Santa Fe! Birthplace of Morgan Kane, a fictitious U.S. Marshal created by a Norwegian, Kjell Hallbing, (nome du plume Louis Masterson). Everywhere I go in this country resonates between the pages of books and pings off the big and small screen. You just can’t get away from the culture. It’s only now I realise how much the USA has influenced me all these years.
You do see I’m posing here as Billy The Kid, don’t you? I swear to God, until that rather balmy (probably around 40 degrees) day in Santa Fe, I had never EVER stuck my illustrious head through a stupid hole with some picture on the other side. But as I want to try everything on this trip, Billy The Kid it is.
Cruelly, nay, ironically, I wasn’t able to do any of the things I had actually wanted to do here (no, sticking my head through a hole wasn’t one of them). They were: Going to a shooting range to shoot at targets, going horseback riding, going to a gospel church and going to a California wine tasting. How can a whole month be too short? It just was.
Out here, only we had New York number plates. In fact, we were the only ones with New York number plates outside … New York. Yes, I looked. I looked in the parking lots outside Walmarts, I looked in the parking lots outside truck stops and I looked at cars outside people’s houses when I went for walks in the mornings. Every morning I had the world to myself. Americans, unless they have dogs, are seldom seen outside before 9AM. And even then they are only to be seen in their cars (with non-New York number plates).
Here was a particularly fine-looking Chinese restaurant, I thought: The Zen Steak and Sushi. Or was it Sushi and Steak? I still regret not going there. But we were already late for cocktails at the famous La Posada Hotel in Winslow.
Libertarianism at dusk
Cleaning up Route 66 at dawn
Santa Fe, baby! Famous trading post whose name escapes me now. Then again, so much does.