Category: TRAVEL

GALLERY LOULOU PHOTO, FILM, MUSIC SALON- VACATION RENTAL

~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

SANTA FE, NM.  VACATION HOME, GALLERY, AND MOVIE THEATER.

Gallery LouLou is a nationally recognized  Historic Home. It was upgraded to allow for preservation to mix with modernism. The house is across the street from La Posada Resort and Spa, and is two stories with 2500 square feet. We are one and a  half blocks  from Downtown Plaza.  visit our website at http://www.vrbo.com/345671206DSCN4229 110912113454aba9IMG_0499DSC02353 - Copy - Copy

•         The house is sandwiched between two outdoor living porches, one with BBQ overlooking the private garden. Daydream and smell the lavender.

•    The garage is a renovated  theater.. An overhead projector allows you to show DVD’s, plus turntable and 6 track CD player to create your own multimedia performance. Heated and furnished.

•    The house is all hardwood floors, with French doors in the main living area connecting to the front porch.

•    The kitchen is accessible to the porch and BBQ for dining Al fresco.

•    There are FOUR unique private bedrooms and two baths.

•    Two porches:  One in front with garden of roses, and back yard garden is lush with herbs, pear and apple tree, roses, lavender, cherry blossom, and a string of lights for a really romantic night.

GALLERY LOULOU IS A PHOTOGRAPHY GALLERY AND HOME. OUR ICONIC ROCK & ROLL PHOTOGRAPHS BY JIM MARSHALL, BARON WOLMAN AND PHILIP TOWNSEND ARE FEATURTED THROUGHOUT THE HOME,  AND ARE OFFERED TO GUESTS AT A DISCOUNT OF 15%.

We are two blocks from Canyon Road, which leads to art galleries, restaurants, and HIKERS AND BIKERS wilderness, Santa Fe Ski Valley and the Sangre de Christo Mountains.

Turkish Linens + Coverlets.

Three Queen Perfect Sleepers, one King Perfect Sleeper.

It’s fanciful, but unpretentious.

Writing Desk

Two televisions upstairs. Flat screen 52”

Indoor and outdoor music system.

Pantry.

Washer Dryer in basement.

Large eat-in, two sink, and island kitchen with pantry.

Jacuzzi Tub

Three outdoor dining areas.

Wi-Fi- purified water, and wood burning fireplace.

YOU’LL LOVE IT.

VOYAGES WITHIN & WITHOUT

~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

I live in a temporary tide-pool, a lily floating against the current, weighted down by a suit of armor that shields me from the beauty, love and freedoms stirring in my bud.

The throw of the dice this week lands on a quote from the archives of my peculiarity-clipping folder.   I don’t know if this is branded in a writer’s genes, or simply another trivial pursuit to aid us in remembering things, that at the time we feel we need to remember, but we are not sure why.  Being a clipper means that nothing in print is safe in our presence.  We cannot resist the impulse to possess particular images and words, and usually without any logical reason. Once we have retrieved the clipping, we file it in a folder or notebook. The clippings do not age well and after 10 years, they are yellowed with torn, frayed edges.  They are rarely plucked from their binding burials and given present day meaning because they live in the bottom of trunks, or in storage units, and are difficult to get our hands on.   Since I discovered a clipping several weeks ago I’ve been investigating the connection between clippings and destiny.  I stopped being a savage clipper in 2002.

I opened up this one journal from 1988, and reading the pages, I came across the quote that propelled me into adventures in livingness. It came from Theater Critic, Kenneth Tynan, from a magazine article he wrote.  It was a personal essay and the line that beamed through me like a telekinetic force was ,   “Adventure. Voyage, there is nothing else! ” When I ripped it out I did not live, or ever imagined I‘d live in Santa Fe.   That was the first time I had come across that article. I remembered it, and swore an oath to adventure ever since.   I memorialized the quote and have continued to look for new places to adventure and voyage.    Since 1982, I have called home behind 31 different doors, in only six different cities.

I realize Kenneth’s voyage metaphor was not about relocating, though moving has a definite adventure inside it, but more of an internal adventure, opening your own doors to unconventional, unacceptable, and unrealistic measures in the hopes that you discover real newness of vision. 

New life for Old Martínez Hall in Ranchos de Taos – The Taos News: News

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New life for Old Martínez Hall in Ranchos de Taos – The Taos News: News.

