 'so good to be alive and so good to be here in Colorado' for sure.
NEEDLES
I thought about my acupuncturist. Damn it hurts when he sticks those needles into my hand. "Everyone needs a little S & M in their life, right?" I found myself saying out loud to him, although I thought for sure I only said it inside my own head. He laughed. I was a bit mortified. But I haven't had a meaningful date in a year so strange things come out of my mouth sometimes. Luckily laughter, is a sort of forgiveness. But I thought about how amazing it is. How one day I feel all caddywompus (thank you Shireesh, I love that word) and I have swimmers ear and then after seeing the needle doctor I'm driving to Hot Sulpher Springs and feeling great, even after weeks of stress, and no earache. (Hmmm, I wonder if acupuncture can transform the personality of a little rabbit with way too much attitude. I think you all know who I'm talking about).
NEWFIES
And I thought about the little Auburn haired Newfoundland puppy that I will give a fabulous home to when I get him. His name is Oliver but I don't think he's born yet or even conceived. I've called about a dozen breeders, and considered many options but am holding out for little Oliver who is destined to be spoiled by a fellow redhead and dominated by a little macho rabbit named Dakota. Now I'm pretty sure that as my car swayed this way and that, coiling through the Rocky Mountains, while the stars made their way to their reunion with the sky that I was heard in my little prayer for Oliver. I'm fairly certain he's thinking about me too. All the lakes I'll take him to and the people he will meet and how weird he will think I am as I struggle or dance to solve a design problem.
KNOTTED KNICKERS
Okay but now to the conclusion of the story. The knotted knickers part. (Yes, people really do wear knickers even when the destination is hot pools that emerge from the snowy earth).
When I drove up, the place looked very cozy, as I'd imagined.
As I walked in I was a little surprised by very loud, WalMart style Xmas music, the Motel 6 feeling architecture and the loud voice of a man at the front desk speaking not so nicely to someone on the phone. I checked in for my massage and went to sit down. I didn't know if I would do the pools given the drive back required a little tension. Wet noodles shouldn't get behind the wheel. : )
Anyway, the man on the phone approached me in the waiting room. "You need to pay for the services ahead of time. No pay, no service!" "But I don't know what services I'll want, or what tip I'll leave. It's pretty standard to pay after the services." I had never been asked to pay ahead in a situation like this so I was confused. And he looked mean. "You don't pay, you need to get out" he said. The other man in the waiting room looked at me like he was confused by this man's behavior in a place of holy relaxation.
So I exited. It was hard to get into this place, honestly. It was okay with me. The drive there made the day for me.
As I left he said, "fine but I'm still charging your credit card".
My cell phone had no reception at Hot Sulpher Springs.
So I stopped at a nearby restaurant. A man who looked like he came out of an episode of Twin Peaks approached me. There was 2 people in the restaurant. The pay phone was out of order.
"I need three things, food, a phone and the fastest route back to Boulder".
"Why not eat here?" he said.
"Well, I'm in a rush". I suppose I wanted to find a place with cell phone reception. Not to call anyone in particular but to feel like I wasn't in the Hotel California.
He said "you have 3 minutes on my phone, 3 minutes! After that I will cut you off. I can't do it, do you understand?"
I was wondering at this point if this town was in one of those haunted places reality shows. And now my knickers were starting to seriously knot!
"Okay" I said. I called my credit card company--the one that I used to reserve the massage, but he cut the line just as I was giving them my name. As I left the restaurant I listened hard for that ringing off the hook sound. I wanted to feel a little bad for tying up his line so the experience could be somewhat real. I'm sure that it had happened one day way back, the restaurant was packed, he had call waiting then, and the phone didn't stop.
I stopped and had a glass of wine at a local grill on the way out of town. I chatted with the host about how they made all those animal heads on the wall look so peaceful at the moment of death. How did they do that? Some kind of hunter's version of restorative art. But he wasn't a hunter. He was a peaceful man and we both swallowed hard at the fact of these animals. I told him about Hot Sulpher Springs. He said that I should have impersonated a local. It's true, I had my flourescent orange scarf on and little rose clips in my hair, tall boots and a bright "spoil me at your hotsprings because I'm so tired from work" look on my face.
Context. Context. Context.
