My daughter assured me when the gas gauge says zip, we still had 25 miles left in the tank. I hoped she was right as we drove west to Roswell, NM from the Texas line. No gas for 90 miles and the range indicator on her Toyota indicated 70 miles left. We rode in on fumes, gased up, and were about to begin the northern journey to Santa Fe when we saw the International UFO Muesem. We stopped. The town has embraced its notoriety, begun when a flying saucer crashed near the place in 1947. As the story goes, a massive U.S. government cover-up cleaned up the debris field, including massive amounts of a "memory metal". The mueseum is dedicated to the truth of the incident and does a complete job of making the case. The alien in the flying saucer, along with all evidence, was taken to Area 51 in Nevada. All witnesses were silenced, paid-off, or came up missing. Perhaps, but it could have been a weather balloon. Either way, stores and restaurants and even office buildings featured the familiar oval, green, big-eyed creature prominately. Got a few guitar pics for my band, a sticker, and a key chain for my daughter. Then we headed north, wondering aloud what it meant if it were all true.
The drive north was fast, averaging about 95 MPH, and hitting 110 for stretches. Santa Fe awaited and we were looking forward to exploring the ancient city we had never visited. As we got closer, we noticed the houses in the hills. All over, big, little, nice, dumpy, tan. Adobe. Camouflaged. The town sits on the edge of the Rockies and its twisting, small roads give the whole place an incredible charm. With plenty of daylight left, we found the old district, parked our car, and went exploring on foot.
True to its reputation, Santa Fe is an artist haven, especially downtown. Expensive shops, open markets, musicians, incredible beauty, incredible colors. We walked all around: Into the Lorrtto Chapel to see the Miraculous Staircase, through the open markets to consider rings and bracelets, and requested a blues tune from a couple of buskers at the 400 year old Santa Fe Plaza. They were outstanding and I gave them all the cash and change I had on me. $1.83. Nearby were two guys set up with a sign, "Pick The Topic, Will Write Poem". Interesting, never seen that before, but I write my own poetry:
Santa Fe, Santa Fe
Unknown yesterday.
Inspired to create.
Santa Fe, Santa Fe
And the poem, or song, could go on and on along that pattern, telling of the place, the people, the art. Describing landscapes, explaining histories, acknowledging the native Pueblo, and tracing the Spanish Conquest of 1598. The Conquistadors. The Church. The good, the bad, the ugly.
After a few hours of taking in the crisp air, incredible fall colors, and sharing a small lunch of fried calimari at the San Francisco Street Grill, we got in our car and went looking for a motel. Earlier, accommodations in the heart of the city were quickly abandoned when we inquired on room rates at a fairly nice place. The kind with a spa and $15 dollar margaritas. Mainly, I was curious. The polite lady at the front desk informed us of "packages that started at $450". I didn't even let her finish. After a wild and wandering search at dusk, we found The Cottonwood Motel. The adobe structure was just what we wanted, two split rooms, authentic Santa Fe construction, old and clean. This place had seen many days and were ready for more. Like wine, the older the better in Santa Fe. We rested, got a bite, then went to the Violet Crown Theater in old town to see Bohemian Rhapsody.
The movie was killer, likely the best movie soundtrack ever. The actors became the band. Freddie Mercury and his unique ways. His destructive ways. His voice. The story of Queen. Because we are the champions, another one bites the dust, and these are the days of our lives.