LA POSADA is LA FAMILIA

~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

posición en el baile flamenco.
posición en el baile flamenco. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The throw of the dice this week lands on the un-said and underscored vignettes that pass through us. Those moments which make us turn away from screens, cameras, and cell phones, to observe life around us.  Writers do this habitually, like addicts. It is our drug to examine what we feel no one else is seeing, feeling or thinking. These were last week’s vignettes.
I am outdoors on the patio of La Posada Resort.  The cotton wood leaves on the trees, are dancing in setting sun light. At the far end of the dining patio, the lawn is staged, and the grass is covered with folding chairs. On stage, under a white billowing tent, teenage Flamenco dancers’ switchblade their black and coral skirts, as the pillow soft breeze brushes my face. I’m smiling without envy, a massive leap, because for most of my life, when I see professional dancers, I’m scolding myself, for not following through with my passion for dancing. Tonight, it is gone. My joy erupts to the surface. The dancers are the same age I was when I began training.
Their painted cheeks and darkened eyes are highlighted by the sunlight; they look like paintings that have come to life. The music is burning through centuries of Spanish history, through blood and battles, and the eruption of their passion for dance.
We have a convention of insurance salesman, dressed in Eddie Bauer, and the ladies in Jones of New York, seated like birds with their wings clipped. The men are standing in huddles, roaring laughter at inside jokes. Three dancers break from tradition and are now dancing to Billy Jean, striking their poses and facing our table. the leader, whom the others bashfully imitate, plays to us, and I want to tell her, don’t stop dancing, don’t give it up.
 Seated in front of me is a couple in their late sixties.  Transparent by dress and manner, they look farm-bred Midwestern. He wears a hard-working no fluff or formality expression, and his wife, probably is his high-school sweetheart. She appears painfully restrained-but she covers this up with a contented smile. The husband is staring at me, his lips are scornful, his eyes like that of a disbelieving police officer, or judge. I’m behind sunglasses, absorbing them through my mental lens, as if we were having a conversation. I imagine him on a tractor, and his wife behind a white worn picket fence picking fruits and vegetables. We’re separated by the cultural divide, but I want to ask the farmer how his life has changed, how the economy impacted his crops, his dreams. What did he dream about when he was a boy? Maybe dreams were a luxury he could not afford.
Beneath a black lake of stars, the breeze whips my hair, Rudy smiles at me, without a word I know what he’s thinking. The evening volumnized when the band kicked into sixties soul, and the insurance salesman are now dancing with the insurance saleswoman, and their wings are unclipped.
We left, crossing through the festivities to our porch, where the music resonated. Rudy turned on the blue lights.
             “Don’t turn them on; they attract the moths.”
            “I tell you what I’ll do and what I won’t do.”
            “They’ll eat your eyeballs when you’re sleeping.”
               “What!  Where did you come up with that?”
             “Don’t know. Look whose coming out to complain about the music?”  Then we see our neighbor, stomping across the lawn in his red T-Shirt and Beret. Professor J, demands to voice his rights at every opportunity. I’ve seen him argue with a Police Officer in the middle of the street, at one in the morning. “You have an obligation to police Santa Fe that is your job!” He shouted at the officer for thirty minutes.
 The night closes, like a play from the summer of 2012. Doesn’t sound like the summer of 1971, when we met on the streets, and just hung out, listening to radios, and watching people.  I think living next to a hotel, has kept me closer to street life.  I could do without the delivery trucks at six in the morning and the crashing bottles in the dumpster. It’s not unbearable any longer because La Posada is nowLa Familia.

HOT ON HOTEL INDIGO DEL MAR, CA

~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

Even though I lived in Del Mar, California and have traveled back several times a year, my May trip was transformed into a Hotel Indigo vacation.

Imagine, an unsmiling, tense, anxious guest arriving for her first stay at Hotel Indigo, a bit wrung out from a two day desert crawl in the Van.  

Then, I looked around the lobby, and I felt like I was in Tangiers. The Moroccan blues and reds poked at my sleeping senses, and the gentleman, who checked me in, was as well mannered as Cary Grant. The sun-light that flecked the lobby beckoned me to the adjoining deck, where comfortable sofas, and tables formed a circle around a fire- pit.  The ocean fills the gap between an expansive deck and the horizon. I imagined I’d be there later, when the sun drops down.