The night got better. The stars filled the crevices of the valley's I drove through. The moon made the turbans of white snow look like silver rivers and a man in a local ski pub at Winter Park bought me a cup of coffee and wished me a safe drive home.
***
Dakota? He wasn't sympathetic. 'Serves you right for leaving me in the first place'.
What is a newcomer to do with all that dry skin?
Especially coming from the moistened air of the Pacific Northwest. But it's true, we need to check it at the door at the Boulder Recreation Center!
As I lounged, lizard-like in the cozy dry sauna I recalled my massage therapist at the St. Julien telling me that on one of the Boulder city websites is a long list of the things our tax dollars pay for. One of those things is the open space beyond my backyard. I wonder if one day I'll see exfoliating salons next door to oxygen bars downtown? And this would be added to the long list of things that keep this town vibrant and proud. I'm not complaining. I'm delighted. But I'm still afraid to enter the Unisex bathrooms I see in various places, including bars. Since this isn't an Allie McBeal episode, I'm not quite ready for the real thing.
Some other things I've noticed in my new digs:
Some cafe's don't serve whole milk here. 2 percent or Soy? they say as I order my double late. Whole? I say, curiously. One guy squinted like I said a bad word in front of his child. The whole milk and 1/2 and 1/2 portion of Whole Foods is kind of sad. It's small and the brands are a bit unknown. But I do live near some farms. Maybe I can cut a deal with a farmer. A blog about cows, with cow illustrations for weekly rations of unself-conscious Whole Milk. I love Milk. And this is why I get no sympathy when I complain about not being able to loose that last ten lbs.
And then there is, The Best Of's. Mom and I noticed people had so many best of's to tell us about. The best cafe, the best salsa in town, the best happy hour, sushi...and on.
It's true Boulder is tauted to have the best of many things. And the list that follows is no mockery; right now I believe every word. I've added some of my own 'Best of's':
The Best European Cafe sharing-the-table atmosphere
The Best Happy Hour--too many to list
The Best Lake for Dogs
The Best Feret
The Best Prairie Dog
The Best Muscles
The Best Socks
The Best non-flushable toilet (I made that up)
The Best Rock on The Best Trail with the biggest mountain lion
The Best 'Issue' of the Week
The Best Mindful of Mindless Beginnings and Fearless Endings (My mind has a mind of it's own, I'm trying to demonstrate the Buddhist Calling here).
The Best Emissary of the Arts
The Best Curious Spirit
The Best seeker, evolutionist, mystic, cowboy poet, cowgirl alchemist, internet warrior, change agent of the integration of change
on the whole
planet...
Oh yeah, and the best air too...it smells like a baby's cheek after a lukewarm bath in the atmosphere of the most patient (and best) Mom in the world.
And then there are the animals:
The wildlife issues I haven't gotten a handle on yet. I hear debates about what to do with the mountain lions and bears. And I heard from someone that prairie dogs are being shipped out because they are in the way of baseball games. I'm sure the prairie dogs didn't like their holes being clogged by baseballs either, but I'm sure there's more to this story.
I like the Prairie Dogs:
I was on a mountain bike ride yesterday from my house to Boulder on the Cottonwood Trail (just a few miles on a gorgeous trail along a creek; I honestly can't process how beautiful this place is quite yet) and there were many prairie dogs. They remind me of my rabbits--curious, and so adorable. They look like part seal, part dog and part rat. Anyway, I was talking to them, saying hello, etc. and one of them started wagging it's tail really fast. I was pretty happy about this. I thought it was happy to see me. Then I did a little research on the internet. It turns out they do this when they think there may be a territorial dispute. It's true I'm in my little pink bubble in my first month here. But hey, it's not like reality stalls in getting back to us. So I'll take a few more weeks of the pink bubble.
The Pretty Men:
My Mom and I were walking down the street and she noticed many good looking men about my age. She wondered how it is that I don't see them. My mind was elsewhere like on the fine food and wine. I will say though that as I was swimming at the pool the other day I couldn't help but notice that I was surrounded by stunning, outgoing members of the opposite sex. In fact, I was the only woman in pool. Maybe there should be a registry for the this place...there probably already is.
On Fine Food and Wine:
I'm pretty excited about learning a lot more about food and wine. This town is passionate about it. In fact, there is a blog that is a great read. It's full of knowledge, local experience and culinary inspiration: Culinary Colorado by Claire Walter.
