I've been in the Denver, Colorado area for a few days, drinking up a storm. Not alcohol, mind you. Water, water and more water, with an occasional soda, fruit juice, and tea or decaffeinated coffee thrown in for good measure. Proper hydration is the main way to avoid altitude sickness, the result of moving to a higher altitude too quickly. Denver is a mile high. Despite guzzling half a gallon of water beginning with my arrival Thursday morning, I spent the first afternoon mildly disoriented and nauseous, finally venturing out at around 5pm to visit the Art Students League of Denver, followed by dinner at Tacos y Salsas, one of the city’s best rated taquerias. Yup, they were good and I’m glad I finished my meal before sunset. The neighborhood would not have been so appealing in the dark.
Within one day I felt fairly well adjusted. I continued to drink. That allowed me to enjoy a full day of activity on Friday: driving to Boulder to meet a college friend for lunch, meeting with artists at one of Boulder’s largest studio buildings and getting an impromptu tour of the space, enjoying a quick stroll in the city’s pedestrian mall and chatting with the owner of Blink Gallery, and finally spending Shabbat at Flagstaff park with the Adventure Rabbi before hopping in my car and returning to Denver.
On Saturday I went northwest to Lyons, CO for their artist open studio tour. The first place I stopped had the art work – including large metal and wood sculptures, oil paintings and fused glass – strategically placed around a huge yard bordered by a river with a steep red cliff in the background. The setting was stunning and the art was able to hold its own. Further down the road, an artist had created nearly everything in her own home: contemporary wood furniture, lamps created from metal pipes, outdoor mosaic sculptures, including five enormous mosaiced eggs carefully placed atop a rocky outcrop in her back yard, and several mosaic animals in the front yard. None of them were for sale. I envied that she created them purely for her own enjoyment. Returning to Denver I made my way to an even more obscurely located taqueria outside of Denver proper. Apparently it used to be a lunch truck and has since turned into a “restaurant”. Located in a non-descript small strip mall in Denver’s exurbs, Tacos D.F. served up very authentic tacos de barbacoa (lamb). I was in heaven, in the middle of nowhere. That night I had ambitions to check out Denver’s tango scene, but even my constant hydration wasn’t enough to fend off fatigue. I called it quits in order to get up early for a hike on Sunday.
The hike, organized by Mosaic (a Jewish outdoors club), was in nearby Jefferson County Park and promised an elevation gain of 1,400 feet. I was wondering how I’d do, given that I’d only been in Denver two days, but I figured it was worth a shot. It turns out I had nothing to worry about and I was able to keep pace with the fastest folks in the group, two women from Colorado, one of whom hikes every week. We zipped ahead and even took a longer route back.
“Altitude, shmaltitude!” I thought. I could handle anything.
Fast forward to Monday, where my cocky attitude about altitude nearly killed me. Perhaps I exaggerate, or not. My college friend suggested that I drive up to Mt. Evans, elevation 14,270 feet, to get a stunning view of the Rocky Mountains. I called to make sure the road was open, and, it was. The cheerful woman on the phone advised me to drink continuously to avoid altitude sickness. I loaded my car with a gallon of water, bottles of limeade and green tea, fruit, cheese, chocolate for snacks, and warm clothing for the summit, which the park employee said was a "nearly tropical" 47 degrees. En route to Mt. Evans I stopped near Idaho Springs to get a decaffeinated coffee. I figured I’d drink more if I could entertain my palate with a variety of beverages – so there I was, sipping coffee, then water, then limeade, then water, then coffee. At every rest stop and ranger station along the way up, I stopped to pee. And that is how it is supposed to be, to avoid getting altitude sickness.
