My family would readily agree that I've always been fascinated with maps. As a child, and even as an adult, I could be pacified for hours by studying a US Road Atlas. Old maps, with long vanished communities, are a particular fascination. Seeing the ways that the roads crisscross the country, watching new roads be drawn in, and then, sadly, watching old communities disappear are things that a "friend of maps" notes with particular interest.
Travelling out West, one finds any number of interesting place names. Gerard Manley Hopkins liked to record new words in his journals, mainly for the sound that they would make. Arguably, no poet, with the possible exception of Dylan Thomas has done more with the sheer SOUND that words and patterns of words make. I've found that I like to note community names. In Colorado, travelling down from Ouray through mining country I ran across "Camp Bird Mine," and the more euphonious "Pandora," along with my personal favourite "Ophir." These are places that were built quickly, became famous, or notorous overnight, and died as quickly as they were born. The brothel and saloon to church or government building was often quite disproportionate. But what fascinating names they gave their towns! "Ophir" has wonderful biblical resonance, although I doubt the gospel never really took root there. I don't think there are even any residents left in this marvelously named town. My imagination gives "Pandora" a forbidden tabooed quality. One wonders just what came out of the mine once it was opened.
Here in southern New Mexico one can visit "Chloride, now largely deserted, and "Shakespeare." I'd like to think the latter was settled by English Majors, but I have no proof. Even "Truth or Consequences" where I've spent a few days, has a wonderful "Old West" resonance. Perhaps Judge Roy Bean or Wyatt Earp meted out justice on the dusty streets of "T or C." Alas, my romantic memories are more exciting than the truth. The town sold itself out in order to get a mention on a TV game show and an anual visit from Ralph Edwards. Hell, he may STILL visit. They have their fiesta in May, which I've never made. Is he even alive anymore? Perhaps the trot out his cryogenically preserved body. Looking at many of the residents of "T or C" I'm not convinced many of them haven't been dead for many years as it is....
Over the years I've been known to detour miles out of the way to visit a place with an interesting name. Somewhere there's a picture of me taken in "Smut Eye, Alabama." Its one of the the things that makes travel interesting. None, though, ever sounds as beautiful as the name of home. So after pulling up stakes here in the next few days, I look forward to a return to "Almon, Georgia."
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Catching up
I've gone back and posted some comments about Santa Fe in course, back before my "arrival" in Truth or Consequences, including some comments on the conference. Do go back and read them, and pretend that I wrote them then, instead of having written them just now :)
Monday, July 17, 2006
Truth? Consequences? What's the Difference?
I'll have more to post on Santa Fe in the next couple of days, but it was a great stay. The conference went VERY well, and my paper was VERY well received.
I drove down Truth or Consequences (T or C to the locals, who really HATE the name of their town) on Sunday evening, after gettting a late start from Santa Fe. The drive is, for those who don't like the desert, forgettable. I find it quite soothing, as long as the airconditioner is working. Miles and miles of nothing, broken only by the green ribbon that follows the Rio Grande down into Mexico. It's almost mind numbingly hot and bright here. At 10:00 this morning the temperature was already 90, and it should go up to 97. Of course, as we say, it's "A Dry Heat," and that really does make a difference. Here when you sweat, it evaporates. Here, if you're hot, you go into the shade and cool off. What a concept! The problem is, this is largely a forgotten dusty spot in the road, and there really are few places to get into the shade. The place looks like it has been vacuum-packed, circa 1950, and left to bake in the hot desert sun.
The allure from the past, which the change of name to Truth or Consequences largely cut off, is the hot springs. It was previously known as Hot Springs, NM until Ralph Edwards offered to make an annual visit to whichever town in the US changed its name to match his, then popular game show. After this, the place known for its healing hot springs sort of withered on the vine. Things have been on the upswing, though. For better or worse, artists have discovered the joint, and "A Scene" is starting to develop here. There's an organic grocery store and juice bar, any number of overpriced galleries selling "art," and scores of alternative medicine practitioners (accupuncturists, aura cleansers, shamans, snake oil salesmen and probably a voodoo priestess or two). The hot springs are starting to make a comeback.