Still pestered with a needle of tension, about the room, as rooms booked online may be virtually enticing, but in reality, end up cheating us. My room theme, as all the rooms have themes reflecting the neighborhood story, was a sea-shell. Every room is dressed in a mural, with matching fixtures, and coordinated bedding.  The furnishings are new, unmarked, and the bedding stacked with pillows. I flopped on the bed and stared into the tunnel of a white shell. I closed my eyes, and just as suddenly sat up and called the Spa.

The whole concept of Spa is so luxuriating, and indulgent, some of us feel uncomfortable. This spa has the vibe of a nurturing and harmonious enclave. While waiting for the therapist I drank Tea, nibbled on trail mix, and read Travel & Leisure.  Danielle, a woman with a childlike smile and rosy cheeks escorted me into a spa room, and while she prepared me, I was already feeling the drainage of tension.  Eighty minutes later,(and only $125.00)I lay there like seaweed; boneless, semi-conscious, and grateful. I floated by the pool, and decided to walk into town and have lunch at the Secret Garden since the hotel restaurant wasn’t open for lunch yet. (one more week)

Secret Garden sidewalk Peruvian bistro serves the best Ceviche this side of Spain.  Afterwards I vacillated between senseless shopping or going back to the hotel, and the hotel won.  It takes fifteen minutes to walk to the village; and you can take the beach route, the bluff route or Camino del Mar.

With a few hours before dinner, I followed my instincts and took a day nap, at a time one can be interrupted by guest noise, but I heard nothing. It was when I woke up, that

the transformation came full circle.  My fatigue was subdued, and my head empty of annoying chatter. As I passed through the hotel lobby, the conversation from the dining room, was joyful, and inviting.

We chose to dine in the village, at IL Fornaio, where we have spent so many festive evenings over the years I lived in Del Mar.  After a day of decompressing, the evening

was like being in an out of focus movie. The restaurant was crowded, a lot of pretense and showiness, but it wasn’t annoying. My body and mind were at peace.

The next morning, I rose to birds singing, and sun splashed curtains.  After a dip in the very deep and powerful spa, I strolled into the dining room for breakfast. Now, deeply committed to spa weekend, I passed on the Breakfast Panini and Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict and ordered the Fruit Plate, ($12), deliciously fresh and large enough for two persons.  Once again I took notice of the authentic and bountiful attitude of the staff; they are obviously professionals in a business that has moved civility to the back burner.

Propelled by the excellence I hunted down the manager to

Pass on my Spa Experience. Susan Knapp, is the answer, she is vivacious, warm, and a gentle person, who took me by the hand and explained the coming attractions.

  • Poolside cabanas with massage.
  • Race Track Events
  • Live Music

I asked Susan how she managed to employ such a brilliant group of people. “I hire people with personality. You can train them on all the other facets, but you can’t educate someone on personality.”

Hotel Features:

State of the art gym with steam

Two Pools and full service Spa

Completed $7,000,000 renovation in 2012.

94 Units with 26 suites, (kitchenettes)

Rates: $119-$350

Conference Room

Boutique in the Spa

Dining Room and Full Bar

FREE STEPS

~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

The ripples of my life.
The ripples of my life. (Photo credit: Athena’s Pix)

 

Unprepared, who knows where

The leaves will fall

They don’t plan

Where to land

Maybe New York

Maybe Los Angeles

The postman can find

The house I live in

It is only walls

That keeps me inside.

Undisclosed strangers will walk in our paths

Cross our hearts and

Tread our minds

Unidentified

We traverse our hearts discourse

Shooting for dreams of undiscovered lands

More weightless plans

I don’t know if I can see ahead

My steps like stones thrown in the river

Ripple on the banks of everyone’s estate.

 

Skipping towards freedom

In summer rays of light.

Like a leaf I break free from the branch of life.

 

Hwy 17.

~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

Highways past Sedona. Life blurs and  burns as a lone  butterfly flaps

Sedona Arizona
Sedona Arizona (Photo credit: Molly258)

by the past, and stumbles on the next turn.  The pines are statuesque monuments along hwy 17, before we dip into the concrete sideshow of Phoenix, it’s about 102 degrees. I am reading “When the Mob Ran Las Vegas”,  a few pages at a time. The violence is unsettling.  I am caught in believing and not believing.

More later.