I was doing fine up until Summit Lake Park, which is just four miles from the top of Mt. Evans. I got out of the car to walk to the lake and photograph it. At that point the temperature was quite cool and I noticed that the curvy mountain road that I had been slowly ascending was getting narrower and curvier, literally disappearing into thin air as it rose from the lake toward the summit. A very quiet voice in my head told me to stop there, at Summit Lake, and appreciate the spectacular views of snowy mountains, Alpine lakes, pine trees and magnificent clouds that I had already enjoyed. How much more beauty did I need to see, and was it worth starting to feel disoriented?
But I was so close to the top. Why not keep going? There were some good reasons to stay put. I’ve been at high altitude before, in Peru, and even with several days of acclimatization I had trouble hiking at such lofty heights and had to stop to catch my breath after each step. That was when I was on foot, not steering a heavy vehicle. And I was tired, so not as alert as one would want to be.
I could have stopped at Summit Lake. But instead I listened to the same chorus of voices that often urge me to go to the top, to finish what I start, to see all that there is to see, to do what others are doing. I slowly chugged up the mountain. As the air kept thinning, my head kept spinning disastrous scenarios: What if I were to get nauseous and disoriented, accidentally apply too much pressure to the gas pedal and fly over the edge, Thelma and Louise style? Or what if I got to the top, got sick, and couldn’t drive myself back down?
Making a U-turn was clearly impossible. I had to figure out how to get to the top without freaking out at every hairpin turn and, possibly, causing an accident. One helpful voice in my head tried to point out that this road, unlike the highways in New Mexico, was not decorated with crosses marking the scenes of fatal accidents. There was a good chance that I, too, would survive. If only I could stay calm.
Focus on your breath, I told myself. And don’t look at the scenery. Look only at the asphalt immediately in front of you and steer accordingly. Watching my breath wasn’t enough to stop the fearful fantasies. I started to chant my favorite Hebrew prayers, figuring that might help me keep going, or at least would land me in heaven if I were to miss a turn.
By the time I arrived to the parking lot at the top I felt in my body just how utterly terrified I had been. Luckily I made it to the toilet on time.
But the parking lot wasn’t the tippity top – one could hike up a rocky trail to see even more spectacular views. A woman I had met at one of the rest areas told me she had seen mountain goats at the top. I wanted to see the mountain goats, but I didn't want to get sick in the process. There were lots of people climbing the trail, laughing and talking, enjoying this peak experience.
“Why not give it a try?” asked the voices in my head.
“You can do it!” they urged.
This time, I told the voices, "Fuck off!"
I was not going to climb the trail.
I was not going to go to the very top.
I was not going to see the goats.
I was going to get myself to a lower altitude before I got myself in serious trouble.
I changed footgear – swapping my hiking boots for sandals, the better to feel the pedals with - got back in my car, shifted into the lowest gear, and began what I feared would be an equally harrowing descent. At the second hairpin turn I pulled over to the side of the road to let other vehicles pass. At the slightly lower altitude I felt a bit better and I decided to get out and enjoy the view. There were four mountain goats grazing nearby, their thick white coats had already started to shed. Perhaps my prayers had worked – I got my goats after all. One of them walked within a few feet of me, completely unperturbed. I asked another visitor to photograph me with the goats in the background – I barely recognized my voice, probably I still was not getting enough oxygen.
Returning to Summit Lake I pulled into the parking area there; it was time for a bathroom break. Walking toward the Alpine Potty I started to cry. I couldn’t tell if the tears were of relief at having made it back down to a safer elevation or of frustration at having put myself at risk for no good reason. Perhaps both.
With both of my feet firmly on the ground, I felt profoundly grateful to be alive. I didn’t burst into a Hallelujah but I did thank the park employee for cleaning the toilets. He looked surprised.
As I descended to the saner altitude of Idaho Springs, a mere 7,250 feet above sea level, I realized that nothing that happens next in my life – including the probability of a long distance move – will be nearly as overwhelming as the visceral fear I experienced today. And I felt extremely humbled by the consequences of not listening to the quiet voice within. In this instance, it was trying to protect my body. Usually, it is trying to safeguard my soul. And very often I ignore it.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Invasion, Industriousness, Indictment
Ants have invaded my apartment. These industrious insects have climbed up and clambered into my 3rd floor abode, making themselves a little too at home. At first I just noticed a handful of ants scampering about and I let them go about their business. They weren't harming me so why should I harm them? But then their numbers started to grow, as did my irritation, especially when I noticed several of them slumbering in my cat's food dish. Perhaps the ants had overindulged on tuna fish and were enjoying a siesta?