The place where I'm staying, La Paloma, formerly the Marshall Baths, is in the midst of a massive renovation. Most of the improvements are largely cosmetic (changing the paint scheme from the rather garish and painful reds of the past, to a "cooler" and more soothing blue palette). The water is still hot (perhaps not quite as scalding in years past, but still comfortable) and it feels particularly good on my poor, ailing tailbone.
So the long and short is, I'm holed up here, getting some reading and writing done, trying to stay out of the sun in the worst hours of the day (like now...although I'm about to go out and buy some organic produce and have my aura cleansed), drinking lots of water, and moving very slowly. Stay tuned.
I drove down Truth or Consequences (T or C to the locals, who really HATE the name of their town) on Sunday evening, after gettting a late start from Santa Fe. The drive is, for those who don't like the desert, forgettable. I find it quite soothing, as long as the airconditioner is working. Miles and miles of nothing, broken only by the green ribbon that follows the Rio Grande down into Mexico. It's almost mind numbingly hot and bright here. At 10:00 this morning the temperature was already 90, and it should go up to 97. Of course, as we say, it's "A Dry Heat," and that really does make a difference. Here when you sweat, it evaporates. Here, if you're hot, you go into the shade and cool off. What a concept! The problem is, this is largely a forgotten dusty spot in the road, and there really are few places to get into the shade. The place looks like it has been vacuum-packed, circa 1950, and left to bake in the hot desert sun.
The allure from the past, which the change of name to Truth or Consequences largely cut off, is the hot springs. It was previously known as Hot Springs, NM until Ralph Edwards offered to make an annual visit to whichever town in the US changed its name to match his, then popular game show. After this, the place known for its healing hot springs sort of withered on the vine. Things have been on the upswing, though. For better or worse, artists have discovered the joint, and "A Scene" is starting to develop here. There's an organic grocery store and juice bar, any number of overpriced galleries selling "art," and scores of alternative medicine practitioners (accupuncturists, aura cleansers, shamans, snake oil salesmen and probably a voodoo priestess or two). The hot springs are starting to make a comeback.
The place where I'm staying, La Paloma, formerly the Marshall Baths, is in the midst of a massive renovation. Most of the improvements are largely cosmetic (changing the paint scheme from the rather garish and painful reds of the past, to a "cooler" and more soothing blue palette). The water is still hot (perhaps not quite as scalding in years past, but still comfortable) and it feels particularly good on my poor, ailing tailbone.
So the long and short is, I'm holed up here, getting some reading and writing done, trying to stay out of the sun in the worst hours of the day (like now...although I'm about to go out and buy some organic produce and have my aura cleansed), drinking lots of water, and moving very slowly. Stay tuned.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Conferencing
When I mention I'm going to the American Society for Aesthetics conference I'm asked if I'm a plastic surgeon. How quickly words change meaning! For my people, the Victorians, and for those who came before them, Aesthetics was (and still is) the study of Beauty. Today it means getting a tummy tuck or a chemical peel. Beautiful, perhaps, by the standards of the day, but hardly beauty of the lasting quality or type.
Rather than a group of plastic surgeons (although the hotel did double book us with a group of general practice surgeons, so we had to hold panels in the bar -- all in not so bad a proposition) rather even than a group of stodgy academics, we are a motley group who just so happen to like visiting Santa Fe in the summertime.
This was my fifth time here, and it probably represented the first REAL paper on Aesthetics that I've yet given. Like most academics I often take a paper I've written, do a few (ironically) "cosmetic" changes" and tack "...and the Aesthetics of _____" on to the title. So I've given a paper entitled "E.M. Forster and the Aesthetics of Wagner in Howards End" in the past...and "Tennyson and the Aesthetics of Homoeroticism in In Memoriam." This time, since I'm out of seminar papers to recycle, I wrote one from scratch, and I think it turned out okay.
