I spent a little time in town the next morning, a friendly sunny place in the high ponderosa pine mountains of Arizona. Compact streets and tall old west brick buildings, lots of bars. Some of the hippies who were hip to the timely tip of taking Route 66 seemed to have and opened camping supply stores and coffee shops. Old tie-dyes walked among young blue button downs on their way to city hall, a couple blocks away. I grabbed some coffee at a small cafe with a couple of tables outside, read the paper, let a small cool breeze push my napkin around the table.Even though midmorning was slipping into late morning, I decided to drive down to Sedona. The high plateau that Flagstaff sits on almost abruptly ends about 20 miles south. The road reaches the edge of a tall forested gorge before switching down about another 7 miles to Oak Creek Canyon. The further south you go, the more desert starts making itself felt as the dry red spire buttes of Sedona begin poking out of the ponderosa.
I drove slowly into
Sedona. Expensive art galleries of blown glass, "Indian" art, and turqoise. Spas. White pants and golf shirts for the gentlemen, indian print skirts and wide brim hats for the ladies. No tour buses, just SUVs. The town sits on the edge of this deep valley like some cliff dwelling populated by the top 1%.
...
Back on the 40, same dilemna: Starting out around 1 or 2 pm, I didn't get into Santa Fe until about 8 o'clock. I had a campsite picked out ahead of time, south and east of town around the other side of the Santa Fe National Forest, near Pecos. I pulled up to a general store and started chatting with an older white lady working the counter with a youger Indian girl. I asked them how far the campsite was, they said not far, maybe 15 miles.
"It snowed up there Memorial Day," the older lady muttered. It was still 75 degrees where we were, but as I started driving through this pretty winding road, I watched the temperature drop almost every half mile. In 20 minutes it was pitch dark, no moon and 62 degrees. I haven't packed for winter camping. It would get down to the 40s easily. I turned around and headed back to Santa Fe for a motel.
"It snowed up there Memorial Day," the older lady muttered. It was still 75 degrees where we were, but as I started driving through this pretty winding road, I watched the temperature drop almost every half mile. In 20 minutes it was pitch dark, no moon and 62 degrees. I haven't packed for winter camping. It would get down to the 40s easily. I turned around and headed back to Santa Fe for a motel.
...
I love Santa Fe. I really do. Touristy? Sure. Extravagantly awful galleries of blown glass, "Indian" art and jewelry? Sigh. But it's so pretty and so laid back and full of history and food, I always feel relaxed and rooted when I'm there. It's in the air, it's the crooked barely paved side streets with dusty adobe homes, it's the smell of cooking somewhere. I don't care that every building has to satisfy some planning code to resemble a white man's idea of adobe housing. Art museums everywhere, of a distinct flavor and with colors not permitted anywhere else.
Couldn't stay long though, needing to make some time. Just a quick tour of the plaza and St. Francis basilica behind the square, which I'd never been in before. Inside hang beautiful santero paintings of the Stations of the Cross, created by parishioner Marie Romero Cash. A tiny white haired docent noticed I was snapping pictures and joined me. She told me who painted them, and asked innocently, "Do you know what they are?"
"The Stations of the Cross?"
"Yes," she said, placidly. "They have one extra
painting. Can you tell me what is special about that?" She gave me a second or two to try to answer, but really, she wanted to offer it up herself.
"It is the Resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ, of course." She was so pleased and assured with this, not so much about the paintings, but by the certainty of her belief that she seemed almost transcendant at that moment. "Find me if you have any other questions, and I will help you." And drifted down the aisle to help the next lost tourist.
Something helpful (altho a bit academic) on santero art:
http://www.tfaoi.com/aa/6aa/6aa72a.htm
Today's mix:
More of Alex Pearcy's Ten Dollar Man cds (lots of Bill Frissell):
• Remember, Bill Frissell
• Late for the Sky, Jackson Brown
• Dreaming My Dreams with You, Waylon Jennings
• If I Could I Surely Would, Bill Frisell
• Whiskey, Whiskey, Kris Kristofferson
Couldn't stay long though, needing to make some time. Just a quick tour of the plaza and St. Francis basilica behind the square, which I'd never been in before. Inside hang beautiful santero paintings of the Stations of the Cross, created by parishioner Marie Romero Cash. A tiny white haired docent noticed I was snapping pictures and joined me. She told me who painted them, and asked innocently, "Do you know what they are?"
"The Stations of the Cross?"
"Yes," she said, placidly. "They have one extra
painting. Can you tell me what is special about that?" She gave me a second or two to try to answer, but really, she wanted to offer it up herself."It is the Resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ, of course." She was so pleased and assured with this, not so much about the paintings, but by the certainty of her belief that she seemed almost transcendant at that moment. "Find me if you have any other questions, and I will help you." And drifted down the aisle to help the next lost tourist.
Something helpful (altho a bit academic) on santero art:
http://www.tfaoi.com/aa/6aa/6aa72a.htm
...
Today's mix:
More of Alex Pearcy's Ten Dollar Man cds (lots of Bill Frissell):
• Remember, Bill Frissell
• Late for the Sky, Jackson Brown
• Dreaming My Dreams with You, Waylon Jennings
• If I Could I Surely Would, Bill Frisell
• Whiskey, Whiskey, Kris Kristofferson
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