It was time to retaliate. I tossed the food, avec ants, now scrambling in a panic, into the trash. A few of them managed to extricate themselves from the metal garbage can before the lid banged shyt. Placing the now empty cat dish into the sink, I noticed a few ants checking out the scene. Were they an indictment of my less than immaculate housekeeping, a reminder to not leave any dirty dishes in the sink for even a moment?
Meanwhile, my cat roused herself from a nap and was suprised to find that her dish had disappeared. I put a small amount of tuna in a fresh bowl, hoping she'd finish it before the next wave of ants discovered it. She has licked it clean. If only she had an appetite for ants.
It was time to retaliate. I tossed the food, avec ants, now scrambling in a panic, into the trash. A few of them managed to extricate themselves from the metal garbage can before the lid banged shyt. Placing the now empty cat dish into the sink, I noticed a few ants checking out the scene. Were they an indictment of my less than immaculate housekeeping, a reminder to not leave any dirty dishes in the sink for even a moment?
Meanwhile, my cat roused herself from a nap and was suprised to find that her dish had disappeared. I put a small amount of tuna in a fresh bowl, hoping she'd finish it before the next wave of ants discovered it. She has licked it clean. If only she had an appetite for ants.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Intense Itinerary
Travel brings out the maniac in me.
I just returned from a few days in Santa Fe, New Mexico one of the more laid-back cities in the United States and where, with the exception of my first afternoon, I hardly sat still. I wasn't prepared for the high altitude, the dry heat and the constant sun, and I spent Friday afternoon, after I arrived, recovering from the journey and hydrating with water I had picked up at Trader Joe's which, unlike its New England brethren, was amply stocked with foods and snacks boasting habanero and chipotle. Still a bit disoriented that evening, I put on some fresh clothes to attend services at Temple Beth Shalom, a reform congregation in Santa Fe. The prayers and singing grounded me and I received a warm welcome from congregants, many of whom were transplanted East coasters. None of them regretted their decision to move to the southwest.
There are endless shops, galleries, restaurants, cafes and museums in Santa Fe, but I wanted very little of it. I had a tremendous and surprising urge to hit the open road, to drive and drive and drive, to soak up the scenery and to experience the stillness of the desert and the mountains, to be embraced by the very big sky. In the next three days I put more than 500 miles on my rental car. My first trip was up the High Road to Taos, stopping at the Sanctuario de Chimayo and the art villages of Cordova and Truchas along the way. Truchas is home to many fine artists and their distinctive galleries that occupy old churches, adobe homes and other spaces. Truchas has a general store, most of its shelves empty save a few cans of Dinty Moore stew, and no gas station. One artist couple has created a tea room, where I sat outside and had lunch, but other than that the village does not have much of a gathering place. The air was so clean, the mountain vistas so serene, the quiet so intense, that I fantasized about one day joining this intrepid group of dreamers who support themselves through their art, selling it to visitors who journey up from Santa Fe. In winter time, when the tourists stop coming, this community gets together to ski.
Truchas felt authentic whereas Taos - filled with more galleries, shops and cafes - felt too touristy. I didn't have the patience to look and linger, preferring to head back to Santa Fe along Route 68, which took me past mountains and the roaring Rio Grande. A man was selling roasted pinon nuts out of the back of his bright red pickup truck; tempted, I pulled over. He gave me some to sample and then told me that the small bag was $10, the larger bag $20. Ten dollars? I thanked him but decided to move on. He was amiable and relaxed about it, no hard feelings, no attempt at a hard sell.