The title was "'Fairer than the Sons of Men': Gerard Manley Hopkins and the Aesthetics of Christ." I took as the starting point a sermon that Hopkins preached while a (Jesuit) curate at a tiny village church in Bedford Leigh, Lancashire, England. In it he has a long and rapturous section where he describes the physical beauty of the body of Christ. It's weird stuff, and given the climate of the day, potentially edgy. Yet, given Hopkins's own aesthetic sensibilities, especially concerning the relationship of Truth to Beauty, it makes perfect sense. As perfect Truth, for Hopkins, Christ had to be perfectly Beautiful. I received several very good suggestions and comments in the Q&A afterward (actually, if I may patteth mine own backeth, I received the bulk of the questions!)
Beyond this, though, I continued to make and cultivate some important friendships with professors, both working and retired, who expressed genuine interest in my work. One in particular, who has been a good friend from my first days here, offered to mentor me in things both professional and personal (as it turns out, we've had some of the same life experiences, and he kindly offered to be a person I could "vent" with).
This is the real "goal" of academic conferences, and it's an area that I'm not always good at: making connections, meeting people, getting one's name out. When I finally finish the dissertation and enter the job market ("How long Oh Lord, How long??") I'll have a long and, I hope, distinguished history with these people, and with other academics throughout the country and the world. Then it will be time to ask, kindly, for letters of introduction and support. It's almost always who one knows, rather than what one knows...
Rather than a group of plastic surgeons (although the hotel did double book us with a group of general practice surgeons, so we had to hold panels in the bar -- all in not so bad a proposition) rather even than a group of stodgy academics, we are a motley group who just so happen to like visiting Santa Fe in the summertime.
This was my fifth time here, and it probably represented the first REAL paper on Aesthetics that I've yet given. Like most academics I often take a paper I've written, do a few (ironically) "cosmetic" changes" and tack "...and the Aesthetics of _____" on to the title. So I've given a paper entitled "E.M. Forster and the Aesthetics of Wagner in Howards End" in the past...and "Tennyson and the Aesthetics of Homoeroticism in In Memoriam." This time, since I'm out of seminar papers to recycle, I wrote one from scratch, and I think it turned out okay.
The title was "'Fairer than the Sons of Men': Gerard Manley Hopkins and the Aesthetics of Christ." I took as the starting point a sermon that Hopkins preached while a (Jesuit) curate at a tiny village church in Bedford Leigh, Lancashire, England. In it he has a long and rapturous section where he describes the physical beauty of the body of Christ. It's weird stuff, and given the climate of the day, potentially edgy. Yet, given Hopkins's own aesthetic sensibilities, especially concerning the relationship of Truth to Beauty, it makes perfect sense. As perfect Truth, for Hopkins, Christ had to be perfectly Beautiful. I received several very good suggestions and comments in the Q&A afterward (actually, if I may patteth mine own backeth, I received the bulk of the questions!)
Beyond this, though, I continued to make and cultivate some important friendships with professors, both working and retired, who expressed genuine interest in my work. One in particular, who has been a good friend from my first days here, offered to mentor me in things both professional and personal (as it turns out, we've had some of the same life experiences, and he kindly offered to be a person I could "vent" with).
This is the real "goal" of academic conferences, and it's an area that I'm not always good at: making connections, meeting people, getting one's name out. When I finally finish the dissertation and enter the job market ("How long Oh Lord, How long??") I'll have a long and, I hope, distinguished history with these people, and with other academics throughout the country and the world. Then it will be time to ask, kindly, for letters of introduction and support. It's almost always who one knows, rather than what one knows...