 

ADVENTURES ON THE ROAD INSIDE AND OUT

~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

I’m watching the double yellow line between coming and going on interstate 25 from Santa Fe past Albuquerque.   In the rear view mirror I see scaffolding, an airless sprayer, paint tubs, tools, a wardrobe box, and suitcases. It is the same VW Van I used to refuse to ride in because it smelled of wet drywall. Now cushioned in the front seat, the wide windshield to the world saturates the bullet holes of a wrong-way love. It mattered before, the van thing, now it doesn’t. I’m grasping for the road, to burn out the memories, on the other side of the double yellow line.

“ Are you glad you came with me?”

“ So far, but we’re still in New Mexico. Try not to drive me over the edge, okay? I mean with the speaker phone talking Taiwanese to B of A, or.. would you hold the steering wheel with two hands please…see, there’s an accident.”

“ Wow, the car flipped over.”

“ Yea, that kind of thing.”

“ I’m a safe driver.”

“ I know, but only about half of you is here.”

“ Whatta you mean?”

“The other half is glaring into the distance, the mountains, the clouds, the crows, imagining yourself a dinosaur.”

“Not no more.”

“Why? Did she make an adult out of you? I hate her for that. John did the same to me.”

Scenery whizzes by; snow capped mountains, speeding patrol cars, highway signs; it’s barely absorbed before it is gone. Make it like this, easy to forget, like the scenery.  I fell asleep, a dreamless nap, the kind that wakes you displaced but without alarm. Rudy was leaning away from the sun-splashed window, one loose hand on the steering wheel.

“Where are we now?”

“Gallup”

“Someone told me it is the drug capital of the United States. Where is everyone? Maybe they hide indoors so as not get shot.”

“Gallup is also the largest Indian center in the Southwest and the ceremonial capital of Native America. There are many American peoples in the Gallup/Four Corners region. By far the most numerous are the Navajo, who are today widely regarded for their achievements in wool, with original Navajo rugs and blankets (both new and antique) sought by private collectors and museums throughout the world. “Wikipedia

  Five hours later we are sitting by the window of Pesto, in Flagstaff and talking alternately, not in conversation, but in spite of, John, Match.com and the billboard irony of our circumstances. Even though we hadn’t checked into the motel yet, or even knew where it was, the adventure of livingness struck, and I climbed out of myself.

“It’s like it never happened, you know?” I said.

“Oh yea, I know.”

In the middle of the night I woke up screaming at John.  Rudy was in the next bed, and didn’t hear me, so I opened the drapes and stared out the window at the brightest star and listened to the voice of reason that visits me sometimes. What love scars bring to the world is poetry, literature, art, music, theater, gospel, and dance! So where will this take me? I thought about the documentary on Nicholas Ray, and his remark,    “ Without content all you have is composition.”

I wish morning would come.

Starting in 1999, every road trip between NM and CA includes a morning at Macy’s Coffee House. I entered this time without the explosion of zest in previous trips, when my heart was in one piece, and found enough distractions to pull me further out of wrong-way love.

A group of middle-aged men, retired cops or civil servants were my first source of entertainment. At a wooden table, conversing microphone loud about city ordinances was the leader. One Fry boot perched on a chair, and the other on the floor, his belly protruded way beyond a few beers here and there. His pals, all looking up to him, waiting for an injection of his wry humor, and dirty jokes. Rudy is talking about how much he loves Flagstaff, but what I hear is a tide of elation rising up, just resurfacing now, after a good nights rest in the Hampton Inn.

Somewhere between Flagstaff and San Diego, we stopped for Snickers and gas, and I walked around a neglected weed field, kicked rocks, and asked myself when was the last time, I just fell into the moment without that incessant poke of reality; unpublished stories, bills, missing folders, clutter, grocery lists, mail, websites, photo sharing, John’s lunch, John’s phone calls, the news of the world.

“I feel better Rudy, I haven’t cried all day.”

“It’s still early, he chuckled.  I have an idea, let’s take the off roads.”

“How off we talking?”

“Check your map, see if Interstate 8 runs into 10?”

I reached for the Droid, and fussed with the tricky touch pad.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“So why bother with maps.”

“I know–we’ll take 78, through the countryside. It will be pretty. Look, see the sheep?”

The pasture was yellow as corn, hay stacked with sheep, hundreds of them.

“Let’s stop.” I said.