That evening - Saturday - I returned to Santa Fe and to the adobe casita I rented just a few blocks from the center of town. Coming from the northeast, where I depend on skylights and large windows to let as much light as possible into my dwelling space, it was strange to stay in a building designed to keep the light and heat out. Inside it was cool and dark, offering cavelike protection from the sun, which shone intensely from the time it rose, probably before 6a.m., up until it set, at around 8:30pm. It seemed as if a single day of Santa Fa sunshine was the lumen equivalent of a month's worth of Boston rays. My brain felt supercharged.
It was time for an evening stroll in town. A co-ed mariachi band trumpeted and strummed in the plaza. A few of the musicians had blonde hair. This was clearly New Mexico, not Mexico. I poked my head into a few restaurants before coming across The Shed, a bustling restaurant with one of my favorite dishes, fish tacos, on the menu. There was an hour wait for a table so I took a seat at the bar. The food was tasty but not as heavenly, nor as inexpensive, as the fish tacos I discovered in Oakland, CA last August, served from a truck near one of the freeways. But the atmosphere was hip and happening and from my perch at the bar I could observe the flow of cocktails, food and people. A taciturn biker sat next to me at the bar and ordered without looking at the menu; clearly the place was a favorite among locals. Then a very blonde Canadian woman, navigating the tight seating, mounted a bar stool as if she were getting on a horse. She landed next to the biker. Her arrival animated him, and he told us about Gabriel's, another good restaurant, just outside of town. I finished my meal and bid my farewell to this
Sunday morning was cowgirl time. I drove south to Cerrillos, home of Broken Saddle Ranch, where I joined a small group horseback ride in the dusty state park in former mining country. I told the organizer my riding abilities included cantering, which I hoped was still the case. A bit nervous at first, I failed to convince my horse, Zane, that I really did want to canter, and so while the other horses sped on ahead he trotted a bit before slowing to a walk, testing my resolve. The leader moved us into the middle of the pack and gave me some pointers, and with my newfound decisiveness we were soon cantering up a storm, just like in Bonanza.
After the ride it was off to Madrid (pronounced MAD-rid), an artist colony and biker mecca a few miles south of Cerrillos. Woodstock in the desert is one way of describing the vibe of this place, a hodgepodge of shops, restaurants and galleries featuring offbeat art. One of my fellow riders had recommended a restaurant called Mama Lisa's, a small cafe in the middle of this small town. I sat on the patio and chatted with Rick, a friendly blonde and bearded native New Mexican who lives up in the hills, gets by with occasional repair work and doesn't have a credit card. Doesn't believe in them. He doesn't like banks much, either, although he told me he does have an ATM card and a one year old grandchild who, like his own son, was born on father's day. And he had recently taken a 6,000 mile road trip in a car bought especially for that purpose, driving from New Mexico to West Point and back again. Then an acquaintance of his sat down and, while I devoured a barbeque brisket sandwich, I overheard them chatting about their friends...a very matter of fact conversation about who is sobering up and who has outstanding DWI offenses. I got the impression that both men have had their own struggles with substance abuse; fairly common in that part of the country.
In a bit of a stupor from the heat and my lunch of red meat, I drove back to Santa Fe to visit the Museum of International Folk Art, which houses an astonishingly large collection of colorful handmade objects from around the world. There were too many things to see. Suffering from circuit overload, I abandoned the museum and headed into the center of town to check out Canyon Road, a street filled with high end art galleries and boutiques. After New York, it is the second most important art market in the United States. Wandering up the street, the sounds of live music lured me into Gallery Esteban, the eponymous space of Esteban the guitarist. Apparently he is quite well known and he was performing free of charge to a mostly local audience in the graveled courtyard behind his gallery, offering refreshments to all. I sat down, soaking up the sounds and enjoying a few moments of stillness.
