Alighting
the train at Lamy, a blip on the train line between Los Angeles and Chicago, I
wait for the baggage cart outside an old station building with two young men
holding guitars, on a college holiday
trip to Santa Fe.
Behind the
station are two houses, a boarded up adobe church and a restaurant/bar with a
couple of jaunty umbrellas above empty tables on the porch. No signs of life –
not even a dog – the only reason for the hamlet’s existence is the train line
in and out.
The boys
are picked up by a young woman in a van and I wait by the shuttle bus with two
couples off the Chicago train. They are dressed in smart city garb and probably
on their way to their second or third houses in Santa Fe.
The
confused old man driving the shuttle drops me at Santa Fe’s only hostel, a
jumble of crumbling adobe buildings on Cerillos Avenue, one of the town’s main
arteries, bordered by an untidy collection of fast-food bars, a tattoo parlour,
film technicians’ office and a mechanic’s workshop.
The hostel,
which according to the owner, has been de-listed from Lonely Planet, is run by
a quirky character who somehow manages to
keep it going.
Every morning each guest must sign up for a
chore – unless excused by some whim of
the management – before partaking of a breakfast cobbled together from an
assortment of foods, “donated” by local stores. In reality, most are out of
date and I suspect the spoils of dumpster-diving!
The next
morning I arrive at the bus-stop just as two large men push and shove another,
smaller, man, emptying his bag into the street. I spy a woman in the back of
the bus shelter and approach her.
“If you
don’t stand by the road, I’ll have to” she whispers “The bus won’t stop
otherwise.”
The men
disperse, only for the largest of the aggressors to re-appear and approach us.
“Did you
see where that guy went?” he demanded, looming over us.
“We weren’t
really taking any notice, but I think that way” I said, motioning vaguely
across the road, away from where the victim had actually fled.
He strode
off, all misplaced testosterone, and thankfully the bus arrived before he could
return.
“There were
three hundred murders in Albuquerque last year – it’s not so bad here, but this
is where I’d hideout if someone was after me.” The woman offered.
Carole
seemed to want to attach herself to me for the journey and proceeded to spill
her life story – her estranged family in Hawaii, abandoned artistic career,
ill-health, and quest for a soul-mate. She seemed fragile and sad but after
chatting for a while and agreeing to meet for a coffee later that day, she
flashed me a smile as the bus arrived In the charming town plaza.
Santa Fe
New Mexico is quaint and, save for the tourists swarming down Canyon Road and
the near-silent line of vendors at the Native American market in the Plaza,
seemingly deserted. It’s obviously one of those towns where life simmers below
the surface, and repays staying a while.
©FMPDH 2012