Friday, July 14, 2006
Santa Fe....A Very Brief History Lesson
The locals like to remember a Santa Fe long before the arrival of the Yuppies. It was a dusty, sun bleached village, where most of the streets were still dirt. Indians, Mexicans, those of Spanish descent, and Gringos lived, worked, and, for the most part, got along quite well together. Then, and the dating on this is not exactly precise, the artists arrived. They were a bohemian sort, but they added a nice splash of colour to the brilliant turquoises, dark browns, and bright reds that were already common in the landscape. Georgia O'Keefe is but the most visible of the group of artists that took up residence here, and in scattered locales across northern New Mexico. O'Keefe, in fact, lived a few hours up the road in Ghost Ranch. Mabel Dodge Luhan, Diego Rivera and D.H. Lawrence lived up the "High Road" in Taos. All of them, at some point during their careers, visited the capitol of the New Mexico Territory, perhaps even sharing a drink at the La Fonda bar.
But then, some years later, a much more destructive force arrived: The Yuppie. Known for great wealth, large Sport-Utility Vehicles, a passion for sushi, a loyalty to the Democratic Party, and the frequent consumption of a drink known as the "latte" this group of locust like parasites descended on Santa Fe, and promptly remade it in their own image, and as a private playground, of sorts. They imported non native things like "The Gap" and "Starbucks" in an attempt to familiarize and soften the "native" edges of this frontier town.
A new breed of artists arrived, many of them having no previous ties to the Southwest, but professing a great love of "the scene." These encamped along Canyon Road, where they painted or sculpted inscrutable objects and charged exorbitant prices. The Yuppie quickly bought up these "art" objects and used them to decorate neo-adobe houses that they built in the hills above Santa Fe.
In large part, this is what the visitor to Santa Fe finds today. It's still spectacularly beautiful, but instead of a hardware store on the Plaza, traditionally the heart of this city, settled at some point before 1607, one finds "Greco Coffee" which proudly proclaims that it has been in business since 1989! Instead of a general mercantile, one finds "High Country Leathers" with a much more venerable history dating all the way back to 1979! Even the beloved Woolworths, a victim of corporate bankruptcy, has changed names and pushed the foot powder and aspirin to the back of the store in order to make way for postcards, "Indian" saddle blankets (made in Mexico or China) and souvenir shot glasses up front. Luckily the Little Old Ladies still make Frito pies at the lunch counter in the back. The locals, and by locals I mean those who have lived her for generations, no longer frequent the Plaza. It's strictly for the tourists. Instead, then have migrated down Cerillos Road, the very serviceable corridor leading from the Plaza to the Interstate, which features the stores, services, and restaurants that are needed for any city where people live.
A very real, very vibrant city has been turned into a Disney World for the Rich and Famous. And a hermetic seal, of sorts, has been pulled down around the edges, lest anything that is real or genuine leak back in. The Indians, of course, are still allowed to sit beneath the portal at the Palace of the Governors and sell their handmade jewelery, but it's mainly because they look quaint, and kind of precious. They also don't complain too much when a fat tourist from Minnesota drips icecream on a design once fashioned by the artist's great-great-great grandfather, who learned to fashion turquoise from an even more distant ancestor.
Why do I like it here? That is a more dificult question to answer. There is a quality of light here that's present nowhere else. There are glimpses of the past, of a more vibrant history that can be dimly recognized if one takes the time to look deeply enough, and if one really wants to see it. I've had the distinct pleasure of meeting many more locals this time than before, and to see how real people live, and work, and play. I've also stayed away from the Plaza. I have walked through several times, of course, one really must at some point. Once, though in a Fellini-esque moment finding a choir of freshly scrubbed high schoolers, all clad in red T-shirts performing saccharine "Contemporary Christian" songs in sign language. This, in the Plaza bandshell right in front of the portal of the Palace of the Governors made a most jarring scene. I knew it was time to go.