By the time the concert ended most of the other galleries had closed, a situation for which I was glad. There was simply too much to look at and having fewer choices made my life easier. One gallery I ventured into featured the bold graphic work of Carole LaRoche, a woman who moved to Santa Fe from Boston in her mid-40s and began creating art full time. Twenty-five years later she has her own thriving gallery in a hot location. Her website doesn't really do her work justice - I was particular taken with her large pastel drawings of wolves.
That night I went to sleep early, planning to get up the next day and go hiking in a nearby forest. Nearby as in 10-15 minutes by car. Such proximity felt like a luxury. On Monday I started out before 9am and tried to find a trail that was labeled as "moderate", a 4-mile route down to a creek and back. Although I missed the trailhead, a fox crossed the road just a few feet in front of my car. Spotting wildlife always feels somewhat magical. And I ended up at another trail, which wound its way through a pine forest. At a trail juncture, a map was posted on a wooden sign, and an arrow pointing to the location said, "You are here. Breathe deeply". I did. The crisp pine-scented air was pure peace.
A quick shower and I was off to see the Georgia O'Keeffe museum, which had an exhibit, Natural Affinities, on her work and that of Ansel Adams. It was smaller than I had expected, both the museum and the exhibit, and before long I was in my car again, heading to Gabriel's for lunch. It was supposed to be one of the better restaurants in the area, boasting of a Zagat rating from 2001, and I figured I would give it a try. I ordered steak tacos which were well prepared but didn't launch me into tastebud heaven. Perhaps my time in Mexico spoiled me. A couple at another table were using an electronic pipette to mix two wines in different percentages, savoring the resulting blends. Note to self: Buy a pipette and try this at home.
After lunch I headed off to Abiquiu, home to Georgia O'Keeffe and the source of her inspiration. Unlike the mountainous road to Taos and the dusty hills of Cerrillos, the highway to Abiquiu is flanked by red and striped cliffs and rock formations on one side, green pastures on the other. Several times I stopped my car to take photographs and to revel in the stillness and the silence of these majestic open and somewhat empty spaces. For a moment I envied Rick, the man I met in Madrid, and his 6,000 mile cross country adventure. The highway beckoned.
Somewhat sadly, I turned around and headed back to Santa Fe for my final evening there. It was Monday, and the town was essentially shuttered, most restaurants and shops closed. I was in bed by 9pm and got up early Tuesday morning to go hiking again before returning home. I found the trail I missed the first time and was rewarded by the sight of a stag emerging from the woods.
En route to the airport, I stopped at the Kakawa Chocolate Company for a tastebud tingling Aztec brownie, a potent creation featuring generous amounts of chili pepper, cinnamon and dark chocolate. At Trader Joe's I popped in to buy a sandwich for the plane trip then sped the final 55 miles to Albuquerque, watching both the speedometer and the clock and returning my rental car two minutes before the 12pm deadline.
I did say that travel brings out the maniac in me, didn't I?
I just returned from a few days in Santa Fe, New Mexico one of the more laid-back cities in the United States and where, with the exception of my first afternoon, I hardly sat still. I wasn't prepared for the high altitude, the dry heat and the constant sun, and I spent Friday afternoon, after I arrived, recovering from the journey and hydrating with water I had picked up at Trader Joe's which, unlike its New England brethren, was amply stocked with foods and snacks boasting habanero and chipotle. Still a bit disoriented that evening, I put on some fresh clothes to attend services at Temple Beth Shalom, a reform congregation in Santa Fe. The prayers and singing grounded me and I received a warm welcome from congregants, many of whom were transplanted East coasters. None of them regretted their decision to move to the southwest.