“Even sheep make money. LouLou, there has to be a way for you to capitalize on your writing, and not wait for some jackass to hire you. There has to be. Even I know people pay to click on website ads.”

“It’s pennies.”

“You said you had 165 clicks the other day.”

“That was once! Mostly between 10-50 a day.”

“So! It adds up.”

“Look, the sheep are watching us.”

The sheep rose as soon as the car door opened, but they just strolled along, the babies following the mother’s, and one with a limp, dragging himself behind. Every one slightly different, but all part of a community, a gang, with primitive ancestral traditions and routines.

The highway now was split with white lines, and we were sandwiched between limitless textured scenery; Manzanita trees, orchards, big boulders, a dry creek, and then we were driving along one stretch, my legs curled up under me, and I am grazing on unhurried thoughts, just ripples of ideas and dreams.

“Did you see that?” Rudy blurted out.

“See what?”

“That guy! I just saw a guy walking alongside a weary  looking burro dragging a miniature red covered wagon. I gotta turn around.”

“ Hi folks, how you doing?” He extended a hoof like hand, weathered as paws, “I’m Howard West.” Howard was outdoor fit; sunglasses, hat, boots, and evenly tanned skin.

“Hi, I’m Rudy, and that’s LouLou.”

“Hi LouLou,” he shook like a city man with hardened hard-labor hands.

“ Hi. This is some way of traveling. What are you doing?”

“ I’m on a book tour, The Quicksilver Key Book Tour.

I caught my laughter when I noticed his educated aura; that veil of disguise we think fools everyone.

“It’s about the history, the lost history–the West in particular and how the government accrues the investment of the rancher, and the universe. If you read my books you’ll see….”

I was petting the dog, a friendly furry mixed breed, and Howard was now blending Rudy in his claw, with this rockabilly wisdom that I didn’t understand.

“How far are you going today Howard?” Rudy asked.

“I do about 10 or 12 miles a day. Whenever I feel like stopping, I just pull over. You been down to the Dunes yet?”

“ Where’s that?” Rudy was keenly addressing the wagon, it’s wheels, and accessories, but only I knew that.

“ Down the road. Now, those kids have money. They ride doon-buggies-sell for anywhere from five thousand to seventy five thousand dollars! They took me on a ride.”

“ Wow! Hey do you have any power source?”

“ Sure do. See this–jets up the whole works, laptop,

lights, even my stove.  Let me show you.”

I tinkered with the bell around the donkey, I came to find out was named Blue Pegasus, and watched Howard lead Rudy to the watering hold.

“I have books and disks; the books are $12 and a disk is $5, which one will it be?”

“We’ll take a disk Howard.”

“All righty… and the distinct differentiation of

the classes…..

I was about to interrupt when another car passed by, and Howard was distracted by the prospect of a purchase.

“Howard, you’re the coolest! I love what your doing man–I wish I could do it.” Rudy shook his hand.

“Everyone has a book.”

We drove past the sand dunes, and all that bleached rolling sand smooth as pressed sheets, jolted my mind like a wrench.

“ Howard West probably went to Harvard and has a degree in History.”

“You may be right. Why can’t you do that?”

“I would if I was a man.”

“No, not the road part, just get your writing on a disk and sell it. If you sell them for 10 bucks, and you sell…..

“You mean my columns?”

“Whatever! You’ve been writing since I met you for Christ’s sake.”

“Yea I could do a collection of columns, or even a book.  Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You’ve been too preoccupied with other stuff.”’

“Look, they’re having Superbowl Sunday party’s right here in Brawley.” On either side of highway 78 a campfire gathering of trailers were wedged in a circle, boom boxes blaring, American flags blowing, and a dog tied to a post.

“I took out my phone and scrolled through the numbers until I got to John, and then I deleted it. Maybe it was the dead cats in the road, or the poor teenager back in Anza without any future ahead of her but the donuts, or Howard, or the clarity of a cobalt blue evening sky staring down at me, that got me to move over to the other side of the double yellow line, and let John go.

“ I’m starving, why didn’t I bring any snacks? “

“ We’ll stop up here in Anza.”

“ How do you know Anza.”

“ I just do. You don’t want to know.

“Oh I do… please.. Rudy, I really don’t care.”

“ Can I tell you anyway? She knew antiques, once we saw …

“ Oh Gawd.” I threw my head back and laughed without actually any noise.

“ Stop, there’s the store.”