But I've also hung out in the bar at La Fonda, where, instead of pharmaceutical reps from Chicago and Los Angeles, I found the real deal: Locals out for a night on the town. I sat back, enjoying an Adult Beverage, simply watching people. They ambled in singly or in pairs, met, embraced, talked and socialized. When the band, a country/bluegrass trio started playing, the women pulled up their long flowing skirts to reveal bright red boots. The men pushed back the brims of their hats and escorted the ladies to the dance floor to two-step. The trio invited an ancient and blind woman named Bonnie up onto the tiny platform to sing an ancient Carter Family song. It was a moment when the past seemed to touch the present, and I felt honoured to be able to observe it, even as the fat woman from Virginia, complaining about how "expensive" the Indian Jewelery was, threatened to drown it out. She'd thought it would be cheap.
There are two things I always do on each visit to Santa Fe. I always visit the Cathedral of St. Francis, where I sidestep the modernized nave for the tiny adobe chapel on the north end. Here, a statue of the Virgin Mary, carved at some point before 1625 has been venerated by the faithful ever since as "La Conquistadora:" Our Lady of the Conquest. And I always walk through the lobby at La Fonda. Sometimes it's just to get to the elevators, to head up to the fifth floor for a margarita at the Bell Tower Bar as the sun sets. This time it was to linger for a while. To stop, as it were, and listen to the music. These two places, one sacred and one profane, both offer a window into another time. Both are relics, in a sense, of a time long since past. But for those who take the time to look, to listen, perhaps even to join in, these windows offer a vista that is far richer and far more dazzling than the faux vision of Santa Fe that lies nearby.
But then, some years later, a much more destructive force arrived: The Yuppie. Known for great wealth, large Sport-Utility Vehicles, a passion for sushi, a loyalty to the Democratic Party, and the frequent consumption of a drink known as the "latte" this group of locust like parasites descended on Santa Fe, and promptly remade it in their own image, and as a private playground, of sorts. They imported non native things like "The Gap" and "Starbucks" in an attempt to familiarize and soften the "native" edges of this frontier town.
A new breed of artists arrived, many of them having no previous ties to the Southwest, but professing a great love of "the scene." These encamped along Canyon Road, where they painted or sculpted inscrutable objects and charged exorbitant prices. The Yuppie quickly bought up these "art" objects and used them to decorate neo-adobe houses that they built in the hills above Santa Fe.
In large part, this is what the visitor to Santa Fe finds today. It's still spectacularly beautiful, but instead of a hardware store on the Plaza, traditionally the heart of this city, settled at some point before 1607, one finds "Greco Coffee" which proudly proclaims that it has been in business since 1989! Instead of a general mercantile, one finds "High Country Leathers" with a much more venerable history dating all the way back to 1979! Even the beloved Woolworths, a victim of corporate bankruptcy, has changed names and pushed the foot powder and aspirin to the back of the store in order to make way for postcards, "Indian" saddle blankets (made in Mexico or China) and souvenir shot glasses up front. Luckily the Little Old Ladies still make Frito pies at the lunch counter in the back. The locals, and by locals I mean those who have lived her for generations, no longer frequent the Plaza. It's strictly for the tourists. Instead, then have migrated down Cerillos Road, the very serviceable corridor leading from the Plaza to the Interstate, which features the stores, services, and restaurants that are needed for any city where people live.
A very real, very vibrant city has been turned into a Disney World for the Rich and Famous. And a hermetic seal, of sorts, has been pulled down around the edges, lest anything that is real or genuine leak back in. The Indians, of course, are still allowed to sit beneath the portal at the Palace of the Governors and sell their handmade jewelery, but it's mainly because they look quaint, and kind of precious. They also don't complain too much when a fat tourist from Minnesota drips icecream on a design once fashioned by the artist's great-great-great grandfather, who learned to fashion turquoise from an even more distant ancestor.