There are endless shops, galleries, restaurants, cafes and museums in Santa Fe, but I wanted very little of it. I had a tremendous and surprising urge to hit the open road, to drive and drive and drive, to soak up the scenery and to experience the stillness of the desert and the mountains, to be embraced by the very big sky. In the next three days I put more than 500 miles on my rental car. My first trip was up the High Road to Taos, stopping at the Sanctuario de Chimayo and the art villages of Cordova and Truchas along the way. Truchas is home to many fine artists and their distinctive galleries that occupy old churches, adobe homes and other spaces. Truchas has a general store, most of its shelves empty save a few cans of Dinty Moore stew, and no gas station. One artist couple has created a tea room, where I sat outside and had lunch, but other than that the village does not have much of a gathering place. The air was so clean, the mountain vistas so serene, the quiet so intense, that I fantasized about one day joining this intrepid group of dreamers who support themselves through their art, selling it to visitors who journey up from Santa Fe. In winter time, when the tourists stop coming, this community gets together to ski.
Truchas felt authentic whereas Taos - filled with more galleries, shops and cafes - felt too touristy. I didn't have the patience to look and linger, preferring to head back to Santa Fe along Route 68, which took me past mountains and the roaring Rio Grande. A man was selling roasted pinon nuts out of the back of his bright red pickup truck; tempted, I pulled over. He gave me some to sample and then told me that the small bag was $10, the larger bag $20. Ten dollars? I thanked him but decided to move on. He was amiable and relaxed about it, no hard feelings, no attempt at a hard sell.
That evening - Saturday - I returned to Santa Fe and to the adobe casita I rented just a few blocks from the center of town. Coming from the northeast, where I depend on skylights and large windows to let as much light as possible into my dwelling space, it was strange to stay in a building designed to keep the light and heat out. Inside it was cool and dark, offering cavelike protection from the sun, which shone intensely from the time it rose, probably before 6a.m., up until it set, at around 8:30pm. It seemed as if a single day of Santa Fa sunshine was the lumen equivalent of a month's worth of Boston rays. My brain felt supercharged.
It was time for an evening stroll in town. A co-ed mariachi band trumpeted and strummed in the plaza. A few of the musicians had blonde hair. This was clearly New Mexico, not Mexico. I poked my head into a few restaurants before coming across The Shed, a bustling restaurant with one of my favorite dishes, fish tacos, on the menu. There was an hour wait for a table so I took a seat at the bar. The food was tasty but not as heavenly, nor as inexpensive, as the fish tacos I discovered in Oakland, CA last August, served from a truck near one of the freeways. But the atmosphere was hip and happening and from my perch at the bar I could observe the flow of cocktails, food and people. A taciturn biker sat next to me at the bar and ordered without looking at the menu; clearly the place was a favorite among locals. Then a very blonde Canadian woman, navigating the tight seating, mounted a bar stool as if she were getting on a horse. She landed next to the biker. Her arrival animated him, and he told us about Gabriel's, another good restaurant, just outside of town. I finished my meal and bid my farewell to this
Sunday morning was cowgirl time. I drove south to Cerrillos, home of Broken Saddle Ranch, where I joined a small group horseback ride in the dusty state park in former mining country. I told the organizer my riding abilities included cantering, which I hoped was still the case. A bit nervous at first, I failed to convince my horse, Zane, that I really did want to canter, and so while the other horses sped on ahead he trotted a bit before slowing to a walk, testing my resolve. The leader moved us into the middle of the pack and gave me some pointers, and with my newfound decisiveness we were soon cantering up a storm, just like in Bonanza.
After the ride it was off to Madrid (pronounced MAD-rid), an artist colony and biker mecca a few miles south of Cerrillos. Woodstock in the desert is one way of describing the vibe of this place, a hodgepodge of shops, restaurants and galleries featuring offbeat art. One of my fellow riders had recommended a restaurant called Mama Lisa's, a small cafe in the middle of this small town. I sat on the patio and chatted with Rick, a friendly blonde and bearded native New Mexican who lives up in the hills, gets by with occasional repair work and doesn't have a credit card. Doesn't believe in them. He doesn't like banks much, either, although he told me he does have an ATM card and a one year old grandchild who, like his own son, was born on father's day. And he had recently taken a 6,000 mile road trip in a car bought especially for that purpose, driving from New Mexico to West Point and back again. Then an acquaintance of his sat down and, while I devoured a barbeque brisket sandwich, I overheard them chatting about their friends...a very matter of fact conversation about who is sobering up and who has outstanding DWI offenses. I got the impression that both men have had their own struggles with substance abuse; fairly common in that part of the country.
