Yes, yes, I know it’s San Jose, but we’re not heading to California, but Santa Fe’, NM. The interesting thing about starting our Taos, frosty morning is that it was not cold. Took a lady selling T-Shirts to inform us that the lack of humidity made it feel warmer. I was thinking thin air, not so cold? The other interesting thing is that you are instantly reminded of how much of “New” Mexico, Arizona, Nevada and California was once Mexico. And certainly everything here is Mexican. The people … Juan and Juanita, the places … Adobe and Pueblo, the food … Mexican, Mexican or Mexican. Good thing that I like Mexican cuisine, but this is not the “authentic” Mexican food of Fiesta Mexicana in Hammonton, NJ. Let’s just say it’s a tad spicy, both today and tomorrow … if you get my drift.
The morning also realized the imminent end of this long journey. The relocube will be delivered Monday, two heavies for two hours will arrive Tuesday to help unload, assemble and stage. So we planned out this road trips conclusion negotiating and bartering back and forth like card players … “I’ll give you Grand Canyon if we see the Painted Desert” or “I’ll concede Albuquerque balloon rides for Antelope Canyon and Sedona”.
Taos, tucked into the Sangre de Christo Range is rich in original art, handmade jewelry, uncommon fabrics, unusual clothing within an adobe string of coffee shops and restaurants along Paseo del Pueblo Norte and Paseo del Pueblo Sur. But we found Taos, well … Taos felt tired. Despite it’s beautiful surroundings there is so much obvious poverty and apathy. Not a yard maintained, a shrub cut back, not a weed pulled nor a rose bush pruned. Everything left as first Winter frost intended. We witnessed a plethora of the misdirected, the ethereal, the lost, the confused, the distracted. And I don’t mean the artistic community. The many unwashed, unshaven, unemployed men with bed rolls and backpacks hanging around or hitch hiking. The pallor of the people informed us that the we weren’t the only Americans battered and bruised by two bitter Winters and one stifling Summer.
The road to Santa Fe’ cut South through rocky slopes, pimpled with Pinyon Pines and wiggled along side the Rio Grande. First turn was the Georgia O’ Keeffe Museum of Santa Fe’ fame … or is Santa Fe’ famed for Georgia O’ Keeffe? Both are so intertwined and inseparable. I’ll confess that I was mostly ignorant of her work, but, if I had seen her early 1920s, 1930s “art” I would have believed it was the product of a slow child. A child to be encouraged perhaps, but a child nonetheless. This strangely plain and masculine woman fixated by all things feminine, soft and round. But, our journey through the Mid-West and South West, Palo Dura Canyon, lonely mountain roads and Taos seemed to be preparation and a preamble to appreciating O’ Keeffe’s work. The same observations of geology types and strata, of pinks and purples, mauves and yellows, reds and terracottas. Landscapes that called to her as it called to us. This slow spiral to reach it’s epicenter. Finally, it felt like I was coming home.
Received a text from APS, (Arizona Power Supply), which I first thought was gobble-de-gook spam, to let me know that my power was on with instructions to flip the main switch. Interesting that they assumed that I text. Glad of it though. Phoenix beckons. http://gerre.smugmug.com/Other/Road-Trip-Day-11/16159277_imWeW#1213331006_YhqWn