Many things seem possible in Boulder. Well except for accurate predictions on weather. It's hard to be bored here. Everything from Martini manicure outings to passionate politics, art events, blogs, and people who show up on time. Okay, that was a shot at my most recent past in Oregon. But I have to say, it's been great how people are so on top of things here. But Oregon can really predict the weather; sometimes to the hour!
A little about the trip from Oregon to Colorado:
This photo is partially taken from the rear view mirror of the Penske from my camera phone and partially of the Flat Irons. A view from my neighborhood.
For those of you wondering how I made it across Oregon (I already miss everyone. Damn it, I hate this part of moving), Idaho, Wyoming in Colorado in 2 days towing my car in the yellow truck, bunnies by my side? No problem. Well, okay the first hour was hell. I wasn't sure how I'd get through the next 21 hours. I coped by driving fast. I barreled down the highway at 75-80 and waved at other truckers, feeling that trucker pride. The only somewhat scary thing was when an impressed biker asked me to go to the Go-Cart field with him and trolly around in little boxes with engines. I told him I concluded that stage of adventure when I was 8 years old and wished him luck. I was pretty worried about the rabbits and was of course incredibly relieved to get them here.
My home is charming, cozy and so much more than I'm used to. The bunnies are learning to be indoor vs. outdoor and their room is next the art studio. And I'm fascinated by the big yellow tree outside my bedroom window which is now shedding the last of it's leaves and showing it's woody bones to the nearing winter.
I live amongst ponds, lakes, pumpkins, hay, sushi and IBM. An off-beat but charming combination of environmental infrastructure.
So, welcome me home to Colorado because soon you'll be here and I'll be welcoming you as a visitor. I'll be sharing my best of's, the cedar wine cellar, opinionated squirrels and wheat grass brownies. Dakota will be so spoiled by then he won't need me so I'll have to get a dog or tame a coyote or something.
ps: I don't think there is any such thing as wheat grass brownies and yet somehow I wouldn't be surprised if there were. But you'll find mostly culinary adventures without consistency in my home and often without healthy ramifications. Not sure how long I can get away with that here in such a health inspired place--or even want to.
pps: The photos that lead this essay were taken in my neighborhood, mostly at Munsen's Farm where I shopped tonight for squash and sweet corn. To see more photos of the trip, the new house, etc. Click Here.
And if you like reading about place I would also recommend my dear friend of 30+ years Susan in India Blog.
When I hold Dakota the rabbit (can't call him a bunny anymore, it insults his, ahem...masculinity) like a baby, he closes his eyes immediately, his head falls back, long ears drop like honey--this is the Spa for him. You would think ten days hanging out in Santa Fe would leave me looking as structurally limp. But this trip was more about peaking under the covers; taking a big inhale and blowing off the dust to see what 'day to day' Santa Fe is all about.
Since May, I have been traveling from Portland OR to the high desert of Santa Fe NM. I stayed in the gorgeous home of old friends from Ca. who have settled down nicely there. This time I was on my own, as they hiked Yosemite with some friends, mules and their children. I walked their dogs in the Arroyo on their land and made sure the plants and humming birds were nourished.
With each trip to Santa Fe I've become more intrigued not only by the beauty of the place (which is abundant and clear), but by what isn't part of what is marketed as Santa Fe Style. We know about the amazing skies, the light for the painter's palette, the easy airstrip for UFO's (had to get that in there), the burgeoning film industry, and that there are more chakra mechanics per square foot than probably in all of the U.S. And yet this place contains atmosphere and texture that doesn't easily reach our day to day 'news' trained ears.
So enjoy the napkin notes below and I highly recommend a visit to this Shelter in the Sky. It takes no prisoners and generously gives us culture, tradition, color and history.
Lounge Lizards and Cowboy Poets
While at the Santa Fe Bakery and Cafe. I had heard that writers hung out here. I came up to the counter to get my cappuccino, and as I watched a man sipping it before I could get there, another man flew in the door to demand the management boot some people in the front. "Why?" said the employee. "Because they are rude, and abusive". As that scene was flailing about, the man cheered me with my cappuccino that I paid for but never really got. He drank it happily. The man behind the counter was alert. He offered to make me another. As he filled the cup with foam, it overflowed. He said to me, "wait about 10 minutes (Manana time) and it will die down." "That's okay," I said and I walked towards the door forgetting to get my money back. I was too curious about the cafe cowboy scuttle outside.
