Travel articles specialize in the impression that cost does not rank high on the list of considerations. Editors fill pages with stories that praise upmarket appointments without any critique. The goal of these articles is not so much to inform as it is to attract moneyed readers and, most critically, advertisers who will pay tidy sums to reach these privileged pairs of eyes. Follow the money: profiles of spas abound but natural hot springs garner a loss less attention because there is nothing to sell.
When a description of less onerous travel receives the editorial thumbs up, it risks pathetic treatment. The Daily Sound, a free five-days-a-week newspaper in Santa Barbara, recently crowned the Mammoth Mountain Inn “one of the best budget accommodations” in Mammoth Lakes and the “least expected” even if the writer notes that it is “older and not as up-to-date” as other properties. At $189 per night, the endorsement ridicules the notion of affordability with a choice that puzzles at a time of serious economic disruption.
Congratulations to the ski resort (which manages the hotel) and their (certain) public relations efforts.
With a mere 48 hours’ notice, I seized upon the attractive Delta fare to return to New Mexico for a few days. At $246.50 it is not an inexpensive flight, but it is a deal and less expensive than to rent a car, drive and fuel it between Santa Barbara and Albuquerque. Flying out of Santa Barbara is a joy that avoids the trauma of a drive to LAX. Flying into Santa Fe is a pleasure mitigated by the great cost of transit via Denver. I have done it twice only. My accidental status as elite frequent flyer member with Delta saved me a further $80 (two bags each way) in luggage fees.
The outbound routing – granted – did involve two stops and the better part of the day. Later I would learn that while I purchased the ticket on Delta’s website, the first segment carried a Delta flight number (7574) that was in fact operated by American (3038) but “marketed” by Alaska (no idea what flight number). The final hand in the pie resulted in no frequent flyer mileage credit.
The cross-fertilization of airline travel was not on my mind as I flew over Los Angeles. The Getty Center, UCLA and the Wilshire corridor, Hollywood sign and downtown skyline basked under clear skies - thank you winter. Later, I spied upon the red mesas lightly dusted with snow outside of Grand Junction, the deep gashes of Colorado’s Western Slopes, the precariously perched airport (with a runway that angles uphill) near Telluride, the majestic San Juan Mountains and Lizard Head encased in deep snow, Durango also sporting a blanket of white. Winter receded on the barren mesas northwest of Albuquerque before the bosque on the banks of the Rio Grande signaled the final approach into Duke City.
An hour and a half later I sat in front of bowl of Black Mediterranean Mussels at my friend Eric II’s Ristra restaurant in Santa Fe. The seafood appetizer owes its success to the chipotle, mint and aromatics that infuse its broth. Eating a bowl is de rigueur, if only because it reminds me of a constant when I lived in New Mexico. I followed it with the Poblano Relleno, the first deference of several on this trip to my location. Ristra opened in X, a longevity that reassures me (and him, I am sure) in an industry loaded with far more failures than successes.Because the state of New Mexico no longer issues new liquor licenses, the right to sell alcohol is acquired only when a seller relinquishes his license. This artificial conceit applies to retail businesses, bars and restaurants. By limiting the pool of licenses, the policy drives up prices that routinely sail into six-figure territory. That is in addition to the application fees, of course.
Eric II kindly invited me to stay at his Tesuque house on the northern fringes of Santa Fe. The heat source for the house comes from heated water ducts under tile floors, an unexpected, efficient method that keeps the house at a constant temperature. Bisou the dog seemed to remember me from my visit two years ago unless she was just happy with the heat, too.
With friends X and Y we headed to Taos for a day of skiing. In spite of the sport's central role in my life, Eric II and I had never skied together. I would like to report that I excelled on my first ski day of the season and it might be a fair assessment on groomed runs but as soon as we left packed snow for glades or chutes I labored to keep up. Eric II has a past as a ski instructor that, somehow, compounds my disgrace. The blame can lie with a host of reasons but my response to a day on the slopes has often been unpredictable. Old gear, yes. Elevation, yes. First day out, yes. How about snowboarders?After keeping riders off its terrain for years this season is the first to welcome them. I have never understood the reluctance – to say nothing of less civil behavior – from skiers to share the hill with snowboarders. The central point of contention revolves around the perceived trashing of the mountain by inexperienced riders whose boards push the snow around. A story I did on snow grooming settled the matter in my mind years ago when the crew stated unequivocally that riders and skiers of equal ability inflict the same damage on the mountain.