“ You know what else?”

“ What?”

“ She couldn’t understand why I cared about you so much.”

“That’s a good ending.”

My phone rang, an unknown number, never pick those ones up, could be the guy who said his father killed Ben Siegel.

“Rudy, stop!”

“I can’t stop now. We’re on the freeway nutcase.  Who called?”

“The daughter.”

“Whose daughter?”

“My father’s.”

To be continued.

GOING GOING GONE ON ADVENTURE

~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

It’s time; to go free-style-I am leaving Saturday-to sit on my beach blanket at Torrey Pines, looking to find the shells and the riptide, then I will go to LA and and drift along Sunset Blvd, and then Santa Barbara, all by train and then ………… short term non-commit-mental.

TIPS ON SANTA FE

~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

 

About the Santa Fe travel narrative I was going to write,  when the New York Times beat me to it. It was in the Sunday Travel Section, “ Is Santa Fe Ready For a Makeover.?”  8/06/2007.  If you read it then you know, that mod is flowing through the alleys and walkways of Santa Fe, more so than adobe mud.  Lofts have landed at The Railyard, and once they open, then comes the attachment to more mod café’s, shops, movie theaters and people.  I add this ancedote, four years later, it didn’t get too mod.

My answer is yes, Santa Fe is already under the mask of revival.  My perspective comes from the duality of being a tourist and a resident. I have not lived here long enough to shed the distinctive air of a gambler who has just won the jackpot.  It feels very much like a home that I left years ago.  Beginning in 1984, I used to come here regularly, wearing a two piece blue suit, and carrying a leather briefcase. I was a commercial property manager based in San Diego, and one of my portfolio buildings was in Albuquerque. The second trip out here I took the company rental car and zipped over to Santa Fe and stayed at La Posada. Every month my trip to Albuquerque included a weekend in Santa Fe. I invited friends, family, and co-workers to travel along.  After I left that position I returned less frequently, but it was never crossed off the list.

Today, I live across the street from La Posada.   I still walk through the Plaza once a day to see  the groove of live bands on the stage and snap internal photographs of the multitude of activities, conversations, expressions, and  festivities surrounding Spanish and Indian Market month. On the park benches, moldy hippies sing along. Children scatter between the adults,  while families sit under trees, sipping  thermoses  of cool aid and eating home made tamales. As you cross over to  San Francisco Street and pass Starbucks, you will step over the hillbilly from Arkansas, whose sidewalk show includes a dog, cat, and several mice playing nicely. His message is, animals get along why can’t people?  You will never read this sort of description in the travel narrative.

Just before dusk, the city streets empty for about an hour, and the shinning light spreads evenly over the adobe walls and rooftops. That is, if it’s  not raining.  This summer, it is not just a   thundershower.  The rain pounds the earth, the lighting and thunder shake the windows, and the cats run under the bed. I stand on the porch and watch, mostly because summer rain is the most romantic of all weather moods. That comes from a distant memory under raps.  If you have a balcony, or find your way to the Rooftop of La Fonda, or Coyote Café, take a seat. Just watch and listen to the operatic electrical storm. They do not last too long.

The best time to walk is early morning. There are several roads to hike just beyond Canyon Road that lead you to the Audubon Society. From there, you can choose from a dozen rated hikes. From beginners to Aztec tribal strength.   When in Santa Fe walk as much as possible, bring a pocket umbrella, and keep your eyes on the road. There are dazzling surprises everywhere you look.

 

The travel narrative always ends with, What To See, Where to Go, Where to Eat, and Where to Stay.

WHAT TO SEE & WHERE TO GO.

IAIA MUSEUM.  108 CATHREDRAL PLACE.  The museum exhibitions have a purity of purpose rarely seen in museums today.  It is unpretentious. The staff is undeniably the most receptive, and the gift shop is stocked with worthwhile purchases.

GEORGIA O’ KEEFE: 217 JOHNSON STREET.   Not only a museum, a place of worship. Do not go through the salons until you’ve seen the short documentary film about her life, it runs continuously. The outdoor Café is where you will see many local art setters and sponsors having lunch beneath a canopy of umbrellas.

SHIDONI SANTA FE: OLD BISHOP’S ROAD:  5 MILES FROM THE PLAZA. Imagine a bronze art foundry, sculpture garden, and gallery representing over 100 artists spread out over 8 acres of apple orchard.  You can spend the day there without too much effort.

