I woke at dawn with a parched mouth, dreams scattering like wisps of smoke. The night air was cool and dry, and much to my dismay my mind grew increasingly clear. I reached for the water glass on the bedside table and he stirred, shifting one leg on top of mine. My body froze, half turned, quietly reluctant.
Things are different in New Mexico. Maybe it’s the air, or the sun, or the woody scent of junipers carried on the wind. Maybe it’s the spicy chiles and the open terrain dotted with the suddenness of flat-topped mesas. You could be driving on one of them and never realize it until the descent, when rocky cliffs rise up around you and vast plains open up underneath the road, populated with cottonwood trees cloudy with their tiny branches, encircled by the snow capped mountains afar. It was sunset when we made our return trip from Taos. I watched as the sun settled behind the clouds and sent forth its last rays from beyond the horizon. The sky was heart-breakingly tender with the color of blue-grey-purple, except for the western nest of the sun which was burning up in bright orange and red. We drove on in silence. Me not wanting to speak a single word other than to feel the force of that burning vision deep in my heart.
The GPS showed large chunks of blank. “There is nothing here.” Just vast, beautiful, dramatic, open land.
We took leisurely strolls through town. It was small and quaint. One could walk from one end to the other of downtown Santa Fe in 20 minutes. Convenient and charming. We were each separately fascinated by the adobe houses, their angles and curves, their straight line and smooth roundness, their yellow solidity of hardened mud, their square cut-out windows and long protruding beams. We visited the churches and took pictures of crucifixes and stairs. We bargained with Indian sellers of pottery and silver underneath the awning of the Palace of the Governors. We bought tamales and chicken and beef fajitas off of a food cart on the plaza and wolfed them down on the benches, accompanied by an easy sun and spring breeze.
The Georgia O’Keefe Museum was worth the visit. It featured two biopics and numerous quotes from the artist alongside a rotating exhibition. A few paraphrased quotes: “I’m bad with words. I cannot write about my paintings. So I would rather people not read about them either.” and “I do not paint what I see. I paint what I feel.” and “I see colors and shapes. Some artists don’t have that and it makes them sad. I have it and I can’t get rid of it if I tried.” and “The world gave me so many wonderful things. My paintings are what I have to give back to world.”
Thus armed with a false sense of familiarity, I looked at her paintings and imagined that I knew how she felt. I thought I saw passion and love in her gigantic yet intimate flowers from the 20’s. But strong emotions translated into serenity and openness in her New Mexico landscapes. A skull and a flower, the White Place and the Black Place, that’s what the desert is to her. What’s the desert to me?
We hung out with our friend P, a fellow escapee from the former communist block, who arrived at this country with 60 dollars to his name and proceeded to carve out a piece of material luxury all his own; a self proclaimed misanthrope who hates all people equally; a urologist living with two cats and two pistols and who just purchased a 30-06 rifle capable of killing large animals at considerable distance; a practicing alcoholic who drinks himself into a stupor every night, rain or shine; a man of slight physical stature but incredible agility and strength; an excellent rock climber, an avid skier, a lover of sports, sports gear, and sports cars; an asshole by any standard, who alternately attempts to chase other people off the road in his fiery red Audi and baits others to chase him off the road on his fiery red Ducati, who cuts off angry middle-aged Vail ski bunnies at high speed and then proceeds to call them cunt while explaining the rules of the slope. We love P.
We went skiing at Taos. Or rather we slushed. The sun shined brightly overhead and we almost wanted to strip down to t-shirts. The mountains were ashamedly bare, yet icy unyielding moguls dominated the slopes. We skied for a half day and finished off with carne asada and tacos at Guadalajara Cafe on the outskirts of town. We went hiking at Bandelier, visiting aboriginal caves, following the Falls trail next to the Rio Grande, discovering putrid carcasses of feral cattle along the way.
The evenings were the best part, whether enjoying the sunset on the porch, tequila in hand, or sitting in a Japanese bath house looking at the stars through the slatted bamboo roof. The wind, gentle or insistent, carried the woody scent of juniper and sagebrush, or so I guessed. On the last day we watched the sunset next to a gigantic clanking white iron cross and dined underneath brightly colored paper cut flags at Cafe Pasqual’s. We walked home under an inverted sky, hair tossing about in the wind, holding hands, yet all the time alone under the bright belt of Orion.