Landing

I sit on the Santa Fe Plaza, a takeout plate of fragrant blue corn pancakes in my lap. This is the city’s heartbeat—historically, culturally, commercially--ringed by adobe buildings that are hundreds of years old. The Indian artists sell their wares along the Palace of the Governors. A group assembles for the 9 a.m. walking tour. A city crew is stringing Christmas lights in the trees; they seem to be using the “fling” method. The obelisk at the Plaza’s center is gone, pulled down by vandals who objected to this monument honoring Civil War soldiers who “fought the savage Indians.” Good for the vandals.

I love this city center, and I love that is has not been consigned to the tourists. On the day after Thanksgiving, they will light up these trees for the season. The ceremonial Plaza Lighting draws everybody—locals and tourists alike—and so does the Christmas Eve Farolito Walk. A kid I met in Starbucks (and by kid I mean 20-something) told me that he was born and raised here. But wherever in the world he was living, he came back for the Farolito walk. “I can’t imagine missing it,” he said. I know it’s where I will be on Christmas Eve, joining the throngs who walk up Canyon Road for caroling, hot wine, bonfires in the courtyards of open galleries and farolitos—the sandfilled paper bags with candles—ablaze atop the adobe walls.

In the piercing sunlight, we wander up the Santa Fe Riverwalk, brilliant yellow with the last color of the aspens and cottonwoods. Very soon, the cold and wind will strip these trees. Today, they blaze like highlighters. I notice we are stepping on an elaborate set of images chalked into the sidewalk. The pictures are lurid and sort of psychedelic. They seem to have something to do with militant environmentalism. But as the words look—what? Faintly Cyrillic?-- I can’t really say what story they are telling.

We wander through the government center on our way back to the hotel. Here, ancient architecture collides with modern. The Round House (which is, in fact round) contains the state senate and assembly. It is ringed by a constellation of government offices, justice buildings, bail bondsmen places. This part-time legislature is out-of-session at present; apparently, the business of governing New Mexico does not consume a full 12 months. So it’s quiet now. But this is another thing I like about Santa Fe. As the state capitol, it is a real place, with real people and real business. It will never be just a tourist town. It has art and culture and history and food and geography that draws thousands of visitors every year. It has, in fact, drawn us—we will try it on for size; see if we belong here.

That night, I walk out of our new home, which is a ways out of town. It’s a rental, and gorgeous, with Southwest décor and views of four mountain ranges. I gaze across the plateau to the lights of Los Alamos, halfway up the Jemez range. Our house’s owner had pointed them out earlier, and told us: “You can start to worry if those lights start glowing green.” Santa Fe is an official night sky community, with rules about how you use illumination. I never thought about light pollution much before. But I am grateful now, as I gaze up into an inky blackness encrusted with a breathtaking array of stars.

We humans are funny. We both fear and crave change. Why are we here, I ask the night. What do we seek? Peace? Inspiration? Redemption? A new start? A return to the beginning?

In the distance, a coyote howls a lonely, mournful reply.