TEN THOUSAND WAVES:` A resplendent way to begin the adventure is at this hillside sanctuary wrapped in bonsai and green tea leaves. Guests tiptoe in Kimonos across stone steps, into private and public outdoor baths, treatment rooms, and get kissing close to Nirvana. If you are in need of bodily rearrangement, ask for Wayne, he will delicately remove your head.

SANTA FE OPERA: TESUQUE: 5miles from the Plaza. I have heard thunder and seen lighting crack the horizon, during the arias of Madam Butterfly.  For ticket less visitors you can actually buy a $10.00 leaning ticket. I know from my friend, Little sister that it is a unique experience, and you can leave at any time.Always provocative, cutting edge adaptations to stir your imagination.


WHERE TO EAT :

NEW MEXICAN:  MARIA’S KITCHEN  THE SHED   GUATALUPE CAFE

 

LOCALS GO TO THE COWGIRL HALL OF FAME:: 319 S. GUADALUPE.  Known for it’s bronco busting burrito  breakfast, it is also a very  well-heeled bar for cowboys, music, laughter, barbeque, and skateboarding. It reminds me of the Venice Boardwalk.

THE COMPOUND:  653 CANYON.   My choice for lunch because it suits the poor little rich girl. It feels faraway, and the outdoor garden is a tantalizing backdrop for imagining you are faraway. Seasonal creative food at the hands of a celebrity chef.  Bar is great for delicacies and cocktails, and the rooms, with shiny mud-packed floors, white washed beams and walls gives you a lift up, to the surreal.

WHERE TO STAY:

LA POSADA RESORT & SPA : 330 E. Palace Av.   The scene is very eclectic, it draws people from the Texas ranch, Hollywood,  and the Silicone Valley. Favorite pastime, cocktails on the outdoor lounge at dusk, and dinner on the patio facing the theater of events, where performance, music, and weddings take place free of charge.  The staff is out of this world.

LA FONDA AT THE PLAZA:  The hotel is where I go about any time of day just to see what is going on, who is playing in the bar, whom is holding conference, and to eat the tableside guacamole in the atrium restaurant. Another terrific production crew behind the front desk.

PEOPLE TO MEET:  I’ve found meeting people most fascinating at Art Gallery Openings.  Check the Pasatiempo (Guide in Santa Fe New Mexican)  and the Santa Fe Reporter for a list of events and openings. Friday nights 5-7PM.

The best news is,  more non-stop flights from Los Angeles to Albuquerque.

I have written my second travel narrative and I think I’m traveling down the wrong road. Back to  adventures in Livingness next week.

 

 

 

READING OUR OWN SHORT STORIES-LAX

~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

It began last week when I received a phone call requiring me to go back to Los Angeles.

The next day it snowed in Taos. I walked around town on a deserted Sunday morning, just wandering through museums and garage sales. The absence of signs, people, cars, and signals lent the mind a transparency of thoughts. All the things you want to think about are set free.

I looked out at a distant field, scrubbed clean of grass and trees, now just a brown paper bag laid flat. The chill urged me to keep walking, so I continued past the little adobe homes, listening to the barking dogs and the sound of church bells.

It occurred to me on this walk how unfamiliar I was with my surroundings, air so clean it hurt to breath deeply, traditions so ancient they only can be known by ancestral storytelling. I was thinking of how it feels to walk on the sand on a winter day.

The next day, as I crossed over a Southwest Airlines flight to the threshold of LAX, the sounds of silence suddenly exploded into a symphony of discordant blurbs. The Rolling Stones were playing at one kiosk. The television displayed a CNN broadcast. A football game was blaring from the bar, and everyone’s lips seemed to be steadily moving into a cell phone microphone or headset.

The clamp went down, and I was swept into the dance of the talking heads. It’s a familiar homecoming, more familiar than I had suspected. All at once, I recalled the many times my father picked me up at LAX.

I could see him standing in an expectant crowd of awaiting arrivals. He wore those big dark shades and dressed in a suit. He collected my carry-on bag and we rushed down to baggage claim.  I did not understand why we were rushing or why he wouldn’t come with me to the baggage claim.

“Meet me out front,” my father said, “just hurry up.”

I asked: “Why are we rushing?”

“Because I said so,” my father said, taking off in long strides, never running.