Why do I like it here? That is a more dificult question to answer. There is a quality of light here that's present nowhere else. There are glimpses of the past, of a more vibrant history that can be dimly recognized if one takes the time to look deeply enough, and if one really wants to see it. I've had the distinct pleasure of meeting many more locals this time than before, and to see how real people live, and work, and play. I've also stayed away from the Plaza. I have walked through several times, of course, one really must at some point. Once, though in a Fellini-esque moment finding a choir of freshly scrubbed high schoolers, all clad in red T-shirts performing saccharine "Contemporary Christian" songs in sign language. This, in the Plaza bandshell right in front of the portal of the Palace of the Governors made a most jarring scene. I knew it was time to go.
But I've also hung out in the bar at La Fonda, where, instead of pharmaceutical reps from Chicago and Los Angeles, I found the real deal: Locals out for a night on the town. I sat back, enjoying an Adult Beverage, simply watching people. They ambled in singly or in pairs, met, embraced, talked and socialized. When the band, a country/bluegrass trio started playing, the women pulled up their long flowing skirts to reveal bright red boots. The men pushed back the brims of their hats and escorted the ladies to the dance floor to two-step. The trio invited an ancient and blind woman named Bonnie up onto the tiny platform to sing an ancient Carter Family song. It was a moment when the past seemed to touch the present, and I felt honoured to be able to observe it, even as the fat woman from Virginia, complaining about how "expensive" the Indian Jewelery was, threatened to drown it out. She'd thought it would be cheap.
There are two things I always do on each visit to Santa Fe. I always visit the Cathedral of St. Francis, where I sidestep the modernized nave for the tiny adobe chapel on the north end. Here, a statue of the Virgin Mary, carved at some point before 1625 has been venerated by the faithful ever since as "La Conquistadora:" Our Lady of the Conquest. And I always walk through the lobby at La Fonda. Sometimes it's just to get to the elevators, to head up to the fifth floor for a margarita at the Bell Tower Bar as the sun sets. This time it was to linger for a while. To stop, as it were, and listen to the music. These two places, one sacred and one profane, both offer a window into another time. Both are relics, in a sense, of a time long since past. But for those who take the time to look, to listen, perhaps even to join in, these windows offer a vista that is far richer and far more dazzling than the faux vision of Santa Fe that lies nearby.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
...and now things get really interesting
So much for the best laid plans...things can change in just a moment that make all planning obsolete. Isn't there a joke, something along the lines of "If you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans for the future?"
Yesterday was a beautiful day, so I decided to head out to the Jemez mountains to search for a hot spring that I'd read about. The drive over was lovely, the skies sunny and clear on the first really sunny day yet. The spring is kept somewhat private to prevent the raucous behaviour that has shut down some other popular springs. After getting off of the trail (several diverged in the wood, and I took the one less travelled, but that's not made all the difference) and ascending far too quickly at a high elevation (lots of huffing and puffing and fearing my heart would beat out of my chest) I found the spring. It was really well maintained, with a beautiful view of the mountains and Battleship Rock. The water was at a perfect temperature for soaking, and it felt great! I paid special attention to the people that left, since they appeared to be going down the correct path. It was definitely easier going down the proper way.
But, alas, even the best maintained trail cannot prevent a mis-step. My foot slipped, and down I went, quite quickly, and directly on my tailbone. I thought I could walk it off, but there was no such luck. I stopped at the drugstore in Los Alamos to buy some anti-inflamatories, and the walking just made things worse. So I drove over to the Emergency Room at the Los Alamos hospital and let them check me out. The verdict was, indeed, a fractured coccyx. (For a laugh, click the link to see the etymology of "coccyx," a word which I always misspell). In fact, the doctor said that it was the worst fracture he'd ever seen. (Granted, he was probably only 35, so that may not say much).
The bad news was, there's nothing they could do. He sent me back with a nice prescription of Vicodin and orders to stay off of it for a while.
