The only time I've ever been to New Mexico was to celebrate my fortieth birthday. I wanted to go there because Willa Cather's novel Death Comes for the Archbishop (written in 1927) describes it so movingly. I thought from her writing that Santa Fe, and the surrounding country must have a true presence that would be apparent even to an outsider like me. I was right. That trip was a real high point in my life. New Mexico does indeed exude a sense of place, of itself. I just loved it.
Mike and I went with four other friends...a highly congenial travelling group. We flew into Albuquerque and drove north from there, taking the backroads because what-the-hell we were on vacation and in no hurry. Our first stop was in Madrid, where we had lunch and the first of many marguaritas at the Mineshaft Tavern. It was the middle of the day in the middle of the week, but there was a woman playing guitar and singing so beautifully. It may have been the freedom of vacation, or maybe the tequila, but I felt a bubble of pure happiness growing in me that never dissipated while we were in New Mexico. It seemed magical. We stayed for four days in Sante Fe, close to the cathedral built by the archbishop from whom Miss Cather modelled her fictional character, Father Latour. We took day trips to Nambe, Chimayo, Taos, Bandolier and other nearby sites, always on the lookout for the perfect marguarita. Every morning I woke very early and walked out alone in the neighborhoods of Santa Fe, looking in every church and courtyard that was open to me. The air always smelled of pinon pine smoke. As Father Latour says in the book, "At our meanest tasks we have a perpetual odour of incense about us." The regulations in Sante Fe have limited the kind of buildings that may be constructed there to two or three stories and require that they harmonize with the adobe style of its oldest structures (which are indeed old, rare in North America). That may be artificial, but it makes Sante Fe look very different than most American cities of its size...more like the smaller villages surrounding it. There is a lot more money in Santa Fe than in those towns, and also lots of beans. We like beans but after facing them in three straight breakfasts, Mike declared himself a frijole-free zone. Beans or not, it was such a memorable trip. It often comes up amongst the six of us who went as the best ever.
The photographs on Grace's blog often remind me of that week in Sante Fe and her recent memories of her time in Madrid brought the Mineshaft Tavern back like a blow. Liz has also just written a moving post about New Mexico that makes me think my experience wasn't so singular, and has prompted this post. In thanks I am going to try to attach the section of Death Comes for the Archbishop that never fails to bring tears to my eyes. Its short, but so strong. I typed it myself from the 1930 Windmill Press edition. Any mistakes are mine.
PS: I can't get Liz's link to work....a common problem for me. She is at: www.imgoingtotexas.blogspot.com. Look for her post entitled Impressions of New Mexico.