Santa Fe was less interesting than I had thought. The place has a lot of history but it doesn’t feel alive. Too many art galleries and souvenir shops, almost to the exclusion of everything else.
In the evening, on the way to a bar, my wive and I walked past the downtown convention center. An event had just ended, and a stream of formally dressed older men and women left the building. We peeked into the vast hall built in the local style they were coming from. A banner on one end announced that a Los Alamos National Laboratories award ceremony had just taken place. The attendees got into Uber rides or their own cars. Within minutes, the convention center and the street in front of it was deserted apart from us and a few men who started tidying up. It was just eight o’clock, yet nobody stayed for drinks or an after-party. It’d have been different in the Bay Area.
In the morning, we went to Pecos valley. We didn’t bring water or snacks, and on the way back, we stopped in the impoverished town of Pecos, which as ugly as the valley above it is beautiful. There’s a Dollar General, several houses with junk-filled front yards and a gas station. The gas station store was empty apart from an ancient lady behind the cash register and in front of it a disheveled man buying lottery tickets. As we entered, I eyed him to make sure he was harmless. We got some ice cream and water and walked up to the register. The man turned around and shook our hands, introducing himself as the mayor of Pecos. He didn’t look the part. Within a few seconds, he told us that he was running for re-election and that he was a veteran, recovering drug user and alcoholic and was battling with a brain tumor. He was in full campaign mode and that we were from out of town didn’t matter. Him being mayor seemed so unlikely that I glanced at the lady behind the counter to see if she’d roll her eyes or otherwise indicate that he was lying, but she kept a straight face. I mentioned that I had seen the campaign signs outside the gas station and he seemed happy that I had noticed.
Another evening, we went to a steakhouse in the suburbs of Santa Fe. They seated us at a table for two at one end of the restaurant. A lot of the rest of the space was occupied by a table seating a large Hispanic family of twenty. At least they looked Hispanic but spoke accent-free American English. At the far end of the table sat the matriarch, a tiny woman with striking features whose 80th birthday was being celebrated. The respect paid to her by her family, possibly combined with a little fear, was obvious. To her right, what I assumed to be a daughter-in-law refilled her glass and served as a go-between for the waiter. To her left sat a handsome grandson wearing a cowboy shirt and a belt with a large buckle. He was clearly her favorite. The scene made me feel it was showing me something about New Mexico that a visit to a museum or reading history book couldn’t have.
Nehaveigur 