So, all of my previous plans are now on hiatus. Unfortunately, due to some poor planning on my part, I have to change hotels on Thursday. I give my paper on Saturday morning, and I think I should be able to go ahead with it. Going down to Truth or Consequences, though, is questionable. Soaking in the the hot springs down there would probably make me feel better, but it would come after a three hour drive. Then, to get home, I'd have to drive three hours BACK to Albuquerque/Santa Fe and the 4-5 hours it takes to get back to Denver.
The blogging won't be very exciting for the next few days, unless I give updates from what's on Food Network. (Paula Deen had a housewarming party for her new place, and Rachel Ray is cooking steaks, but I digress). Luckily I made a grocery run a few days back so that I'd have things for lunch and dinner to help save some money. I'm well stocked.
Ugh.
Yesterday was a beautiful day, so I decided to head out to the Jemez mountains to search for a hot spring that I'd read about. The drive over was lovely, the skies sunny and clear on the first really sunny day yet. The spring is kept somewhat private to prevent the raucous behaviour that has shut down some other popular springs. After getting off of the trail (several diverged in the wood, and I took the one less travelled, but that's not made all the difference) and ascending far too quickly at a high elevation (lots of huffing and puffing and fearing my heart would beat out of my chest) I found the spring. It was really well maintained, with a beautiful view of the mountains and Battleship Rock. The water was at a perfect temperature for soaking, and it felt great! I paid special attention to the people that left, since they appeared to be going down the correct path. It was definitely easier going down the proper way.
But, alas, even the best maintained trail cannot prevent a mis-step. My foot slipped, and down I went, quite quickly, and directly on my tailbone. I thought I could walk it off, but there was no such luck. I stopped at the drugstore in Los Alamos to buy some anti-inflamatories, and the walking just made things worse. So I drove over to the Emergency Room at the Los Alamos hospital and let them check me out. The verdict was, indeed, a fractured coccyx. (For a laugh, click the link to see the etymology of "coccyx," a word which I always misspell). In fact, the doctor said that it was the worst fracture he'd ever seen. (Granted, he was probably only 35, so that may not say much).
The bad news was, there's nothing they could do. He sent me back with a nice prescription of Vicodin and orders to stay off of it for a while.
So, all of my previous plans are now on hiatus. Unfortunately, due to some poor planning on my part, I have to change hotels on Thursday. I give my paper on Saturday morning, and I think I should be able to go ahead with it. Going down to Truth or Consequences, though, is questionable. Soaking in the the hot springs down there would probably make me feel better, but it would come after a three hour drive. Then, to get home, I'd have to drive three hours BACK to Albuquerque/Santa Fe and the 4-5 hours it takes to get back to Denver.
The blogging won't be very exciting for the next few days, unless I give updates from what's on Food Network. (Paula Deen had a housewarming party for her new place, and Rachel Ray is cooking steaks, but I digress). Luckily I made a grocery run a few days back so that I'd have things for lunch and dinner to help save some money. I'm well stocked.
Ugh.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Adventures in Travel
Beauty is only skin deep the old maxim says, while ugliness goes right to the bone. Stupidity, though, knows no bounds. In travelling one never ceases to be amazed at the stupidity of those we encounter. I must admit that I've not seen too much of it in action this trip, but it frequently manifests in situations in which an Anglo encounters a non-Anglo. If one speaks LOUDLY and E-NUN-CI-ATES, then surely a non English speaker will, after much frustration on both sides, understand what one is attempting to get across. A few simple phrases in a foreign language are often helpful. All one really need say in almost any situation is "This is not what I ordered," and "Where is the bathroom?"
