I’m in Santa Fe for the weekend, which is the closest thing to a “home” city that I like to have. While I live in Brooklyn, grew up in Chapel Hill, NC, and was born in California, only Santa Fe still holds a large enough familiar population to take me in its arms whenever I feel like returning. Fitting that I should think the word “familiar,” as I have no blood relations in the Fe, and all real blood relations are scattered nationwide, yet Santa Fe is indeed still my home, where I have non-blood family, and the general population suites my preferred way to live: befriend strangers and trust everyone.
In a “city” that is technically the state capital, the bus driver knows several of his passengers by name, advises a wayward soul and makes an extra stop for her, reminds a gaggle of teens that we’ve arrived at the high school and they ought to get off, and postpones the next connecting bus for two middle-aged women who are running late. While casually waiting hours at one of various bus stops today, I chat with an elderly Hispanic man who tells me in broken English that he’s from El Paso, TX, but has lived in Hawaii, California, and Mexico, Santa Fe longest of all. He’s “no concern with hours”, and is, like me, patiently waiting for a bus that may or may not ever come.
I’m now at another bus stop, downtown, awaiting the lone bus to SJC, an enigma of the locals. Somehow last night, my taxi driver pegged my SJC accent, a Johnnie himself, as it turns out. There’s what appears to be an impromptu car show along this street, with hot rods like this: Continue reading