Things I learned in New Mexico

It’s been sunny. It’s been dusty. It’s been fun. I even had some heartache thrown in that riddled me like bullets. But heck, what’s New Mexico without some bullets?

Now I’m packing my bags for California, trading in high plains and eternal sky for tall trees and eternal ocean.

Since my arrival from New York last April, I have learned a chuck wagon full of things. Like they really have chuck wagons. And I am loath to depart without sharing what I learned in New Mexico.

Like how to drive (although the pole I backed into the other day may argue with that one). I came revved up into the Land of Enchantment after 17 years of not touching a car in New York City. (This was not a good thing tell my friend when we were puttering up a Santa Fe mountain.)

My first day in Clovis included an intimate relationship with the fence beside my garage. At least the first scratch on the car made the subsequent ones easier. Sort of like your first B-plus on a grade slate of all As.

My first day in Tucumcari included backing into a purple truck in the Tucumcari Police parking lot. Of course, it was owned by the secretary. I believe she’s since forgiven me, since we ate Chinese food together, but it likes to surface from time to time, like when she almost saw me hit a Honda near the dollar store.

I also learned how to slow down. When someone in New Mexico says, “Just a minute,” they really mean just a minute and an hour and maybe until next Tuesday. Although unnerving at first, especially after the rapid-fire pace of the
Big Apple, I have actually come to appreciate it. I bought three hammocks. The only time time still irks me is when it takes 502 minutes just to get a coffee from a corner store. But that’s just because I need caffeine. Other than that, the slow pace has done wonders for my complexion and my blood pressure.

Not only does time linger like a snail perched at the fork of the road, but the wide open spaces, too, makes everything seem to hang around. Dirt. Emotion. The braying of five hungry goats.

No matter what it is, everything seems to last forever. I’m convinced it’s because there are no buildings, trees or crowds smashed together to absorb things.

And no car horns, sirens or subway trains to dilute them. My favorite sound has got to be the donkeys down the block with their morning song. Try finding that in Brooklyn (although I did hear a neighbor once who sounded close).

I learned how to love things I’ve never loved before. Not only the donkey sound, but those five goofy goats. A dog that knows how to bow, give high fives and play dead (but not how to sit or stay). And a Texas-New Mexican man, or what he calls “Texican,” who let me tattoo his entire leg – even my name.

I learned how to tattoo (although the Texican man would argue with that – actually, he did argue with that). But the last one I did neither swelled up, cracked or caused him to limp. And I will continue to pursue the art, thanks to the spark of a patient and talented teacher who started me off in Tucumcari.

I learned what real cowboy boots look like. I also learned what they feel like since I bought about six pairs before my arrival flight even touched down. Never mind those fru-fru boots you find with some silly scrollwork they pass off as authentic in other locations, I found the real thing in New Mexico.

These boots were made for walking. And kicking. And tromping through graveyards with stones that date back to 1846.

They are also beautiful enough to wow the landlord when you explain you’ll be late with the rent because you spent it at Joe’s Boot Shop.

A number of other lessons come to mind. Like there is no such thing as a clean car, a clear windshield or a spotless carpet.

The livestock lessons – prairie chickens rule, cows don’t like to get tipped and there are 8,572 varieties of hay.

The language thing – “all y’all” is really a word. When I first moved here, I asked if I would acquire a Southwestern accent. My new coworker replied, “If you’re lucky.”

I learned about the stars’ eternal blanket, the sun’s infernal blaze, the wind’s eternal fury -- especially in spring.

I also learned a lot about people – there are some amazing souls out west with amazing stories and amazing lives.

I learned all this is wonderful. Who really cares if dust clumps endlessly engage themselves in the carpet – it’s a great excuse to retire your vacuum and spend time on more meaningful things.

And no matter how far I roam (eventually expect me in Southern France), I will take part of New Mexico with me, just as I hope I left a little slice of myself behind.

And I’ll be doing that roaming in my cowboy boots.