After I retrieved my luggage, I met him out front. He drove with a peculiar, hunched suspicion, halfway leaning over the steering wheel. It was very recognizable. He never listened to what I was saying. He was too busy looking in the rear view mirror.

“Aren’t we going home?” I asked.

“What?” he said. “What’s the rush to get home?”

“No rush really,” I said. “I just wanted to call some friends.”

“Yeah, well, aren’t you happy to see your Dad?” he said.

“Yes.”

Then, he said something like why you don’t act like it, or lectured me about my outfit, or how my hair looked uncombed. We drove to some delicatessen off La Tijera Boulevard and he’d leave me in a booth with a corn beef sandwich. I was used to being left in delicatessen booths. It was part of growing up with gangsters.

I was not aware of the FBI airport task force. They assigned special agents to sit at the airport and wait to see whom my dad was meeting. When a member of the Mob came to Los Angeles, my father would greet them. They counted on my dad to make all their  arrangements.

The FBI knew when Dad was going to the airport because of constant on-site, and telephone surveillance. Dad knew they knew because he had an inside source at the Doheny Towers where he lived.

The source alerted dad when the FBI were parked out front. Sometimes, he liked to play practical jokes on the agents. The delicatessen stop was set up so they followed us to a public place. After we got there, the agent had to sit in a hot car in the parking lot, and wait for us to leave. My father would detain the agent for hours.

As those memories filtered through my mind, I walked outdoors into the path of taxis and limos at the airport. I wondered if the FBI still had a mob task force. It seemed so long ago, so out of proportion with the security measures against terrorism.

That day, I landed at LAX. The sky was underlined in brown. The smog smear made the San Bernadino Mountains look like warped inventions.

I trotted behind SC with my laptop and purse until we were next in line to get a taxi. We shot through the airport tangle of cars, and onto the 405 Freeway. When we passed the exit to La Tijera Boulevard I was inclined to tell SC one of my LAX short stories. Instead, all that came out was, “La Tijera Boulevard.”

“What about it?” SC asked.

“I used to go there with my Dad,” I said.. The story was mine, and I was retelling it to myself as we drove along, amongst the cars, the trucks, and signs of Los Angeles. We can read from our own short stories in all kinds of weather and they can be very entertaining.

MY SANTA FE NARRATIVE

~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

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GALLERY LOULOU 20th Century Photography
The Royals & the Rebels
343 E. Palace Avenue Santa Fe NM 87501

The Santa Fe travel narrative I was going to write appeared in the New York Times the same week.  Sunday Travel Section, “ Is Santa Fe Ready For a Makeover.?”   If you read it, then you know, that mod is flowing through the alleys and walkways of Santa Fe, more so than adobe mud.  My answer is yes, Santa Fe is already under the mask of revival.  My perspective comes from the duality of being a tourist and a resident. I have not lived here long enough to shed the distinctive air of a gambler whose just won the jackpot.  It feels like a home I left years ago.   I still walk through the Plaza in summer once a day to see the groove of live bands on the stage. I snap internal photographs of the conversations, expressions, and festivities surrounding Spanish and Indian Market month. Maudlin hippies slack on park benches strumming on  untuned guitars. Children scatter between the adults, and third generation families sit under trees, sipping cool aid from a thermos, and eating home made tamales.

As you cross over to  San Francisco Street past Starbucks,  you will step over the hillbilly from Arkansas, whose sidewalk show includes, a dog, cat, and several  mice playing nicely. His message is; animals get along why can’t people?  You will never read this sort of description in the travel narrative.  Just before dusk, the city streets empty for an hour, and the shinning light spreads evenly over the adobe walls and rooftops. That is if it is not raining.  When showers greet us they pound the tricky brick walkways, and the lighting and thunder shake the windows, and everything not pinned down blows away.

I stood on the porch and watched, mostly because summer rain is the most romantic of all weather moods. That comes from a distant memory under raps.  If you have a balcony, or find your way to the Rooftop of La Fonda, or Coyote Café, take a seat. Just watch and listen to the operatic electrical storm. They do not last too long.

The best time to walk is early morning. There are several roads to hike just beyond Canyon Road that lead to the Audubon Society. From there, you can choose from a dozen rated hikes from beginners to Aztec Indian strength.   When in Santa Fe walk as much as possible, bring a pocket umbrella, and keep your eyes on the road. There are dazzling surprises everywhere you look.

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