Do I Stay or Do I Go?

There’s a funny little carved figure in our hallway. In a house filled with wildly eclectic, constantly surprising art, this one is our personal favorite. He sits on a tall stand, about chest high, and sports a pointy ear, one huge black eye and a lacquer fan on top of his head. Cal thinks he looks something like a shark, although, with his papoose body, I’m not sure I see it. He seems to be pointing the way down the hall to the bedrooms. Like maybe he’s saying “OK. Enough fun for one day. Time for bed. Go this way.”

Our in-town Santa Fe experience is well underway. We had five months in the country, with wide open vistas, starry nights, ethereal sunsets, coyotes trotting by our window. We became accustomed to carrying needle-nosed pliers on our rambles through the arroyos, to pull those nasty cholla thorns from the dog’s paws. It was lovely, and mind-opening. A complete re-set from our life in the Bay Area.

And yet, something was missing. What made us fall in love with Santa Fe was its vibrant mix of culture, art, food, people, history. Every time we wanted a shot of those things, we had to drive 20 minutes to get it. Eldorado, 12 miles south of town, was about geography and solitude. It felt homogenous; a place of affluent retirees---most of whom appeared to savor solitude over human community. I’m sure the pandemic didn’t help. But we are seeking our tribe. We did not find it there.

And so, after much effort, exploring and setbacks, we found our new home: a funky, rustic, Southwestern abode on Apodaca Hill, just off the arts district of Canyon Road. We signed a six-month lease, which takes us through October, and it is perfect. It has two bedrooms and a big beautiful yard that Chloe adores. The floors are distressed wood planks, with a lurid leopard skin carpet in the bedrooms. In addition to the afore-mentioned shark/papoose, there is a crazy collection of folk art: a lot of saint iconography, typical of the Spanish territorial era. These include dozens of paintings and statues, with an apparent preference for St. Francis and the Madonna. There are Hindu gods and Chinese art---including those baffling cats with one paw held aloft (something about good fortune, I think?). A large blue Buddha painting presides in the guest room, watchful and brooding. The garden is full of saints and gods and good luck charms. The front door jamb is adorned with a cross, a mezuzah, two sacred hearts and a piece of tin stamp that looks vaguely tribal. Two large, sail-like orange canvases cantilever off the ceiling in the living room—those look like they might be Native American. Or maybe they’re just kites.

The view out the back of the house looks over Santa Fe, to the west toward the Jemez. Last night, as the glorious sunset faded and darkness fell, we sat on the porch and watched the swooping bats and lightening strikes.

Best of all, the wonders of this town are now walkable. We are steps away from the Santa Fe River’s watershed, a verdant green corridor that slices east to west through town. We can meander down the river walk, East Alameda Street’s tree tunnel, or the vibrant street scene of Canyon Road. The art there is way out of our price range, but it is fun to look at. And the people staffing the galleries are so nice; so eager to interact, even with obvious non-buyers. Chloe likes to plunge into the river, or the Acequia Madre, both of which are running high in this monsoon season. She can run full-tilt in two places close by—the Water History Park and Monsignor Patrick Smith Park—burning off her ridiculous springer energy.

We can walk to coffee houses, bookstores, the library. If the mood strikes on a summer evening, we can hoof it to the Plaza, and take in the live music that’s there many evenings. Last night’s offering: karaoke!! The organizers were proud, the singers enthusiastic, the crowd generous with its appreciation. Last month, I volunteered for the Santa Fe Literary Festival, which was a marvel. We had big time names like John Grisham, Margaret Atwood and John Krakauer (I had a fun personal moment with Krakauer—of whom I am a fan—accruing to my failure to recognize him. He could not have been nicer). But there were also beloved local authors—people well-known and celebrated for their creativity. The Festival held up the readers as equally important to the writers, making the point that literature does not work without both. The sessions were interactive, with vibrant Q&A and authors hanging around to sign books as long as people asked them to.

Cal swims. I jazzercise. We golf. We’ve tried pickleball, official sport of aging white people. I joined a meditation group. We have nice conversations with people in the park. Our lovely friends Ed and Steve continue to generously weave us into the fabric of their friendships. Cal is hot on the trail of a property in the Sangre foothills, as a possible building site.

Life here is good, and rich, and full. But is it permanent? I still refer to the Bay Area as home. I miss the kids. And my friends. And everything familiar. I have a nagging sense that California, a rich, progressive state with a political will to make life better for less advantaged people, fits me better than New Mexico, with its low taxes; underdeveloped, hands-off government; and acceptance of things that are slow or broken or nonexistent.

I enjoy this Santa Fe adventure. But there are times when I feel uneasy, and a little empty. Like maybe I don’t fit.

Will I stay or will I go? I am so glad I don’t have to know yet. I can ignore that odd little fellow in the hallway, with his prescriptive, imperious pointing. He’s not the boss of me. And now is not the time to decide.