X’s wife and Y’s mother joined us at Maria’s, a long established New Mexican restaurant whose 100-plus margaritas attract a steadfast following. We chose to dine in the cozier bar area to be closer to the booze. Maria’s prides itself on serving only real margaritas, which the eatery defines as a concoction made with real tequila, real triple sec and real lemon or lime juice. What a concept! In a nation where a zealous race to the bottom cheapens all it touches, the insistence on quality ingredients impresses. Staff also shies away from a widespread practice in the U.S. to drown beverages of every type in ice to dilute flavor as profits solidify. “Chilled but not iced” has got to be my most repeated request when I order a drink. The notion baffles most establishments where the choices alternate between lukewarm and frozen.Most margaritas fail to inspire me with their combination of degraded ingredients smothered in ice. If Maria’s serves that many margaritas, it follows that their selection of tequila, an alcohol distilled from the fermented juices of the hearts of blue agave plants, must be exceptional, too. Similar to European AOCs, the Mexican Government assigns a NOM (Norma Oficial Mexicana) on the bottles to certify that tequila is made from 100 percent agave plants. Tequila comes in five varieties: blanco or plata (silver), joven or oro (gold), reposado (aged), añejo (extra-aged) and extra añejo (ultra-aged). Not aged and with additives, the first two types lack character. The minimum length of aging in oak barrels defines reposado (two months), añejo (one year) and extra añejo (three years). Theses tequilas exhibit flavors and temperament in line with fine cognacs and are enjoyed neat.
Faced with Maria’s exhaustive list our group asked many questions. Too many for our waiter who turned down our requested to order entrees at the same time. “I have already spent too much time taking drink orders at this table,” he said before he left. And I had not even asked my questions, so I remained without a drink. After sampling Eric II’s tequila I did not dare bother the waiter with a late addition to our drink selection. Eric II ordered it for me but when he returned to the table the waiter inquisitively asked who had ordered. I felt punishment was coming.
When we were allowed, I selected the Blue Corn Enchiladas with Christmas and sopaipillas, a triple nod to New Mexican eating conventions.
Not ready to give up the fight I returned to Taos solo. After yesterday’s hike up to the West Basin Ridge and the hard work coming down St. Bernard – or was it Stauffenberg? - I tried the Walkyries Glade and then upped the ante on Longhorn, an interminable bump run. I survived, obviously, but the goal of the game is not simply to remain alive. Still without a groove I exited midafternoon hoping to stop at an Arroyo Seco coffee house of old to lick my emotional wounds but it had closed. I reported my counseling session to The Bean (North & South) in Taos. The first location was closed due to highway construction and I could not locate the other one.
The drive down the gorge was pleasant although I cursed slow moving traffic on the two-lane highway. Santa Fe Baldy and the Santa Fe Ski Area high in the Sangre de Cristo reflected the sun’s lowering rays when I snapped the picture, repeating a habit of shooting photography while driving at 110 kph that I originated at the Utah/Arizona border earlier in the month.
I finished the evening with him deep in conversation about past and future at the La Fonda bar, a fitting location in a hotel once the terminus of the Santa Fe Trail and the beginning of a new Western adventure.
Santa Fe is a most non American city, a charm that the rigors of daily life tends to push toward the background. Outsiders quickly remark on the unique Puebloan architecture that combines elements of its ancestral duality and provides a marked visual departure with most other cities in the country. Native Americans and Hispanics prop up the city’s identity, a manifest influence that permeates food, art and lifestyle. Hundreds, literally, of galleries and restaurants capitalize on all three.
To insiders - and by that I mean people who live here - the conformist pressures to manufacture a tourist version of Santa Fe inevitably reduces the city to a Fanta Se, a phantasmal reflection of itself. The cynicism extends to the state’s nickname that suffers a sarcastic adaptation when it becomes the Land of Entrapment.
If the spirit of the land has been co-opted by balance sheet interests, visitors will be oblivious to it and inhale a reality they have experienced nowhere else in the country. In spite of a small but eminently viable ski area, the city has not been christened a winter destination. The self-imposed off season results in affordable hotel room rates. Even as the event calendar slows down in January and scaffolding shrouds the St. Francis Cathedral, travelers will find plenty to occupy their days in the City Different. Right now, patrons at Evangelos Cocktail Lounge can watch a clock that marks the countdown to Barack Obama’s inauguration. The digital readout points to the 5 days 20 hours 55 minutes and 35.3 seconds that remain until “The Party’s Over” for the current occupants of the White House, until it is “Time to Go.”
At long last. Like all of the most vibrant and unique cities in the United States, big and small, in blue states or red states, Santa Fe abhors conservative ideology.
The Railyard aims to become the focal point of the Santa Fe community with more than the usual assortment of shops and restaurants. The property hosts the farmers market, the arts organization SITE Santa Fe, the Hispanic cultural center El Museo Cultural, the teen center Warehouse 21, performance and open spaces. It is slated to have a cinema.
After a morning coffee with Sylvia at the forever bohemian Aztec Café, I headed up the road to the ski area, 25 km filled with memories at every curve, on every trail and every peak. I succumbed to thin air euphoria, to the crush of snow underfoot at 2,700 meters. The naked aspens of the Big T frame images of a past that rewinds in haste. It is safe to hide in the forest, on a boulder, by the creek, under three layers of clothes or none. Instinctively I will find my way on a hike up or downhill on skis. I glide and leap without effort, care or worry.
I want to roll in the snow, rub my face in its delightful coldness. I want to feel the sun melting the flakes on my face. The world spreads far below, so far as to be out of mind if not out of sight. 
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