Before leaving Ouray yesterday morning and attempting the long treacherous trip through the Rockies, I had a nice chat with my innkeeper. She checked me in and was quite lively. When I checked out she had her cat, which made her even more charming. She related some of the better things she'd heard over the years. One can only imagine what an innkeeper must get. Her favourites: "What is the date when you turn off the waterfalls?" (Ouray is surrounded by jagged mountains and lots of waterfalls). "At what elevation does a deer turn into an elk?" (She swears these two are true). There's also the frequent exclamation "We saw a deer yesterday....IN TOWN!" (Apparently Bambi didn't know that he's supposed to stop at the city limit sign).
What is most frightening about these comments is that they all, I'm assuming, (she didn't indicate otherwise) came from adults. In all likelihood these adults had been schooled through the 12th grade. How do these abberations pop up? What makes one think that the deer and the elk are really the same species? Why does one think that the Great Outdoors is really a glorified Disneyland, complete with magical fountains? I'm sorry, but there is such thing as a stupid question.
At any rate, the trip was harrowing, but I had tunes to listen to and sing along with, which helped. I made one error, though, in describing the San Juan Skyway: As it turns out, the road is twisty and narrow, but there is no guard rail. And when one is at 10,000 feet what, really, could a thin strip of aluminum do? There wasn't much to see because the cloud cover was so low (or, more accurately, I was so high -- altitude wise). It rained a good bit of the way and the trip took about 6 hours, including a few stops for bathroom breaks and fuel (as much as $3.25 in places, so Atlantans, hush!) The meadow where Patty and I took pictures in the snow was largely bereft of frozen precipitation this year, but I think it had more to do with the rains than any warming trend. If anything it was colder this year. The lowest temp I *remember* seeing from the car thermometer was 49 degrees. Damn cold, especially in the rain. I did take a couple of pictures along the way which I'll post later.
I made it into Santa Fe, where they had an AMAZING thunderstorm. I was glad that I had resorted to laziness and had driven the 1.5 miles to the restaurant instead of walking. I would have been caught right in the middle of it. Stay tuned, true believers! More to come.
Before leaving Ouray yesterday morning and attempting the long treacherous trip through the Rockies, I had a nice chat with my innkeeper. She checked me in and was quite lively. When I checked out she had her cat, which made her even more charming. She related some of the better things she'd heard over the years. One can only imagine what an innkeeper must get. Her favourites: "What is the date when you turn off the waterfalls?" (Ouray is surrounded by jagged mountains and lots of waterfalls). "At what elevation does a deer turn into an elk?" (She swears these two are true). There's also the frequent exclamation "We saw a deer yesterday....IN TOWN!" (Apparently Bambi didn't know that he's supposed to stop at the city limit sign).
What is most frightening about these comments is that they all, I'm assuming, (she didn't indicate otherwise) came from adults. In all likelihood these adults had been schooled through the 12th grade. How do these abberations pop up? What makes one think that the deer and the elk are really the same species? Why does one think that the Great Outdoors is really a glorified Disneyland, complete with magical fountains? I'm sorry, but there is such thing as a stupid question.
At any rate, the trip was harrowing, but I had tunes to listen to and sing along with, which helped. I made one error, though, in describing the San Juan Skyway: As it turns out, the road is twisty and narrow, but there is no guard rail. And when one is at 10,000 feet what, really, could a thin strip of aluminum do? There wasn't much to see because the cloud cover was so low (or, more accurately, I was so high -- altitude wise). It rained a good bit of the way and the trip took about 6 hours, including a few stops for bathroom breaks and fuel (as much as $3.25 in places, so Atlantans, hush!) The meadow where Patty and I took pictures in the snow was largely bereft of frozen precipitation this year, but I think it had more to do with the rains than any warming trend. If anything it was colder this year. The lowest temp I *remember* seeing from the car thermometer was 49 degrees. Damn cold, especially in the rain. I did take a couple of pictures along the way which I'll post later.
I made it into Santa Fe, where they had an AMAZING thunderstorm. I was glad that I had resorted to laziness and had driven the 1.5 miles to the restaurant instead of walking. I would have been caught right in the middle of it. Stay tuned, true believers! More to come.
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