I guess the writers keep their brain sharpened and creative wit animated with this kind of live daytime television. Instead of men pulling out guns on other men and taking drinks that aren't theirs on the bar, they are asking cafe managers to kick out belligerent teens smoking pot on the patio and taking red haired girls' cappuccino. A more civilized West.
The Spanish Market
I met a wonderful man there trying to sell me a painting (printed) from an old Mexican Painter. The painting was of a figure in fetal position in despair. It was red and dripping sad.
I said, "I can't, it's too sad, and I feel sad things have happened on this land. Like a lot of blood has been shed here." He gave me a long look. "A lot of blood. We are standing on a defeated land, right over there on that block is a Pueblo Graveyard. You should go there and take that in." "I'll probably pass on that for today, if you don't mind." He laughed. We talked for a long time. When he discovered that I'm the 3x's Great Niece of Chief Gall, his conversation enlivened. Then he picked up the art and said to me "You need to take this home." He handed the art to the Mexican artist (what a sweet, sweet man that artist was too) and said to him, "This is Niya Christine, and I can't say enough about her, please sign the art for her."
And so I found myself walking away with a 15.00 piece of art that plants me smack into the middle of something red that is both Spanish and Pueblo Indian and a new friend who works with the Institute of American Indian Arts.
The Land and People
Just like our artists mirror our culture, the winds, bulbous clouds, light show in the sky and the thunder and lightening is mirrored in the emotional atmosphere of this place. But there's more to it.
Shelter is a strong them in NM. The thick Adobe, and eco currents of sustainable earth structures like the Earthship houses (Paul Gutches). Looking back from what Santa Fe is today from what it became--had to become from Spanish influence and conquer. NM was an empty outpost of something forgotten, to be claimed and civilized by the Spanish. The wars, the cold, the empty space of desert was assured of something cozy and protective by use of the earth itself. Geez, this sounds like a term paper : ).
I guess it makes sense to me, how this land with it's warring history and rise to the rhythm of a sophisticated town is filled with houses that look like bumps growing out of the earth itself. And ironically, the visual comfort of the soft earth in the form of shelter can feel rather empty inside given all the hard surfaces; the tile, the copper, the iron. But in Santa Fe the people fill these houses with wool blankets, and clay pots, farllitos candles blanket the town and often the outside of peoples houses in the winter. These luminarias are put there to give the wayward traveler or cow 'the way home'.
When I asked the fifteen hundredth New Yorker I met there (and this was my massage therapist), Why so many New Yorkers here? he said, "Because they're savvy. They know a good thing when they see it." I think about O'keefe's statement about Lake George NY. "It's so green, what does one paint?" Her colors were so pure and shapes often repeated that I would think NM gave her a whole new playground.
The people of S. Fe fascinate me. A hundred opinions a minute it seemed. I kept hearing Madonna in my ear, "This is who I am, like it or not, you can love me or leave me 'cause I'm never gonna stop," as I grazed and encountered these themes in the locals: rebellious, passionate about politics, individual not borrowed thoughts, sometimes frightful isolation, religious/spiritual enthusiasm and purpose.
Me
By the time I left I felt as though I needed the Spiritual ICU ward that the town provided. My heart, head, body and soul had a wee bit of a workout.
I wanted to hitch the next UFO out of there and have a strong Vodka and Tonic with little androgynous looking people peering at me like a specimen. Because that's exactly how I felt. Small, in wild winds and the eery predictability of the thunder and lightening.
Small in my comprehension of such political and cultural complexity and earth bearing gifts.
But, ah how good it is to feel knocked sideways by things you don't understand--a force with stories in wings that give you their tethered weight and then picks you up and carrie you into a sky and makes your whole body weep.
• • •
I tried to explain these things to Dakota and Caila but they get really busy when they're annoyed with me (which they were for leaving them for 10 days). They both launched into major ear cleaning as I yammered on about the lizards, jack rabbits, coyotes, crickets, huge ants, hummingbirds, sunflowers, chili rasberry jam...
