The 'City Different' not different in a good way

I was chatting with someone the other day who had once upon a time moved to our area from Santa Fe, the state capitol, “the City Different.”

“Don’t hold it against me,” she said.

“Not at all. You were probably there when it was really Santa Fe. You yourself know it’s changed over the years,” I said.

My favorite Santa Fe quote emerged around 1990 in some state newspaper.

A columnist wrote something to the effect, he so hated seeing “New Mexico’s crown jewel turn into one of California and New York’s cheap rhinestones.”

I don’t know when I made my first trip to Santa Fe.

It was a storied place to me, a name that always spoke of “The Real West.

There was The Plaza, The Indian Market, art galleries, The Roundhouse, museums, Loretto Chapel’s spiral staircase, all places I thought were pretty cool with the Sangre de Cristo Mountains as a backdrop.

I enjoyed a laid-back restaurant overlooking The Plaza, a place where one could order a refreshing adult libation and while waiting you could take your own bowl, go to a giant bowl of tortilla chips, get your own chips and get some salsa.

I often wondered if I had the chance to live in The City Different if I’d enjoy it.

Over time though, I realized this laid-back hillbilly hippie had neither the temperament nor funds to live in the capitol city.

One Christmastime I found myself in Santa Fe specifically just to wander amongst the art galleries.

The trip was not my idea. I was just a road trip companion.

Along the way from Roswell I was asked to suppress my easy living ways and not say anything about prices.

I could see why.

A price tag of $50,000 I thought was a bit much for a 24-inch by 24-inch painting that wouldn’t match the sofa.

While I was at one gallery, I mentioned the Christmas luminarias on The Plaza.

You know, the paper bags with candles in them.

I discovered some Florida Panhandle residents fondly refer to them as “Mexican bag lights.”

“Oh, those are farolitos. You must be from out of town,” the art gallery lady said.

It made me think of other local words, local pronunciations.

“Reminds me of back east in the mountains. If you pronounce those mountains ‘Appa-lay-shuns’ instead of ‘Appal-at-chuns’ we know you’re from out of town or educated beyond your intelligence,” I said.

The gallery lady politely laughed and walked away.

It would be a few years before I’d return to Santa Fe again.

That restaurant overlooking The Plaza was gone.

Well, the building was still there.

The waitstaff was well dressed with linen aprons, tables had linen tablecloths, and no giant bowl of self-serve tortilla chips.

And tapas were all the rage.

Tiny portions of food in tiny dishes.

Look, when I dine out, I want some decent-sized portions, not something about the size of what I feed my cats.

My last visit to Santa Fe was in 2006.

The Lady of the House and I rolled north on a thrift shopping trip.

Alas, there was disappointment.

Santa Fe thrift shop prices were high, not thrift shop prices. The parking situation was lousy and, well, it was quickly time to return to Clovis.

“I don’t believe we’re coming back to Santa Fe,” I said as we rolled home to our Eastern Plains of New Mexico.

And we haven’t been back.

You know, I don’t believe we’re missing anything.

Grant McGee writes for The Eastern New Mexico News. Contact him:

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