It’s hard not to glamorize New Mexico. The scenery alone draws a sense of drama and romance from your soul like no other place. Nature paints from a different palette out here – all pinks and ruddy browns, clear blues, and dark, troubled green. We pass stone hills that resemble piles of black lava. Just beyond them, layers of dusty pink and smoky black mountains rise and fall in clean-cut steps, as if shaved with a celestial scalpel.
Billboards advertise serapes, moccasins, Indian tacos, fireworks, and casinos. However, the adverts are blissfully sparse along Interstate 40. Trains run alongside a stretch of track that parallels the highway for miles and miles.
At twilight we pull into Santa Fe and wander in and out of art galleries and shops.
After breakfast, we make a beeline for the Sunday morning farmers market.
I wander Santa Fe like a woman dreaming. I buy atole blue corn mix, eat blue corn doughnuts, gaze at the gleaming turquoise and silver, flit from one stall to the next with wonder at everything.
A man gives me a sip of Hopi tea, some sort of Navajo herby elixir. I sip it and think, we could park Horatio here forever, under this big sky, and live an adobe blue corn dream life.
I’m in love, maybe.