In a bit of a stupor from the heat and my lunch of red meat, I drove back to Santa Fe to visit the Museum of International Folk Art, which houses an astonishingly large collection of colorful handmade objects from around the world. There were too many things to see. Suffering from circuit overload, I abandoned the museum and headed into the center of town to check out Canyon Road, a street filled with high end art galleries and boutiques. After New York, it is the second most important art market in the United States. Wandering up the street, the sounds of live music lured me into Gallery Esteban, the eponymous space of Esteban the guitarist. Apparently he is quite well known and he was performing free of charge to a mostly local audience in the graveled courtyard behind his gallery, offering refreshments to all. I sat down, soaking up the sounds and enjoying a few moments of stillness.
By the time the concert ended most of the other galleries had closed, a situation for which I was glad. There was simply too much to look at and having fewer choices made my life easier. One gallery I ventured into featured the bold graphic work of Carole LaRoche, a woman who moved to Santa Fe from Boston in her mid-40s and began creating art full time. Twenty-five years later she has her own thriving gallery in a hot location. Her website doesn't really do her work justice - I was particular taken with her large pastel drawings of wolves.
That night I went to sleep early, planning to get up the next day and go hiking in a nearby forest. Nearby as in 10-15 minutes by car. Such proximity felt like a luxury. On Monday I started out before 9am and tried to find a trail that was labeled as "moderate", a 4-mile route down to a creek and back. Although I missed the trailhead, a fox crossed the road just a few feet in front of my car. Spotting wildlife always feels somewhat magical. And I ended up at another trail, which wound its way through a pine forest. At a trail juncture, a map was posted on a wooden sign, and an arrow pointing to the location said, "You are here. Breathe deeply". I did. The crisp pine-scented air was pure peace.
A quick shower and I was off to see the Georgia O'Keeffe museum, which had an exhibit, Natural Affinities, on her work and that of Ansel Adams. It was smaller than I had expected, both the museum and the exhibit, and before long I was in my car again, heading to Gabriel's for lunch. It was supposed to be one of the better restaurants in the area, boasting of a Zagat rating from 2001, and I figured I would give it a try. I ordered steak tacos which were well prepared but didn't launch me into tastebud heaven. Perhaps my time in Mexico spoiled me. A couple at another table were using an electronic pipette to mix two wines in different percentages, savoring the resulting blends. Note to self: Buy a pipette and try this at home.
After lunch I headed off to Abiquiu, home to Georgia O'Keeffe and the source of her inspiration. Unlike the mountainous road to Taos and the dusty hills of Cerrillos, the highway to Abiquiu is flanked by red and striped cliffs and rock formations on one side, green pastures on the other. Several times I stopped my car to take photographs and to revel in the stillness and the silence of these majestic open and somewhat empty spaces. For a moment I envied Rick, the man I met in Madrid, and his 6,000 mile cross country adventure. The highway beckoned.
Somewhat sadly, I turned around and headed back to Santa Fe for my final evening there. It was Monday, and the town was essentially shuttered, most restaurants and shops closed. I was in bed by 9pm and got up early Tuesday morning to go hiking again before returning home. I found the trail I missed the first time and was rewarded by the sight of a stag emerging from the woods.
En route to the airport, I stopped at the Kakawa Chocolate Company for a tastebud tingling Aztec brownie, a potent creation featuring generous amounts of chili pepper, cinnamon and dark chocolate. At Trader Joe's I popped in to buy a sandwich for the plane trip then sped the final 55 miles to Albuquerque, watching both the speedometer and the clock and returning my rental car two minutes before the 12pm deadline.
I did say that travel brings out the maniac in me, didn't I?
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