She owned a restaurant in the desert that had copper kites pinned to the walls like flies to dried up lemonade. There were other things too that filled the room. Couples sat at low-lit tables and three chefs had the same hairdo; stiff little Mohican waves that curl at the tip.
She’d been here longer than she expected. She’d purchased the restaurant, a home, and a pure bred Irish Setter. She bit her nails and soaked her feet every night after work.
What had she left behind for the high altitude and ancient, dying Junipers?
The south wall of the restaurant turned a silvery claret while a woman having dinner put her wedding ring down on the table in front of the man across from her. He held the empty finger and massaged it; his expression, slightly bored but tender.
In the kitchen, she prepped the powdered milk for the next day and picked out a fallen black hair. The silky powder slid down the bowl like a ski bum's dream. The smell... that wanting to be real and whole smell, the silky texture of the powder; how it looked like it could be something its not.
She asked chef number 2 to finish the milk and takes Jake, the Setter for a walk in time with the closing desert light. A scrawny fox dashed into the sage brush as Jake bumbled out the back door of the kitchen. Sounds began to unwrap her thoughts like unopened cans.
Her husband waited for her in the yellow Chevy.
The woman from the restaurant walked towards her car. Jake ran to her, excited and familiar. She stood in between the Chevy, Jake, the woman and watches in slow motion as the woman repeated a gesture she had known for how long? weeks? days? months?, and touches Jake’s muzzle--he licked her hand.
The lake was almost invisible with so much dust and moving panoramas of clouds--sky drama. It was hard for her to hold still; to see it. But she stared with hope hearing the reassuring tinkle of burro bells nearby. Her husband approached now. She let the noise of his guilt fall past her ears to the prickly pear cactus as she'd asked him for the keys.
She called Jake, not looking at the woman. They got in the beat up Chevy and drove. The mesas to the right of her reached towards the distance; the fluted clefts the color of indigo, vermillion, the surfaces as orange as Jake’s coat. They drove until the grey cliffs and speckled sage consumed her in a delicate but intense invitation.
It won’t be long now.
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Flash Fiction by Niya Cristine.
See Curly Red Stories for a showcase of F L A S H F I C T I O N
Santa Fe: They said that my hair blends with the environment; the red adobe, amber church bells, and complex curling clouds. I said, 'well then I'll go home and get a U-Haul.' There are worse things in life than belonging to a place where the winds have the power to lift you from the sidewalk and the Margaritas' are so good you wished you were an alcoholic.
As I stood waiting for Anne Russelle to pick me up at Zele's cafe, the sky was making all kinds of belching and bumbling sounds, like it had something large and important to let go of. No matter the little people underneath. I sipped my double latte; my welcome to Santa Fe 'on the house' coffee from the cute, loud, wild and flirty cafe guy. He wanted to return to PDX, he liked the music scene here better. But I could hear this music, it sank into my spine; it tickled my teeth.
I was so excited to see Anne after many years, but this scene was so good I had hoped she got chatty with someone in whole foods to slow her down. It turns out the butcher puts on a good show for her. He likes her. I think he may like her a lot. But she's a married woman. That's why it's good to have butchers. They're safe. They stay behind the glass, they handle meat while flirting with married women. This should be a social requirement.
Um, I diverge. I was about to tell you about the seductive powers of the desert not butchers.
As we drive the next day to town; Anne and I, I'm struck by how the sun seems to hit the pinions and sage from all sides. How shade is subtle and almost un-find-able.
The moon and the earth seem close, even in the day; the sun, delicate and intense. I like the sting on my skin.
Close to the skin is how NM feels. Thunder storms that crackle through your thoughts while the crisp air makes the sound of voices and music easy on the ear. And who needs to read books on the magical realism in the desert, when the stories happen effortlessly in the night and on the stage of peoples dreams.
Water sounds like music there. It stands out. It has a history of being popular, wanted, fought over like an Italian Courtesan. It's precious, it even seems to taste better. But I'm sure that's something about the fear of it getting in a bad mood and it leaving altogether.
Dakota doesn't get it though when I tell him about all the jack rabbits. How they hit the garden champagne of the front yard. He thinks that any rabbit with ears straight up is just plain uncool; vulnerabilities of alertness and distrust exposed. Ears that flop about while being scared out one's wits is Dakota's version the English upper lip. And the only thing close to his skin these hot days is rabbit fur and he's just a little grumpy about that!
